“Seriously?”
“Why not? Our crazy fathers will be thrilled to hear we’re commencing our training early.”
“True.” Wyatt twists his baseball cap around. “All right. I’m in.”
A quick text to his dad tells us that Houseman Henry stored all the equipment in the boathouse, so while Wyatt retrieves it, I jog into the house to grab a cooler of water bottles. Wyatt’s already at the clearing when I return. He’s stripped off his shirt, which means all he’s wearing now are those slutty khaki shorts and a backward cap. God help me.
It’s hot, so I take my shirt off too, leaving me in a padded sportsbra and biker shorts. I tighten the laces of my sneakers so I’m not tripping over myself on the court.
Wyatt frowns. “You’re wearing a bra.”
“Oh no. Is that gonna make you want to kiss me again?”
Rolling his eyes, he passes me a racket while juggling a few badminton birdies in his other hand. “You know how to play, right?”
“Nope,” I say cheerfully. “But I assume you smash it over the net as hard as you can?”
“I mean, pretty much, yeah. But once the shuttlecock—”
“Please stop trying to turn me on.”
He snorts. “The birdie. Official name is shuttlecock.”
“Who named it that? Probably someone with a small penis, right?”
Wyatt laughs harder. “Why does his penis have to be small?”
“Because he’s treating it like a space shuttle. Like he wants it to be a rocket. But it’s not. So he’s projecting via badminton.”
“Yes, that’s exactly what’s happening.”
We jog to opposite sides of the net. I adjust my grip on the racket. “Loser does the dishes for the rest of the summer,” I call out.
“I’m not taking that bet.”
“Scared?”
He spins the racket, showing off. “No, I just know that you can never bet on sports outcomes to go your way. What if I trip on a rock and break my leg? Then you’d win by default.”
“You know who wouldn’t trip and break their leg?”
“Who?”
“A good badminton player.”
“Oh, fuck off. No bet.”
“Fine. Winner gets the glory.”
Although he’s, like, ten feet taller than me, I’m decently athletic,so the match ends up being competitive right off the bat.
Wyatt tosses the shuttlecock into the air, then smacks it with a loudthwack, sending it flying toward me with unexpected speed.
I lunge, my sneakers squeaking on the grass. Somehow, I manage to return it with enough force to make him sprint backward. Wow. I’m good at this.
The game escalates fast. Suddenly we’re not just volleying anymore. We’re goinghard. Wyatt dives for a save, landing on his side and barely popping the shuttlecock back over the net, and as it hurtles my way, I don’t bother playing nice. I smash it down like I’m trying to end his professional badminton career.
“Fuck off! That was a body shot!” he shouts, laughing breathlessly.
