The indoor sports complex is massive, with courts stretching out in rows. Most are occupied by retirees who look like they could destroy us both. Miles reserved one in the back corner, away from the others.
“Have you ever actually played?” I ask.
“Nope.”
“So we’re both going to be terrible?”
“It can’t be that hard.” He gestures to the net. “What side do you want?”
I cross to the far end, testing the paddle in both hands. “I’m sorry in advance for the hit your pride is going to take when I beat you at this, too.”
He laughs, the sound swallowed by the rhythmic pings from the other courts. “Big talk, Starling.”
His first serve hits the net and bounces back to his feet.
“Nice start, Captain.”
He ducks his head, trying to hide his smile, but I catch it. “Warm-up shot.”
“Mm-hmm. Sure it was.”
The first few volleys are clumsy—both of us learning the rhythm, the bounce, and how hard to hit. By the second game, we’ve found our groove.
Miles is annoyingly good for someone who’s never played. Naturally athletic enough to pick up a new sport like it’s nothing, barely breaking a sweat. He doesn’t even look like he’s trying as much as I am; yet, to my disappointment, he’s winning.
But I think I’m holding my own. And even if I’m not, we’re both laughing hard enough that my abs will be sore tomorrow, along with the rest of my body.
I didn’t expect to enjoy this nearly as much as I do. Though it’s more about the company than any newfound enthusiasm for the sport.
“What’s the score?” he asks after a particularly long volley.
“You’re winning,” I admit begrudgingly.
“Really?” His lips twitch. Heknowshe’s kicking my butt, and he’s taking great joy in it.
“Don’t sound so surprised.”
“I’m not.” He smirks and serves again. “Just happy you’re admitting it.”
I miss the return by a mile. I scramble after the ball, and when I turn back, he’s watching me. His attention slowly drifts from my legs to my face.
“Like what you see?” I let the ball drop behind me, then bend to pick it up, making a show of it. At least, that’s the goal. I’m not above using every advantage I can to make a comeback here.
When I turn back, his eyes are still on me. I toss him the ball, and he catches it one-handed, laughing. Then he shoots me the full smile that makes my stomach flip before serving again.
By the third game, my legs are burning, my arm is sore, and I decide Idefinitelyneed to get to the gym more.
Miles, of course, looks like he could go ten more rounds. His eyes are bright, his face only slightly flushed from playing.
I swipe back the hair sticking to my forehead.
“Water break?” He walks off the court, and I follow.
We collapse. Well,Icollapse. Miles sits down like a normal person on a nearby bench. He throws an arm around my shoulders, pulling me into his side. I’m sweaty and gross, but he doesn’t seem to care.
There’s two older couples on the court next to ours, playing doubles. They move like they’ve been playing together for years, anticipating each other’s movements and covering for the other when needed.
Miles follows my gaze, his thumb tracing circles on my shoulder, probably without even realizing it. ButInotice. Goosebumps spread across my arms and chest.
