Page 9 of You Owe Me (21 Rumors #2)

CHAPTER NINE

Rumor has it, she can tame the devil.

Ainsley

I’m dying.

Literally dying.

My lungs are on fire, my legs feel like overcooked spaghetti, and I’m pretty sure my right arm is about to detach itself from my body in protest. All because Maverick Lexington, campus legend and my ridiculously competitive boyfriend, doesn’t understand the concept of “casual pickleball.”

“That was out!” I gasp, bent over with my hands on my knees, trying to remember how breathing works.

“It was in.” Maverick’s voice is calm, controlled, and infuriatingly unaffected by the fact that we’ve been playing for forty-five minutes in the summer heat. He hasn’t even broken a sweat. Meanwhile, I look like I just went swimming fully clothed.

“It was literally a foot outside the line,” I protest, straightening up and pushing my sweat-soaked hair out of my face. “I’m starting to think you need glasses. Or maybe just a refresher on the basic concept of sportsmanship?”

The corner of his mouth twitches—his version of a smile. “The ball clipped the line. That makes it in.”

“In what universe?” I throw my hands up, my paddle nearly sailing out of my grip. “The Mars Pickleball Federation?”

Maverick just stares at me with those intense blue eyes, the paddle spinning effortlessly in his hand. Show-off. “Your serve.”

I narrow my eyes at him. We’re playing on the university’s rec center courts, and despite the early hour, the heat is already becoming oppressive.

This was supposed to be fun exercise—Google’s recommendation for stress-relieving exercises.

But Maverick Lexington doesn’t do anything casually.

Everything is a strategic operation, including, apparently, destroying his girlfriend at pickleball at 8:00 a.m. on a Saturday.

“Fine.” I retrieve the ball, taking a moment to catch my breath. “But just so you know, I’m keeping a list of all these questionable calls, and there will be retribution. Possibly involving your secret candy stash.”

I serve the ball with all the grace of someone who learned pickleball exactly three weeks ago.

Somehow, despite my lack of skill, the serve lands perfectly in the service box.

Maverick returns it with mechanical precision, and we fall into a rhythm of back and forth that would be almost hypnotic if I weren’t gasping for air.

Four shots in, I see his eyes narrow. His jaw tightens. His next shot comes like a missile, slamming into the back corner of my court. I lunge for it, miss by a mile, and end up sprawled face-first on the court.

“Point.” He doesn’t even ask if I’m okay.

I push myself up, dusting the court debris off my hands. “Are you seriously not going to ask if I’m alive? I could have broken something. My face. My spirit. My will to ever play this demon sport again.”

Maverick raises an eyebrow. “Are you hurt?”

“Only my pride. And possibly my elbow.” I examine a fresh scrape with a wince. “And definitely my theory that you possess basic human empathy.”

He spins the paddle again, a nervous tic I’ve come to recognize. Something’s bothering him. Mav’s movements are stiffer than usual, his focus too intense even for him. When he’s just being competitive, there’s usually a glint of amusement in his eyes. Today, there’s something darker there.

“Let’s go again.” He’s already moving back into position.

I should be annoyed. Actually, I am annoyed. But I’m also worried. This isn’t just Maverick being Maverick. This is Maverick working something out the only way he knows how: through controlled physical exertion, where he sets the rules and dictates the outcome.

“One more point,” I agree, getting back into position. “And then we’re taking a break before I pass out and you have to explain to Bostic why you killed me with a plastic ball and a glorified ping-pong paddle.”

His serve is even more aggressive than before, barely giving me time to react. I manage to return it by some miracle, only for him to slam it back so hard that the ball practically disintegrates on impact with my court.

“That’s game,” he announces, his voice tight.

“That’s attempted murder,” I counter, dropping my paddle and collapsing dramatically onto the court. “Death by pickleball. Not how I pictured going out.”

But Maverick isn’t laughing. He’s not even doing his almost-smile thing.

He’s staring at the paddle in his hand like it personally offended him, his knuckles white with tension.

My theatrics fade as I recognize the signs: the tightness around his eyes, the controlled breathing, the subtle check of his watch where his heart monitor displays numbers I can’t see but can guess are too high.

I get to my feet, abandoning my dramatics. “Hey,” I say softly, approaching him. “What’s going on in that complicated head of yours?”

“Nothing.” The response is automatic, dismissive.

“Right. And I’m secretly a mermaid who just enjoys biology research as a cover.” I step closer, into his space. “Talk to me, Mav.”

He turns to me suddenly, his eyes flashing with something dangerous. “When were you going to tell me?”

“Tell you what?” I’m genuinely confused by his abrupt shift.

“About Carter Mills.” The words come out like ice chips. “About him approaching you. Repeatedly.”

Oh. Shit.

“How did you?—”

“I know everything that happens on this campus, Ainsley.” His voice rises, an unusual occurrence for the typically controlled Maverick.

“Did you think I wouldn’t find out that he’s been cornering you after classes?

That he followed you to the café? That he sat with you under the oak tree on East Quad? ”

I blink, taken aback by the precision of his knowledge. Of course, he knows. This is Maverick we’re talking about.

“It’s nothing,” I say, waving a dismissive hand. “I’m handling it.”

“Handling it?” He practically spits the words. “He’s been stalking you, and you didn’t think to mention it?”

“I was going to tell you if I couldn’t handle it,” I explain, trying to sound casual despite the hammering of my heart. “It’s nothing for you to stress over. Just another entitled rich kid with boundary issues and a problem with the word no.”

His jaw clenches so tight I’m worried he might crack a tooth. “Nothing to stress over?” Maverick rarely raises his voice, but he’s close now. “He’s hitting on my girlfriend, and you kept it from me.”

“He’s not hitting on me,” I say, meeting his gaze. “He’s testing the waters. Trying to see if I’ll be faithful to you, and I am.”

“But you didn’t tell me about it.” His voice is dangerously low.

“Because I can handle it!” I push back. “I’m not some helpless damsel who can’t handle a preppy guy in khakis asking me out. And using pickleball as an outlet for murderous rage isn’t going to help,” I point out gently. “Your heart, remember?”

He gives me a sharp look. “I’m fine.”

“Show me your watch.”

“Ainsley—”

“Show me the watch, Maverick, or I swear I will tackle you right here on this court and cause a scene that will live in campus legend for decades.”

With obvious reluctance, he turns his wrist. 156 BPM. Dangerously high, especially after physical exertion.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” I say, taking his paddle from him despite his resistance. “We’re done with pickleball for today. Doctor’s orders.”

“You’re not a doctor.”

“No, but I play one in your life’s drama.” I gather our things, shoving them into my gym bag. “Come on, we need to cool you down before your heart decides to take a vacation from your chest.”

For a moment, I think he’s going to argue. Maverick hates being managed almost as much as he hates losing control. But something in my expression must convince him, because he allows me to lead him off the court and toward the outdoor area behind the rec center.

The space is mostly deserted this early on a Saturday, with just a few dedicated joggers in the distance. Perfect. I guide Maverick to a secluded spot under the shade of a massive oak tree, well out of sight from the main path.

“Sit,” I command, pointing to the grass.

“I’m not one of your sea lions,” he grumbles, but he sits, his back against the tree trunk.

“No, they listen better.” I rummage in my gym bag, pulling out my water bottle. “Shirt off.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Here?”

“Yes, here. No one’s around except maybe some squirrels, and they’ve seen worse on this campus.” When he doesn’t immediately comply, I add, “Your heart rate is too high, and we need to cool you down. This is the fastest way.”

With a sigh that suggests I’m asking him to donate a kidney rather than remove a piece of clothing, Maverick pulls his shirt over his head.

And just like every time I see him shirtless, my brain short-circuits for a solid three seconds.

The man is unfairly beautiful—all lean muscle and perfect planes, with that tribal tattoo wrapping around his torso in a way that makes my fingers itch to trace it.

But this isn’t the time for ogling. His skin is flushed and hot to the touch when I press my palm against his chest, right over his heart. I can feel it racing beneath my hand, too fast and too hard.

“You’re going to give yourself a heart attack over Carter Mills,” I say softly. “And then he wins without even having to try.”

Something flickers in Maverick’s eyes—acknowledgment, perhaps, that I’m right. Without waiting for a response, I uncap my water bottle and pour a small amount into my palm.

“What are you doing?” he asks, watching me suspiciously.

“Improvisational cooling techniques,” I explain, pressing my wet palm against the back of his neck. “Since you’re too stubborn to call it quits when your body is screaming at you to stop.”

The water trickles down his neck and spine, and I feel some of the tension leave his muscles.

Encouraged, I pour more water into my hand and spread it across his shoulders, his chest, and his abdomen.

His skin temperature is noticeably high, a combination of exertion and anger that can’t be good for his condition.