“It was probably hard to tell when your vision was so blurry from crying.”
“Bring it on, Bennett.” I flipped the paddle up in the air, watching as it spun gracefully. I wasn’t trying to show off, necessarily, but thought it was a nice touch. Until it bounced out of my hand and clattered to the table.
“I’m shaking in my boots.”
“Serve the dang ball.”
He won the ping round so he went first. The game went steady for the first few rounds of back and forth. He would get a point and then me, keeping an easy pace with each other. Unless he was holding back until he got a feel for how I play. Which, coincidentally, was exactly what I was doing. Usually, the first half of any ping pong match was a general assessment of your opponent’s skill level. Ping pong was like volleyball. If you played against people with a similar skill level as you, it could be the most enjoyable game in the world. If one team was significantly worse or better, it was literal torture. We seemed evenly matched for the most part, as we eased into the game, amid light ribbing and teasing. It had been a while since I had played, but it came back quickly. It was amazing the way sports could connect people. Or in our case, reconnect. Being back at the ping pong table where we had spent so much of our summers together felt like old times almost instantly.
The ball popped up high, and I reached across with a forearm swing and slammed it down on his side of the table. Instead of trying to go for the ball, he only covered his head with his arms, protecting himself.
“Nineteen to seventeen, chicken,” I boasted.
He picked up the ball near his foot. “I gave you that one.”
“I was aiming for your face, but I missed.”
He laughed. “My serve, hotshot.”
It was another point for me. He put both hands on the table with his head down, while I sang out, “Twenty to seventeen. My mouth is watering.”
He lifted his head, a smile playing on his lips. “Mine too.”
I could have played off the comment. He was just talking about ping pong. Teasing. Laughing. But then he looked at me about two seconds too long, his teasing eyes boring into mine. Forcing me to only think about one thing, a full-blown make-out session in the dark, damp basement. I was a walking cliche after that…rapid heartbeat, flutters in the stomach, shortness of breath, and—
“Game point,” Dusty said, watching me curiously and snapping me out of my fantasy.
I shook it off and crouched down into my ready position and was surprised when he suddenly put his paddle down on the table.
“Did you ever see that movie The Princess Bride?”
“Whohasn’tseen that movie?”
“Remember the sword fight scene?”
“Yeah…” A bad feeling started entering my stomach at this point.
A smile that had been simmering at the surface for at least half the game began making its way across his face. There was a gleam in his eyes as he nodded when he could tell I had figured out what he was telling me.
“Imagine me, Inigo Montoya, switching my sword hand. That’s me right now.” He theatrically tossed his paddle into his right hand, and unlike me caught it with the grace of a cat.
My heart sank. “You’re not a leftie.”
“No.”
I crossed my arms at my chest. “It’s not my problem how you choose to play the game. I’m still ahead.”
“Fair. I’m just switching hands so I can crush you.”
Our eyes were locked, both of us trying not to break.
“Not sure what the rule books say about switching hands during the game.”
“Are you scared?”
“No, but I really want chocolate pie. And I don’t want to make it. Things were going pretty well for me with you as a leftie.”
“I could stay a leftie and still beat you. I’m not worried. I’m mostly just worried about your ego. I’m sure you’d want to beat me at my best.”
