Page 15 of Whiskey Throttle
“Hot stuff? I’ll take it.”
He snaps his hand in the air as if literally catching the words and keeping them forever. It’s endearing, earning him a small smile. We reach an empty court. He tosses his bag down, gets out a couple of balls, and stuffs them in his pockets. Rolls his shoulders like he’s warming up for war. I place mine on the bench at the entrance of the court, ensuring it’s out of my way and the way of others.
“You serve or receive?” I ask, unzipping my bag.
“You’re the lady. You choose.”
I nod toward the baseline. “Then I’ll receive.”
He jogs to the service line while I finish retrieving my racket and a fresh set of sweatbands. I trade my sunglasses for my visor and adjust my ponytail. I need to do everything to ensure I can win this small match against him.
He nods at me over the net, waiting as I stretch my legs.
“Little do you know,” he says, cocky and smooth, bouncing the ball several times. “I’m the reigning men’s champion at my club.”
I blink and laugh.
“That sounds like something a man says when he’s compensating.”
He tosses the ball in the air, and then he serves. Hard. The ball cuts through the air like a bullet and clips the service box line with such precision that I don’t even move.
Ace.
“Game on,” he calls, retrieving another ball, already smirking.
I square my shoulders, shift my weight, and smile. He may be the men’s champion, but I’ve made grown men cry on this court. He just doesn’t know it yet. He tosses another ball, slower this time, like he’s letting me prepare.
How kind.
I adjust my stance at the baseline. Tighten my grip and refocus. The problem isn’t his serve. It’s him. The sun hits him just right. His hair is a little too long and damp at the nape of his neck, catching the light like it was cast just for this moment. His forearm flexes when he tosses the ball, lean muscle coiled with precision, making his tattoos dance on his skin.
When he swings, the movement is clean and powerful. A bit reckless, but refined. And oh my, I feel it low, deep, and very unwelcome. I haven’t felt that kind of pulse since before the divorce. Maybe not even then.
He plays like a man who’s used to winning, knowing how to move his body with intention. There’s a squint in his eyes, the sharp focus of a real competitor, not some spoiled boy swinging for attention. He’s had lessons, hundreds of them, followed by thousands of hours of practice from the looks of it. Maybe his statement about being a champion is true.
It’s infuriating and wildly arousing.I return the next serve with more force than necessary, clipping the line near his feet. He lets out a low whistle.
“Touché, Babs.”
“Don’t patronize me.”
He catches it, laughing. His charming smile kills me every time. We volley back and forth, the rhythm building. Each stroke is more intentional. More intimate. Like a conversation with no words, just breath, eye contact, and skin. He lunges for a backhand, and the stretch of his torso pulls his shirt just high enough to expose a slash of skin.
Tanned, toned, with more tattoos, and a thin trail of hair disappearing into his white shorts.
Oh my.
I falter for half a second. Just enough for him to slam the ball down the sideline and win the point.
“And that’s how it’s done,” he says, wiping his brow with the edge of his shirt and flashing more glistening skin.
My thighs clench on instinct. I take a breath, then another. Chanting to myself that it’s just a match. So why does every glance feel like foreplay? Why does the sound of his exhale between points go straight to my core? I step to the baseline. He bounces the ball.
“Still want to keep playing?” he asks, that grin tilting lazy and dangerous at once.
“I haven’t even started playing,” I reply, bending low into my ready position.
My knees aren’t steady, not because I’m out of shape, but because I want him and shouldn’t. Because he’s my son’s best friend and nearly two decades too young and probably has a string of girls who’d kill to be in this moment. But none of them were in that hallway with me. None of them saw what he saw. None of them touched what he touched. And now, he’s standing across the net from me like he already knows how this ends.
