Page 10

Sunday, April 16

NIKO IS, ONCE again, stretched out over the reception desk, eyes fixated on his phone. I watch him from the top of the stairs, admiring how his focus is always so linear and direct. My brain is always chasing a billion different thoughts, like a Choose Your Own Adventure book. Niko, on the other hand, seems like he does one thing at a time and doesn’t move on until he’s mastered it.

I wish this did not make me ponder what he’d be like in bed, but after Saturday’s kiss, this has in fact been one of the main thoughts lurking in my head.

The other: how the hell to get through the next few weeks of pretending to be Niko’s doubles partner and girlfriend. I decide to go with unabashed confidence and hope for the best.

“Hey.” I give him a cheery wave as I descend the stairs. “You ready to do this?”

He looks up and gives me a slow, resigned nod. “I got the email saying we’ve been accepted into the tournament, so it’s happening. We’re official.”

I attempt to steer my body away from the pull of him, willing some sort of Niko-repelling force field into place around me. But every organ, every muscle inside me, betrays this very smart plan, and my gaze immediately attaches to his face like a magnet when I hit the bottom step. His eyes shoot up, and if he’s also a nervous wreck from last night, he’s not letting on. I may wear all my emotions on my secondhand sleeves, but Niko keeps his sewn up and hidden from sight.

“Official,” I repeat, as I move to stand in front of the computer, switching the screen on and opening up my email, even though I’m only doing it to distract myself from staring at him. “Not seeing other people then. How very old-fashioned of us.”

“Wow, did we just have the talk ?” Niko shifts on his feet, his eyes never leaving my face. “That took a lot less time than I imagined.”

On paper, this morning should be just like any other. The desert sun hangs wide and bright through the smudged glass windows, and the smells of coffee and cleaning spray mix in the air. I make a mental note that I should water the succulents that dot the top of the towel shelves.

But everything is different, as the nerves churning around in my stomach remind me. In the span of a mere twelve hours, everything’s changed.

Well, except the utter pleasure it brings me to verbally spar with him. That has stayed exactly the same.

“Wait, was that your first time having the talk? Am I… your first real relationship?” I tap deliberately on the keyboard, my voice so saccharine it could make even a sweet tooth gag. “Aw, Niko. How absolutely adorable.”

“Trust me, Princess.” His eyes narrow into daggers as he watches me. “If we were really dating, you’d know.”

Jesus Christ, this man’s arrogance extends far beyond the tennis court. And as much as I hate to admit it, occasionally it is earned. Even if we hadn’t fallen into this ridiculous arrangement, my kiss with Niko alone would have sent things rocketing in a completely new direction. This man, whose mouth is usually reserved for frowning and snide comments, kissed me back, said things to me, the kind of words that aren’t easily shoved aside, and I’m not sure how to process them—or the feelings that burn inside me like some sort of lusty indigestion.

“Let’s see how you do during today’s lesson,” I say as I move around, grabbing the spray bottle off the counter and walking over to mist the plants like it’s the most important job on the planet. “Then I’ll decide if I’m ready for a committed relationship with you.”

Niko has been nothing short of irritating since he dressed me down in Loretta’s hospital room. He’s abrasive and arrogant, practically humorless. And yet, I also want to rip his clothes off and ravage him right here on the floor. It makes no sense, but here I am, skin prickling, heart pounding at the sight of him.

My teammate.

My boyfriend .

The kissing can’t happen again, not anymore. I want to save the club more than I want to climb on top of him, and Niko is now my partner, a person I need to rely on if I want to take home that prize money. In just a few weeks, we have to be so in sync that we can seamlessly beat whoever or whatever this tournament throws at us.

In sync on the court .

Not, you know, with our lips.

God, I need to stop obsessing about our kiss for this to work.

And on top of all that, the arrogant Tennis Prince has to learn how to play pickleball.

Wait, scratch that. I have to teach him pickleball.

God, I’m so, so fucked.

Kissing him was a boneheaded move, period. Even if Angela Rakkas hadn’t walked in and complicated things, I should have grabbed his face in my hands and pushed him far, far away from me. But since I can’t take the kiss back, I have to start over, now.

“Was I supposed to wear colors?” Niko’s voice cuts through the chatter in my head, and I swivel around to find the corners of his mouth perking up as if they were eagerly waiting for this moment. “Because if so, I left all my neon gear at home.”

I don’t need to look down at the poppy-orange crop top I’m wearing today to know what he’s talking about, but I do anyway, out of habit. It already feels like he’s winning this Battle of the Day After Our Kiss, and this, of course, irks the hell out of me.

“I’m pretty sure anything you put on your body immediately turns to white anyway,” I sass back, pinching a corner of his pristine T-shirt and examining it. “You’re like the opposite of one of those hypercolor sweatshirts from the eighties.”

His face shifts into something more confused. “I have no idea what that is.”

“It’s vintage, Niko.” I sigh, but my brain stops working when I search for more of a comeback. All I can think about is how, just hours ago, he had me pinned against the edge of the reception desk, encasing me with his arms, whispering “You have no idea what you do to me” in my ear before unleashing a kiss on me that was so wildly sexual that I’d practically orgasmed right there on the spot.

What do I do to him, exactly? Bug him, I’d always thought. But now there’s more to it, and I desperately want to know the answer.

“I tend to think vintage means something that’s out of style,” he says. He seems so tall today that he takes up every inch of space in the entryway.

“You mean like tennis?” I taunt. I work through the nerves rattling around inside me and squeeze by him, avoiding those storm-cloud eyes. It’s no use—my skin still prickles like I’ve just stuck my finger in an electrical socket.

“Come on!” I say before he can bust out a retort. I bounce toward the door with the enthusiasm of a high school cheerleader. “Let’s do this before the regret consumes me.”

He follows me outside wordlessly, hovering at the edge of the court as I fish a paddle out of my gear bag and hand it to him.

“We’re going to start with the absolute basics,” I explain, trying to dig up some patience as he crosses his arms in front of his chest, his eyes narrowing skeptically as I walk a few paces away from him. “Think fast.”

I toss a lime-green ball at him, and he catches it effortlessly, like a Major League outfielder grabbing a pop fly.

Niko stares down at the plastic ball in his hand with a look of unbridled disgust. “It’s a wiffle ball.”

“It is not a wiffle ball.” I will myself to stay calm and not let his usual grumpy asides get to me. Too much is on the line, and I need to keep my cool.

“Look at this, Bex.” He steps closer and positions it in front of my face, ever the professor, annoyed like I’m a student who’s just not getting it. “Plastic.”

He points with the edge of his paddle. “Holes. Same weight, more or less. Wiffle ball.”

“Yeah, but wiffle balls are white.” I snort. “Your favorite color.”

“You know, I’m only half as boring as you think I am,” he says, the edges of his lips quirking up into a smile that is downright playful on him. I bite my tongue before any other comebacks slip out of my mouth because I have a hunch about what this is: a peace offering. It’s going to be way harder to work together if we’re constantly competing to see who can out-snark the other.

No more sarcastic comments , I promise to myself, not today anyway. I make a mental note to resume all biting remarks immediately after we’ve charmed Angela into writing a glowing piece and won the tournament, the prize check cashed in my bank account.

No shit-talk, and no kissing, either, I remind myself as I grab my own paddle.

Luckily, we both seem to have tacitly agreed to act like the Great Make-Out Session of the Century never actually happened. Niko and I, grabbing at each other like we hadn’t eaten in weeks and were both made of Doritos? A figment of my imagination! A secret we’ll both take to the grave.

But I can’t forget those sounds he makes. And now I know he’s a talker, too, with a filthy mouth. My eyes flit up to his lips, which look deceivingly soft, considering the strength of his kisses.

“I can’t believe I’m about to play tennis with a fucking plastic ball,” Niko says with a laugh. He tosses the ball in the air and whacks it hard across the court, where it hits the fence, far out of bounds.

I’m downright grateful for his obnoxious comment, because it helps me snap out of my lust haze before drool can collect at the corners of my mouth. God, this is Niko—a condescending, arrogant tennis snob with a closet full of pristine polo shirts the color of an ice cap. Besides, I don’t need sex with some guy to save me. I can save myself—and the club—thank you very much.

“Well, that’s your first mistake,” I say, offering him a patronizing smile as I tuck my braid through my visor. “Pickleball is nothing like tennis.”

He rolls his eyes like he doesn’t believe me, and his refusal to give me even an inch of trust as his coach only irks me. Good. Annoy me some more, Niko! This is exactly the fuel I need to regain my focus.

“You know, you sound like every client I have that shows up all cocky and arrogant because they can bang a tennis ball across the court,” I reply.

“I’m not cocky and arrogant because I can bang a ball, Bex,” he says, quirking his lips up at me as he twirls the paddle in his hand. “I’m cocky and arrogant because I’m really fucking good at tennis.”

“I know you are,” I admit, because there’s no denying his level of skill. “But pickleball isn’t all about offense and force. Pickleball is taking those people who come in and bang the ball around and de-banging them. If someone tries to win with speed, you slow down the ball, show them their mistake. Make them have to rethink their strategy about banging.”

It’s not until the words are out of my mouth that I catch the twinkle in his eye, the crook of his lips edging upward ever so slightly at what I’ve just said.

“What does banging have to do with pickleball, Bex?” he asks coyly.

“You know what I mean.” I rush the words out nervously. “If your opponents are any good, they’re going to figure out that all you do is slam the ball across the court, and they’ll adjust accordingly. They’ll de-bang you.”

“No banging,” he says, and then adds, “ The ball. Got it.”

“You can bang the ball occasionally,” I correct, praying that my cheeks don’t flush with my words. “But I’m going to need you to change your mindset for pickleball. Being strictly about power isn’t going to work anymore. You need to think more defensively, no matter if you’re on the serving team or not.”

“What does the serve have to do with it?” he pushes back.

“Only the serving team can score,” I explain. “Didn’t you read the link I sent you last night?”

He’s quiet, his eyes drifting off over my shoulder for a moment before looking back at me.

“I skimmed it,” he says haughtily.

“Because you assumed you’d just be able to swoop in here and tennis your way onto the pickleball court,” I counter.

“Fine, coach,” he says, bowing toward me. “I promise, I’m listening.”

I give him the rundown of the rules, all the stuff he should have read and known already. When I’m done, he shrugs like it’s no big deal.

“Let’s play,” he says.

“No, first we work on your serve. It’s underhand in pickleball, remember? Go on the opposite side.”

I drag the ball basket over to the back line of the court, and once he’s in position on the other side, I knock one over the net to show him how it’s done.

“You want your serves deep,” I yell, batting a second ball over. “Keep the opposing team as far back as possible, try to prevent them from getting up to the kitchen.”

He rolls his eyes at kitchen , the word he so fervently despises, and then grabs a ball off the ground. He thwacks it at me, almost like he’s trying to punish it, and it once again bounces off the fence behind me with a loud clink! and lands way out of the lines.

“Go slow,” I say, keeping my voice patient. “You want it to be slow and deep.”

He pauses mid-swing as I say this, his eyes grazing over me hungrily, scowling, before he knocks the ball across the court, landing directly behind me. My stomach hollows like it’s on its own private roller coaster. I’ve said all of these things before to countless students, but in Niko’s presence, every word sounds downright sinful, like I’m suggesting he throw me down on the court and strip my skirt off right here.

“Patience is key here.” I recalibrate, steadying the pounding in my head as I toss the ball back to him.

He averts his eyes from the ball for the moment, locking them with mine. “I’m patient—about most things.”

His arm cuts back through the air and sends the ball hurling across the court before my mind can obsess over his words.

This time, it actually lands in bounds, right where it’s supposed to be. “That was great!” I exclaim, unable to contain the excitement in my voice. “It was a nearly perfect serve.”

He cocks his brow at me, and I can tell he’s trying to suppress a smile.

“See?” I give him a thumbs-up. “You don’t need to be gentle. Just don’t pound it.”

Shit. Heat creeps into my cheeks, and his lips twitch ever so slightly, his eyes staying on my face longer than they need to.

“Do it again,” I say quickly, before he can get a word in, but even that sounds dirty now.

He hits the ball, but this time, he’s back to using too much force, and it drops out of bounds, just over the line.

“Don’t—”

“Pound it, I know,” he interrupts, his face stern, unreadable. “I can’t help it. I like pounding things.”

I want to give him the benefit of the doubt and assume that he’s not purposefully tormenting me with these deliberate word choices. But there’s another part of me that very much wants to read into everything he’s saying right now, to escape into the possibility of flirtation. As ridiculous as this whole scheme is, the last twenty-four hours have also been a relief, a distraction from the heavy stress permeating the other parts of my life.

Of course I don’t like Niko. But I do like the off-ramp from reality he’s currently providing.

“Holy shit, that was perfect!” I yell as the ball he sends hurtling through the air lands just at my feet. His serve—the curve of the ball, the power with which it flies just over the net and lands with a drop—is better than that of anyone I’ve ever seen play at the club. Including, I admit begrudgingly to myself, mine.

Niko cups a hand around his mouth and shouts, “So what do you say, then, Bex? Are you ready to commit to me now?”

I nod my head slowly. “I guess we’re official.”

“You’re stuck with me, Princess.” He tugs a ball out of his pocket and taps it directly at me. I duck as it whizzes by my shoulder and then give him a murderous look, but he just smirks and walks backward toward the end of the court, hands in the air, celebratory. “I’m all yours.”