Page 32 of You Owe Me

Finally.

Sebastian shifts, not meeting my gaze. “Tweener, maybe cool it for a sec, yeah?”

“Sure, yeah,” he mumbles. “Didn’t mean anything by it.”

I don’t respond. I just start stacking my chips again. Deliberate. Measured.

Let them all sit in the discomfort. I’m not breaking the tension. I am the tension.

I know how this game works. The real one. The one with no cards. Where dominance is about who speaks the least and controls the most.

So I don’t say another word.

Not for a while.

And slowly, the others start playing again, pretending like the room doesn’t still feel like it might implode. Like I didn’t just file away every detail Tweener accidentally gave me and every reason why he might still be useful.

Because if Carter Mills wants to play games?

I’ll stack the deck.

CHAPTER NINE

Rumor has it, she can tame the devil.

Ainsley

I’m dying.

Literally dying.

My lungs are on fire, my legs feel like overcooked spaghetti, and I’m pretty sure my right arm is about to detach itself from my body in protest. All because Maverick Lexington, campus legend and my ridiculously competitive boyfriend, doesn’t understand the concept of “casual pickleball.”

“That was out!” I gasp, bent over with my hands on my knees, trying to remember how breathing works.

“It was in.” Maverick’s voice is calm, controlled, and infuriatingly unaffected by the fact that we’ve been playing for forty-five minutes in the summer heat. He hasn’t even broken a sweat. Meanwhile, I look like I just went swimming fully clothed.

“It was literally a foot outside the line,” I protest, straightening up and pushing my sweat-soaked hair out of my face. “I’m starting to think you need glasses. Or maybe just a refresher on the basic concept of sportsmanship?”

The corner of his mouth twitches—his version of a smile. “The ball clipped the line. That makes it in.”

“In what universe?” I throw my hands up, my paddle nearly sailing out of my grip. “The Mars Pickleball Federation?”

Maverick just stares at me with those intense blue eyes, the paddle spinning effortlessly in his hand. Show-off. “Your serve.”

I narrow my eyes at him. We’re playing on the university’s rec center courts, and despite the early hour, the heat is already becoming oppressive. This was supposed to be fun exercise—Google’s recommendation for stress-relieving exercises. But Maverick Lexington doesn’t do anything casually. Everything is a strategic operation, including, apparently, destroying his girlfriend at pickleball at 8:00 a.m. on a Saturday.

“Fine.” I retrieve the ball, taking a moment to catch my breath. “But just so you know, I’m keeping a list of all these questionable calls, and there will be retribution. Possibly involving your secret candy stash.”

I serve the ball with all the grace of someone who learned pickleball exactly three weeks ago. Somehow, despite my lack of skill, the serve lands perfectly in the service box. Maverick returns it with mechanical precision, and we fall into a rhythm of back and forth that would be almost hypnotic if I weren’t gasping for air.

Four shots in, I see his eyes narrow. His jaw tightens. His next shot comes like a missile, slamming into the back corner of my court. I lunge for it, miss by a mile, and end up sprawled face-first on the court.

“Point.” He doesn’t even ask if I’m okay.

I push myself up, dusting the court debris off my hands. “Are you seriously not going to ask if I’m alive? I could have broken something. My face. My spirit. My will to ever play this demon sport again.”

Maverick raises an eyebrow. “Are you hurt?”

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