"Oh please," I pant. "I know Ben well enough not to take anything he says seriously."
Ben slows, his smirk tightening into something sharper, warning me, but I don't care. I step back into my position, waiting for Lisa's serve.
Then Richard leans closer and I nearly leap out of my skin when, out of nowhere, his fingers squeeze my butt-cheek under my skirt. I turn to him, shocked, but he smiles at me.
"Don't worry. You're actually pretty good," he says, both his voice and eyes purring. "I'm impressed."
Blink. Smile. Swing the racket, and pretend it didn't happen. But what the hell? Did he flag-plant his territory? Or did he think no one saw?
Well, Ben saw. And his retaliation is immediate. He fires a forehand that rips through the air like a gunshot. The ball hisses across the court and slams square into my shoulder. Doesn't really hurt, but it knocks the wind out of me, and I stagger back a step.
I whirl, eyes wide on the spot, then catch that self-satisfied grin stretched across his face that says:Yup, I meant it. Yup, you deserved it.
I stomp, infuriated. "What the ffffuuuu—!" Bite it back last second, my molars grinding.
Richard’s already rubbing my shoulder, face tight. His gaze flicks across the court at Ben, assessing him, glaring, before he turns to me.
“Em? Are you hurt?"
I shake my head, eyes flashing. “No. But I’m fuckingpissed!” There. That feels better. Don't regret it one bit.
Richard grimaces, embarrassed now. Not for what he did—for me. For appearances.
"If you're not hurt, then what got into you?" he reprimands me, voice low, giving me those lecturing eyes I hate. "You have to learn to tame your emotions. It's just a game."
Game. Right. Relax. Giggle, maybe. But I'm not relaxed. I'm rage in sneakers at this point, and don't care what he thinks, so I push past Richard.
"Fine, Bellini." I stab a finger at Ben like I'm delivering a verdict.
"Bellini?" Ben echoes with a cocky flicker of a laugh.
Everyone spins like I've gone full lunatic. I might have, but I'll die on this court if that's what it takes to score on him.
Adrenaline surges, hot and sharp, tingling through my fingers.
Ben's hand is only halfway up before I'm at the baseline and I aim toward Lisa, because Ben's too close. My racket whistles through the air. Jump. Dink. The ball kisses her side of the net with a hard thunk.
"Yes!" I jump, swirling my skirt to the point Lisa scowls at me, but I'm watching Ben.
"My, my..." He arches one brow, surprised. "She bites back."
Face flat, I hold my hand up. "My serve."
He snorts. "Not how it works."
I look him dead in the eye. Nothing about this game was fair. "My. Serve."
He shrugs and chips the ball over casually, clearly humoring me.
"Em gets spirited when provoked," Richard says behind me like I'm some kind of spectacle.
Screw him. I keep running, eyes locked on the ball, hearing his apology or something about work emails as he leaves.
"I'm coming too. We should take a drink break anyway," Lisa says, running across the court while Ben and I play like it's a blood sport. "They say we should drink every thirty minutes in this heat."
The ball bolts across the net—fast, sharp, merciless.
"Are you guys coming?" she asks.
