“Okay, so we need to target that one’s backhand,” I say, pointing to the taller of the other team. “He has none. I noticed in the warm-up.”
Alex smirks. “No backhand guy. I know the type. Got it.”
“And the other guy can’t volley to save his life.” I point to the dark-haired one.
“Uh-huh,” Alex says, continuing to stretch.
“Are you listening to me?” I demand.
“Yeah.” He looks me up and down with a hint of disdain. “But you’re being very bossy. And not in a hot way. Just in an annoying way.”
“There has to be a team leader,” I say.
“Does there?”
“Doesn’tthere?” That never occurred to me before.
“Well, why do you get to be in charge?” Alex says. “Let’s play rock paper scissors for it.”
I can’t think of a good reason why not.
“Fine,” I grumble.
Of course, Alex wins with scissors.
“Best two out of three,” I suggest.
He wins the next one, too. Typical. I scowl, and he slaps me on the ass.
“Cheer up, second-in-command,” he says sweetly.
Maybe I was wrong in thinking he’d be less annoying to play with now we’re together. Shaking my head, I walk to the net for the toss. Alex follows, laughing to himself. We win the toss at least, and choose to serve.
“I’ll serve first,” Alex says, but there’s a question in his voice. Even though he’s team captain, he isn’t insisting. My irritation dies away.
“Go for it,” I say.
We both know he’s the better server, and it’s good to get an advantage early. Sure enough, he wins his first service game easily even though he isn’t totally warmed up. It’s nice to be on the same side as that merciless serve, for once, instead of facing it. I get a feeling of possessive pride as he comes over to me with a shy smile after winning the game.My boyfriend, my brain whispers happily. But the other team’s scowls are visible from across the net. Looks like they didn’t expect that kind of power and accuracy from someone like Alex, who’s gone for the full glam rock look today.
As we switch places at the net at the end of the first game, one of them leans close.
“You’re wearing more makeup than my wife,” he growls at Alex.
I see red and before I know it I’m lunging at him. Alex grabs me and just hauls me back in time, looking alarmed. The asshole on the other team smirks at my reaction. Alex drags me all the way to the baseline at our side of the net and puts his hands on my shoulders to calm me down.
“Dane, what the fuck?” he hisses. “This isn’t a contact sport. You’re going to make us forfeit the game.”
“I can’t let him talk to you like that.” White-hot rages surges through me, almost frightening me. I can’t seem to unclench my fists.
Alex faces softens. “Dane, relax. Please. You think I’ve never heard that crap before. And worse?”
He glances contemptuously across the net, where the other team is watching us closely to see how we’re reacting. Alex’s left hand, the one without the racket, is shaking a little. He isn’t as unbothered as he’s acting. It kills me to see him hurt. But he’s a badass. In control enough to worry about calmingmedown even though he was the one who was insulted. He’s so much better at handling this than I ever would be. I guess he’s had a lot morepractice than me. He hasn’t spent his life hiding and sneaking around to placate idiots like the men across the net.
“They did that on purpose,” he says. “To get in our heads. They’re scared they can’t beat us in a fair fight.”
I take a few deep breaths as I realize he’s right. I’m falling for the oldest trick in the book. Losing your temper won’t help you win tennis matches. It’s not that kind of sport. You tighten up and your technique goes to shit and you overhit and send everything into the net or wide. And the other team knows that.
“You’re right,” I say to Alex. “Sorry.”
