Page 81 of Better Hate than Never

“I’mnotokay with this,” she grumbles. “You hid me behind you and they nailed you in the face, much closer than the rules allow.” She pulls away long enough to yell at them, “The face is off-limits, you cheating, shriveled-up nut sacks!”

The big guy rolls his eyes. “Y’all are hit. You gonna walk off the field or what?”

Both Jamie and Bea ignore him as Bea settles her head on his chest again and takes a slow deep breath, displaying a hell of a lot more class than I would. After a moment, the two of them pull apart and without a word to the jerks, turn their backs on them, walking right in our direction.

“Stay quiet,” Christopher whispers.

I couldn’t even speak if I wanted to. I’m still tongue-tied by the sensation buzzing through my veins, pulsing everywhere we touch, my back to his front, his hand splayed low across my belly and high across my shoulder, pinning me against him.

I’d swear my swallow echoes in the woods, but either it’s quieter than I think, and Jamie and Bea don’t notice us, or they do and they’re the best actors ever.

Right when they’re passing our tree, Jamie seems to stumble, falling to his knees.

“Jamie!” Bea bends over him. “You okay?”

“Fine,” he says, standing up. “Just caught my toe on a root.”

That’s when I see what he’s just laid at our feet during his “fall”—his satchel filled with a treasure trove of paintballs.

Relief fills me like a balloon, buoying me up. I have one paintball left in my satchel, and I don’t know if Christopher has any. We were going to restock after the ambush, but obviously that didn’t happen.

Now restocking is the last thing we have to worry about.

My gears start to turn. We’re so close to beating these tool bags who played dirty, who had us outnumbered and acted like cutthroat, petty jerks. Best yet, the ringleader is still on the field. And I’m going to take him down.

Slowly, I peer over my shoulder, craning my neck so I can whisper in Christopher’s ear as quietly as possible. Christopher dips his head at the same time, as if he had the same thought.

We freeze.

It’s that night outside my apartment all over again, his mouth so close to mine, right before we kissed like I’ve never kissed.

Christopher’s hand slides up my neck, his thumb gliding over my jaw. His eyes dart to my mouth as he lets out a long, shaky exhale that presses his chest to my back.

Wrapping my hand around his wrist, I feel his pulse pound, a thrill coursing through me as I touch evidence of what I’ve hoped: he wants me just as much as I want him.

But now’s not the time for that, for weak knees and hazy longing and aching to kiss. No distractions, nothing that jeopardizes kicking these jerks’ butts.

Forcing myself to exhale slowly, steadily, I meet his eyes and whisper, “I’ll run across the clearing. Draw their attention. I call taking down Mr. Misogynist. I’ll aim for him first. You take out his henchman while they’re focused on me.”

Christopher’s gaze snaps up from my mouth. He shakes his head quickly and whispers, “No. You’ll stay right here.I’llgo.”

A twig snaps. We both go quiet and glance toward its sound. The jerks from the other team are poking around the catapult, which they can’t seem to figure out how to maneuver. I wonder if Jamie somehow found a way to compromise it. I hope so. Because now’s my moment.

I try to turn in Christopher’s arms, and he loosens his grip so I’m able to. His touch softens, his hands settle on my shoulders, as I spin and face him.

Reaching up on tiptoe, I press a kiss just below his ear, then whisper, “Go for the jugular.”

Christopher pulls back, eyes narrowed. “Katerina, what—shit!”

I lurch out of his reach and spin, bending to scoop up two paintballs. Adjusting them in my grip like the good old softball days, I rush out into the clearing, sprinting across it and letting out a shrill whoop that makes the bros in black startle and fumble in their bags for their paintballs.

The first ball snaps from my hand and smacks Chad the ringleader right in the—irony of glorious ironies—balls. On a pained groan, he drops to his knees and falls sideways.

The last man on their team stares at me with pure rage, winding up and whipping a ball at me. I dodge it as I sprint farther across the clearing, so he’ll turn as he tracks me and not be able to see Christopher coming up on him.

“Sucker!” I yell, hopping a rock in my path. My ankle wobbles, and I stumble forward, but I wrench myself upright back into a sprint.

He’s tracking me, winding up again as I run, before he snaps a ball that I try to dodge but which nails me on my chest, right over my heart. I groan and throw my head back in frustration. When a ball strikes me again, my groan morphs to a shocked gasp, though I shouldn’t be surprised. The rules say you stop when your opponent’s hit, but of course he’s thrown another ball, aiming for my face.

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