Page 91 of Book Boyfriends
“I thought Georgia was coming?” he shouts to Jackson, who volleys the ball back to Lars.
“Her highness is watching from above,” Jackson drawls.
“Like the angel she is,” Lars quips, making me roll my eyes at his playful but friendly flirtation.
Head tipped up, a big smile kicking across his face, Davis waves at me. “Hey.”
“Hey.” I wave back, my timbre breathy.
For just a moment, our stares tether with one another. The resultant heat sends a tingle across my body. That big smile still beaming, he slips his glasses off, and the image of him taking those off before tugging off his shirt, pushing me onto a bed, and prowling up my body causes me to let out a quiet moan.
“Shit,” he groans, his face twisting with surprise, as one of the balls slams into his stomach.
“Dreadfully sorry,” James says, pressing the paddle against his chest. “I must be more out of practice than I thought.”
Was that on purpose?
James’s quick shrug before returning to his practice with Jackson and Lars telegraphs that it may have been just an accident. Not to mention my perceptive brother or his werewolf’s continued volley of the ball shows no indication of concern.
After changing into a pair of goggles, which somehow only heighten his hot nerd aesthetic, Davis is introduced to James. While he’s met Owen and Lars, this feels different. With Owen and Lars, the concern swimming in my belly with their meeting had more to do with how to explain their mere existence.
With James, it’s less that, and more an uneasiness for these two to meet. Davis shared that he doesn’t like James’s character in my book. While we weren’t a couple, I pretty much just broke up with James for Davis. Although, I wasn’t with James, nor am I technically with Davis.
Girl, you’re a mess.I shove the rest of the breakfast bar into my mouth to hide my cringe.
The four of them split into teams. Lars partners with Davis. Between the sounds of the games from the other three courts visible from my vantage point, I only hear their grunts as they hit the ball, James’sbloody hellswith missed shots, and Jackson and Lars’s playful taunts.
As much as pickleball may not excite me, watching Davis play skyrockets my internal temperature. Despite the cool air from the above vent blowing down on me, heat crisscrosses along my spine with his cat-like grace and periodic grunts while in play. If this thing with Davis happens, Hope and I may need to move our regular brunch date to Sundays because I plan on spending a lot of time at the pickleball court.
“Yes!” I hoot and whistle after Davis scores, tying the match.
Peering up at me, he hoists his paddle in the air. “Thanks, Peach,” he shouts, his sweat-dampened face lights up like the Fourth of July.
“Doesourlady have a preferred champion?” Annoyance bolsters James’s tease.
Guilt and mortification flushes my cheeks. While I have been honest with James, I still shouldn’t be so obvious in front of him. As much as I believe his feelings for me may just be misplaced or a projection, it’s not fair to him for me to gush openly over Davis.
I clear my throat and holler down with an apologetic smile. “You’re all my champions.”
“Don’t worry about making Lord Short Breeches feel better. This isn’t a ‘Everyone Gets a Trophy’ game, so go ahead and cheer loudly for me and Goggles. We’re dominating Pretty Boy and Lord Sour Puss,” Lars snarks, slapping Davis’s back.
“Dominating?” Jackson straightens. “Youjusttied it.”
“You should know better than anyone that I enjoy the chase.”
“ThatIdo.”
“Enough flirting! Get back to the match,” James shouts, gesturing at Jackson with his paddle.
They continue to play. While James and Lars are new to pickleball, their athletic prowess matches Davis and Jackson. In fact, at times James and Davis appear to go head-to-head. Each time Davis hits, James seems to hit back. Even jumping in front of my brother from time-to-time. Grunted curse words accompany each thwack of the ball against a paddle and the squeak of sneakers on the court’s floor.
I may be new to the rules of pickleball, but I’m pretty sure it’s supposed to be more of a team sport. As the game goes on, Lars and Jackson almost fade into the background. With Davis, it appears more involuntary. No matter his movement, the ball is always aimed his way by James’s relentless play. He jumps after the ball, cutting my brother off each time, and smacks it towards Davis.
My pulse kicks up with each hit. This isn’t just James’s fierce competitive spirit. He’s gunning for Davis, just as he’d done with the marquis during the horse race in his book.
“Got it!” James calls out, lunging in front of my brother.
Jackson lurches back just as James’s paddle comes into contact with the ball. He’s hit it with so much anger that the whiffleball whizzes towards Davis with the intensity of a missile. Face scrunched into a steely expression, he volleys it back toward Jackson.
