“Qualifies for what?” I ask.
Oliver sighs, reluctant to clarify. “Pong Rumble.”
I give him a look before he retorts, “It’s a working title.”
David takes another sip of his drink before explaining. “Every year at TechRumble, the assistants and interns have a beerpong tournament on the first night of the competition. But there is limited beer in this place, so it’s usually the cheapest, nastiest aperitif spirits they have behind the bar. We all put money in the pot and the winning team have their drinks paid for the rest of the competition.”
My eyes grow wide. “Oh, shit, that’s a good prize.”
David continues, even more exuberant now as he slaps Oliver on the shoulder. “And his teammate just went back to the hotel with a bad case of jet lag, so he’s gonna miss out if he doesn’t find a new partner.”
Oliver wipes his hand over his mouth. “I should have warned you; you don’t have to if you’re just here to chill.”
“But your team will be disqualified if you don’t find a partner in the next...” David looks at his watch with the face of a father whose son is about to miss a qualifying game. “Ten minutes.”
Oliver turns in his chair to David. “She’s had a rough da—”
“No, I’ll do it.” I look between the two of them, my preternatural urge to prove myself useful kicking into high gear.
Five minutes later, we move to a back room of the bar, where more young people are half dressed in business attire. Blazers are thrown in a pile on a wooden chair, ties shoved into trouser pockets, and shirt collars unbuttoned like the last hour of a wedding. The space is tight, and we have to shuffle along the walls like cat burglars circumventing laser beams to avoid knocking into the scuffed Ping-Pong table occupying most of the room’s square footage.
“Have you played before?” Oliver asks as we make it to the end of the table, holding up an old, dusty Ping-Pong ball with a small dent in the side with two fingers.
Having attended a business school with a high percentage ofinternational students, beer pong was the universal language. If the students have never played it, they’ve at least seen it in a movie. Also, the rules are pretty easy to pick up when there’s just two: throw ball, drink.
I pluck the ball from his hand and throw it across the table. It’s a slam dunk into the middle of a cup, and the chorus of cheers urges our opponent to down their drink.
Oliver coughs out a laugh as I smile sweetly. “I think the more pertinent question is can you keep up?”
He stares me down. “So you’re... good?”
Our competitor, an Italian man whose baby face is so prominent he could be two children in a trench coat, throws his ball toward our cups, missing every single one.
I look up at Oliver, trying to hold in a satisfied smile as I place the ball back in his hand. “And competitive, don’t let me down.”
He grins, briefly glancing at my mouth, then back to my serious stare. “Yes, ma’am.”
His neck muscles shift as he limbers up, eyes darkening as he locks onto his target of the central cup. The crowd cheers again, and I awkwardly high-five him as a wave of relief visibly washes over him. Is he scared of not impressing me?
I’m too busy catching his eye to notice the competitor’s ball slamming into one of our cups so hard it wobbles in place. As I go to pick up the cup, Oliver’s hand meets me there and pulls it toward his mouth. His eyes glimmer as he knocks it back and winces. I can’t help but laugh at his face cringing at the sharp liquor as he says, “Thank me later.”
It comes out as a joke, just a phrase you say after doing someone a favor, but the way my body reacts, you’d think he just toldme he wants to push me up against the dusty wall behind us. It dawns on me that for once I’m not thinking about Wyst. Not thinking about my past or money or the people relying on me to keep it together. All I’m thinking about is getting a ball in a cup and the humming in my blood as Oliver’s hand playfully squeezes my shoulders and he whispers tactics in my ear like a coach hyping up an athlete.
We play for another two rounds before we’re defeated in the semifinals and pour back into the main room of the bar. I’m greeted by spectators and invited to join a group of Italians and Brits. We sit in a bundle in the corner, talking, laughing, and sharing stories of horrible bosses. But the majority of my brain cells are taken up by monitoring where my doubles partner’s attention lies. Maybe I’m overthinking it, but it seems like he’s slowly gravitating toward me. Why am I even focusing on him? Sure, he invited me here but not like as his date or anything. This is a casual hang between assistants.
He double cheek kisses a woman before making his way over to me. I study him, and I know I’m not the only person in the bar doing so. He’s the kind of handsome that makes you look twice, once for evaluation and once for indulgence. The slope of his nose pulling focus toward his warm hazel eyes, framed by the depth of his brow, his full lips encasing a wide infectious smile—it’s all mesmerizing. I’ve seen lots of pretty men, but the way he holds himself in complete comfort without managing to look like a cocky bastard is rare. My skin tingles as he strides over to our group, and instead of taking the empty seat on the opposite side, he drags an empty chair from another table and places it next to me. The gesture makes me blush like a teenager.
As I’m listening to a group debate the difference between Aperol and Campari, I overhear David ask Oliver, “You’re coming with later?”
Oliver glances briefly at me, but I pretend not to notice, remaining hyper-focused on my drink.
He shrugs, a slight tug at the side of his lip. “Maybe, I’ll see how I feel.”
“Sure, brother. Have a good night.” I give David a tight smile as he nods goodbye to us both.
Oliver turns back to me.
“He seems nice.”
