Page 92 of Book Boyfriends
James jumps in front of him. His wild swing sends the ball out of bounds. Leaning forward, he lets out a growl.
“What the fuck, man? We’re supposed to be a team!” Jackson yells, his hands on his hips.
James tips his head up and mutters something to my brother that I cannot make out. His face is sweat-kissed as he looks up at me, a scowl twisting his features.
“Shit,” I mutter to myself.
He’s pissed. It’s something I forgot about James’s character. He hates to lose. I could offer false comfort that the gamehe’s angry about losing is what he plays on this court, but I know that’s only a lie I’m telling myself. Somehow in the brief interaction with Davis—even from up here—James clocked my feelings.
“One more and we win,” Lars shouts, plucking up the ball and tossing it toward Davis.
“Okay,” he says, catching it.
“Do not be too quick to count me out. I never lose.” James’s glare flicks between me and Davis.
Again, my understanding of the rules is minimal, but I know to win, you need to score eleven points and be up by two. Right now, Davis and Lars are one point away. Curling my fingers around the metal rail between the balcony and the court below, I suck in a deep breath. The initial excited crackle within me about the game sours with the anger radiating from James.
I just want this to be over. The game. My book boyfriends. All of it. I especially want the little voice hissing inside me that this is all my fault to shut up.Though, isn’t it?
“Shit!” Davis grunts, swinging and missing.
“Our serve,” James shouts, his tone taunt-filled, and rushes to scoop up the ball.
Jackson’s head shake communicates that what he’s muttering is, no doubt, a sarcastic “Our?” Over the last fifteen minutes of this game, he’s spent more time just standing there than playing. It’s not like my ultra-competitive brother to just stand by. As competitive as Jackson is, he never pushes out a teammate. He’s more the type to push them along.
A queasy familiarity envelopes me. As if I’ve somehow experienced this scenario before.
They volley the ball back and forth until we return to the match point or whatever it’s called in pickleball. Only this time, it’s James and Jackson’s team. At this point, I should just refer to it as James’s team.
James bounces the ball and tosses it into the air. With one smooth swing, he sends the ball sailing towards Davis. Lars lets out a growl while his teammate hits the ball back. It ping-pongs back and forth until…
“Damn!” Davis skids to a stop. The ball, still in bounds, slams to the ground at his feet.
My stomach drops with his visible disappointment. Shoulders hunched and paddle by his side, he shakes his head.
I want to shout, “You did so good” or some equally stupid form of comfort. But what I really want to do is run down there and wrap my arms around him.
Instead, I clap and cheer, “Nice job, guys. You all played awesomely.”
James stands tall, his chest a little puffed out. “Some of us played better than others.”
“You’re a terrible winner, Lord Smug Bastard,” Lars grumbles.
“Apologies. I just get a little carried away in competition.” He huffs a laugh and strides towards Lars with his hand extended. “No hard feelings, old chap.”
Carried away?I bristle.
Those four syllables trigger a memory of excuses from Will.
I just got carried away by your excitement about moving in together.
We just got carried away, and one thing led to another.
Lars begrudgingly shakes James’s hand before he saunters to Jackson. The two men shake hands but then embrace, their laugh-filled conversation drowning out the exchange between James and Davis. Taking Davis’s outstretched hand, James says something and then peers up at me, an expression I can’t read covering his face.
Davis’s head tips my way and then back to James. Shaking his head, he lets go of James’s hand and steps back. Ripping off his goggles, he looks back up at me, his face twisted with pain.
I shake my head. I don’t know what James told him, but whatever it is, it’s not good because the way Davis peers up at me guts me.
