"Oh,hellno," I said, suddenly shaken by the idea of getting naked with this guy. I wasn't worried that I'd lose—that wasn't happening—but Iwasworried about how I'd handle seeing him in nothing more than his skin. Again. I couldn't do that without molesting him with my eyes. The fake-boyfriend-but-also-touchy-feely-friend thing only worked so long as everyone remained clothed. "I'm not playingstrippong."
He smiled with one of thoseyou don't have to get so worked up, Honeybeegrins. "I get it," he replied. "You're worried that I'm going to beat you, and you'll be stripped down to your nakeds before youknowit."
I laughed at that, hard. It had been years since I'd played this game, but it was the one thing Adam and I had done together with any regularity. We'd gotten a ping-pong table as a joint birthday gift from some aunt or uncle who thought children were inherently good at sharing. We weren't, and we were especially bad at sharing with each other. But the only way to determine the true and rightful master of the table was through playing for it. Over time, we'd resorted to resolving our issues by whacking little hollow balls at eachother.
I wagged the paddle in his direction. "I'm not worried about that at all," I snapped. "I'm worried thatI'mgoing to beatyou, and it's a little chillyinhere."
Riley glanced around the room and then back at me, nodding pointedly at my chest. "You're right. It is a tit bit nipplyinhere."
"Hilarious." I tapped the paddle against the edge of the table, rolling my eyes. "What's wrong with the original plan? Winner buys thedrinks?"
"Here's a compromise," he said. "For every point, we'll undress or answer aquestion."
"Like,trivia?"
"No," he said with an exaggerated head shake. "Personal questions, but you have to choose clothes or questions before anything is asked and you can't change your mind after. Either way, we'restripping."
"You'llbe stripping," I said, beckoning fortheball.
My plan held together for a few minutes. Riley soon realized that I was a more capable opponent than he'd expected, and he upped the level of play in response. We were diving and lunging to return each shot, and grunting like it was Wimbledondownhere.
"You could've mentioned you were a ringer," he said as he fired the ball across thetable.
"Are you kidding?" I asked. "I'll have you out of those pants before youknowit."
That did it. His concentration faltered for half a second, and the ball sailed past his outstretched paddle. "Motherfuck," he seethed, flattening his palms on the table. "You playdirty."
I twisted my hair into a bun on the top of my head. "I play to win," Icorrected.
He hooked his thumb around his waistband, his fingers resting just above his zipper. I swallowed thickly.Please don't take your pants off, please don't take your pants off,please.
"Ask your question, Shortstop,"hesaid.
"Have you always been perfect?" The words tripped out of my mouth before I considered whether they deserved oxygen. "Pause. Rewind. Pretend I never said that. It's not what I meant. It's just that you seem to have a lot going for you, and I want to know whether that's always been the case. Did you even have a gawky adolescentphase?"
Riley started to respond but stopped himself, laughing. "I didn't speak until I was four, and when I did, I had major speech impediments," he said. "I stutter almost every day. I've never been anywhere nearperfect."
"Oh," I said, shocked and a little mortified with myself. "Oh, wow. I had no idea. I never would'veguessed."
Stop babbling. Stop itrightnow.
"You might not notice it, but it's there. I'm better at controlling it now," Riley said. "And just so you know, it onlylookslike I have a lot going for me. I've got a lot of shamblesheretoo."
I was about to keep on babbling, but he moved into serve position. The ball came at me hard and high. He was capitalizing on my height—or lack thereof—and it wasn't long before I was struggling to return each shot. My paddle scraped the underside of the ball, but it wasn't enough to send it across thetable.
"What will it be?" Riley asked, eyeing me with his arms crossed over hischest.
In addition to a bra and panties, I was wearing jeans, a sweater, and flats. No socks, no jewelry, nothing. It wasn't much to work with. "Question,"Isaid.
He spun the handle of the paddle between his palms. "Tattoos," he said. "What's the storythere?"
The ink on my left bicep was covered by my sweater, but I rolled the sleeve up enough to explain. "That's Nevada," I said. Riley circled the table and narrowed his eyes. "Then, South Dakota. That's where I went to undergrad. Next, Wisconsin, where I went to medschool."
He tilted his head to get a better look. "Oh, yeah. I see it now. I've been staring at those lines for a month. How did I not figure that out?" he asked. "And where'sMassachusetts?"
You've been staring at my arm for a month?I had no idea he'd been that interested. "I haven't added Massachusetts yet," I said with a shrug. I wasn't convinced I wanted a permanent reminder of mytimehere.
Riley reached for me, his fingers curling around my arm and his thumb sweeping over the ink. "You should,"hesaid.
