Damn it.I mean it, though. Always wanted to try it too.
Ben doesn't even smile though, too focused on the game, and making me run around.
Lisa isn't on board—surprisingly. She stops mid-rally and flips her ponytail, her tone sharp with irritation. "He tried it once in New York. Cracked his ankle thirty minutes in, then spent a month in bed. I told him he doesn't have to impress anyone—we're way past college."
Ouch. Right in the solar plexus.And here I thought Ben was on her team.
Richard muffles a chuckle into a cough.
Ben's jaw tightens, and he turns away from Lisa.
I'd say something, but the bag enters my peripheral visionand—yeah, hard no. He can enjoy his wife and the cherries. Pits and all.
"Can we just play finally?" Ben grunts. "Or did we come here to chat?"
Lisa makes a face. "Sorry," she says to us, all sugary, and floats her serve. Richard lobs it. The game finally clicks in.
Then—because of course he does—Ben peels off his shirt mid-rally, swiping sweat off his chest, all while nailing every backhand like he's bored of us. Hands gotta do something, right?
Internally, my mouth drops and I whip my head away before I look longer than is socially acceptable.
"What are you doing?" Lisa hisses with consternation.
"You know I overheat. This, or I pass out," he says unbothered and tosses the shirt out of the court to let her know there are no take-backs.
Richard edges closer, with his mimed mutter, "I get what you meant before. Who with manners does that?"
I swallow a laugh. One glance at Ben and it's obvious: Richard's jealous. Probably wishes he had the guts himself if he wasn't so reserved, even though there's no way he could compete.
Sure, Richard has a good build and arms, but there are men who look good, and then there are...gods.
Ben is definitely gods.
He lifts his arm, his torso splitting into that fierce six-pack, glistening with sweat under the sun, and I see it all in slow motion—the kind of body you don't just look at, but bow downto. Kneel for. Bend.
And, of course, that's when we lose the damn point. Then another. And then we start massively losing.
"You've got to aim at Lisa," I hiss at Richard. "I'm not leaving without scoring at least once."
"Relax," Richard snaps. "There's no trophy at the end."
I turn so he doesn't see my eye roll. For someone who's apparently tougher than he looks, he's playing like an old man. Or like he knows he'll lose anyway so the game has no meaning. I get it, but he doesn't.
Lisa keeps calling the score and Ben's too generous with the kisses—on her nose, cheeks, forehead, I think he even just kissed her neck.
I try not to look. Because if I do, I might incinerate.
Then there's the other part—if Ben plays ten percent with Richard, he cranks it up to sixty with me, and when he targets me, the balls come with loaded remarks.
"Come on, Emma. Stop being so predictable," he calls as I lunge forward like a rookie, nearly tripping over my own legs. Don't get it. Shit.
Ben smirks. "Didn't you use to run faster than this?"
I wish I had something clever to say, but I'm too busy swallowing oxygen, so I scrape myself together and stab him with my eyes.
I don't know how, but I swear he'll pay for all this.
"Slow down, cowboy," Lisa chimes, giggling, enjoying it too much. "Or Emma's going to think you've got a personal vendetta."
