Now they sit on the table, untouchable and glistening—like his stupid face. He knows I'll never win against him.
"Please, pick your side," Ben tells me brightly and I glare at him.
Lisa's already positioning herself so the sun is at her back.
"Can we get this one?" she asks sweetly.
I shrug. Don't care. Richard stands by my left, squinting, but doesn't say anything either.
We square off. The Lawsons versus the Bellinis. Sounds like a court case.
Ben wraps his sweatband, cracks his back and spins his racket like a revolver before he tosses at Richard, "Don't worry. I'll go easy on you."
Richard laughs it off. "First time really playing, but I'm tougher than I look."
Ben purses his lips, nods. "I like people who don't makeexcuses."
Then finally, he sees me.
Eyes. Hips. Legs. Back to eyes.
"No mercy for you, though," he says, pointing the racket at me and there's no humor in it.
I sneer-laugh. "If you need to demolish an amateur to feel better about yourself, be my guest."
He gives me a smirk that says he's planning to enjoy this no matter what, and slides into the trophy stance. Then he blasts a topspin, fast enough to zip behind Richard before Richard even jerks his racket.
Richard lets out a tight, annoyed breath and adjusts his collar on reflex.
"Point!" Lisa chirps, bounding over to Ben for a high-five. "Nice shot, partner!"
"That's fifteen-love." He grabs her by the shoulders and—thatasshole—presses a kiss on her nose.
"Keep counting," he adds, loud enough for me to hear.
Great. That's how I wanted to spend my Sunday: get tortured by him one serve at a time.
I bite so hard I might taste blood.
Ben serves again—a fluid, effortless move toward Richard, who lunges for it and barely makes it.
"The wind's terrible," Richard mutters.
I whisper, teasingly, "Darling, this isn't badminton," but he looks at me like he's not having it, so I bite back that there's no wind either.
Lisa volleys like a ballerina. "It's the aerodynamics, actually.Don't worry, Richard, you'll get into it. Ben's not easy to play against, but he promised me no shenanigans, right?"
When Ben ignores her, she waves her racket at him, one brow raised. "Right, Ben?"
Ben brushes the ball and shoots her an exasperated look, throwing his arms wide out. "Why am I being lectured? I'm playing on ten percent."
"Really? You're sweating before we've even started," she says in her faux-joking tone, smiling too much.
I guess bodily functions aren't her thing. She must sweat La Prairie.
Ben shrugs and flaps his damp shirt across his chest. "I told you, I've been sweating like this since marathon training."
Before I can stop myself, right in the middle of my backhand, it slips out: "Marathon sounds great."
