When none of us reply, she sighs loudly and walks away.
"You're holding the racket wrong," Ben calls out.
I sneer but adjust anyway. "Mind your damn business. Why do you care?"
He tosses the next forehand, racket swinging like an extension of his arm. "I like to do at least one good deed a day."
"Ha-hah. Screw you," I deadpan.
Ben raises a brow in thatwould-you-nowlook, but I'm already pivoting, knees bending as I lob it back.
"Not a bad return," he calls.
"Didn't need your approval."
"Didn't say you did."
Lisa calls from the sidelines with fake concern. "Ben, that's enough. Poor Emma is melting."
"Lisa's right," Richard joins, his voice genuine. "Em, you never know when to stop."
"Never, always, ever," I mutter into my chest. Then louder: "I'm fine."
A lie. The sun's carving my scalp into steak, and the edges of my vision are getting fuzzy.
"You should listen to them," Ben teases. "You look like something's about to give."
"Asshole," I mouth so no one can hear, but exaggerate the syllables, and he smirks.
Then I run, swinging with everything I don't have and pure spite.
Pop!The ball zips across the net, and by whatever good karma I've accumulated before all this started, Ben lunges—and misses.
He freezes mid-step, chest heaving.
When he turns, he looks at me like I just performed a miracle. "Have you been practicing?"
I double over, hands gripping my shaky thighs, sweat dripping into my eyes and pant, "No. Just imagined your face on the ball."
His jaw works like he's chewing down a smile, and there's a flash of pride in his eyes.
He takes a couple of breaths and walks around the net with that prowl in his step, his stamina unfazed by the whole match.
Richard and Lisa beat him to me, getting here just as my legs decide they're done and I stagger, almost kissing the court.
Ben jerks forward instinctively, but Richard cuts in front of him, pressing his hand over my forehead. "God. You're burning hot. I told you to stop. Should I bring you water?"
"No, I'll get it myself," I pant, forcing an exhausted smile.
When I glance at Ben, his face is all shadows, jaw clenchedlike he's trying to snap Richard in his mind with it. I think he might even move him aside, but instead he turns, and stalks toward the table, shoulders rigid.
Lisa presses a hand to my arm. "Here, I have this mist—rose and lemon." Before I can object, she's dousing my face. "Take it. You deserve it. You're the only one who's ever scored against him."
I flash her a real smile for once. For all her flaws—the way she transparently wants something from my husband, and married the man who should have been mine—Lisa is complicated.
I doom-scrolled her socials once for a Ben cameo. Barely any. Mostly the eco-warrior shtick and sloths rescues in Panama, which is... aspirational. And I'd probably hate on Ben's wife even if she was a saint, so maybe I can try to dial back the hate.
"I have a feeling you guys won't play with us again," she says lightly.
