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Seven
Alessandra
“Why don’t I play with my left hand?” Fish suggests, midway through our game, after it’s become obvious I’m hopeless.
“I told you I suck at ping-pong. Sorry.”
“No, no. This is fun. It’s the journey, dude—not the destination. So, let’s even the playing field for the journey.” He flips his paddle into his left hand and holds up the ball with his right. “It’s a brand-new game, okay?”
“This time, don’t go easy on me.”
“Of course not,” he says, like I’ve offended him. But, come on. He so obviously went easy on me before, and still wiped the floor with me.
Fish holds up his paddle, murmurs “zeroes” under his breath, and ever so gently serves the ball to me like he’s playing against a freaking toddler.
I catch his incoming ball in my hand. “Matthew Fishberger. Don’t patronize me.” I glare at him sternly, making him laugh, and then bounce the ball over the net back to him. “Try again. And this time, do your best.”
Fish flashes me an adorable smile. “Sorry, Little Lioness. I’ll bring it this time.”
“You’d better.”
He serves it again. And this time, true to his word, with far more velocity. But since he’s using his left hand, I’m able to return his serve pretty well. And, shockingly, the next volley and the next one, too. Ultimately, Fish wins the point. But it doesn’t matter. It’s now clear, thanks to Fish’s voluntarily assumed disadvantage, we’re now well-matched opponents.
I hunch over slightly and rock back and forth, like I’m gearing up for a wrestling match, and say, “You’re going down, Fish Taco.” That’s the nickname I heard his friends call him earlier. And, to my surprise, it slipped out of my mouth like I’ve been saying it my whole life.
Fish doesn’t miss a beat. He hunches down, matching my physicality, and says, “Ha! I’ve never lost a left-handed match before, and I don’t intend to do it now, sucker.”
I giggle. “Have you ever played a left-handed match before?”
“No,” he responds indignantly, as if he’s saying, “A thousand times!”
And, of course, we both laugh uproariously.
As our game proceeds, we engage in an uproariously fun back-and-forth fight to the death that confirms we’re both literally the same person with the same sense of humor. Also, that Fish isn’t actually playing his hardest, no matter what he says.
But in the end, our actual ping-pong playing isn’t the point. It’s our smack talk and joking around, all of which gets sillier and crazier and looser. Until soon, I can’t help noticing I already feel as comfortable with Fish as any of my good friends at school, including my roommate, McKenna. Which is a crazy thing, considering how short a time I’ve known him. Also, considering how attracted I am to him. Oh yeah, and that he’s a famous dude in one of my favorite bands. Not to mention, we’re playing this game of ping-pong at the freaking mansion of Reed Rivers, while surrounded by some of the most successful and famous musicians and celebrities in the entire world. And yet, here we are. Acting like two nobody kids playing ping-pong on a date in one of our garages.
As our match reaches its climax, a few of Fish’s friends—Keane and Maddy, and Aloha and her husband, Zander—wander over to the table to watch. And, suddenly, with my childhood idol, Aloha, watching me, I can’t return a ball to save my life.
When Fish’s victory is swiftly secured, I lay down my paddle, eager to sprint away from the famous people in our audience.
“Good game,” I murmur, fidgeting like crazy. I turn to the waiting foursome and motion to the table. “It’s all yours. I hope you have better luck than me.”
Fish laughs. “I’ll give you a rematch later.” He turns to his friends. “Guys, you remember my date, Alessandra, from the pool?”
And there it is again. My date. The boy is most definitely making himself clear.
The group makes small talk for a moment as the foursome picks up their paddles. And then, Fish and I, with our hands firmly clasped, stand to the side to watch their game.
Fish leans down to me. “You okay? You seem a little stressed.”
“I grew up watching Aloha’s show. It’s just kind of mind blowing to me to be here with her.”
“She’s a sweetheart. No need to stress.”
“I’m not trying to stress. It just . . . happens. It’s outside my control.”
He squeezes my hand. “I’ve got you.” His phone buzzes and he pulls it out. “Oh, hey, guys. Dax is summoning us to the basketball court for a game of HORSE. You guys in?”
The foursome playing ping-pong confirms they’ll head over to the court after their current game.
Fish looks at me. “Are you down to play a friendly game of HORSE with my friends?”
His friends. I can’t believe this is my life. But, somehow, looking into his earnest green eyes, I forget about the collective fame and glamour of his friend group, and manage to reply, “Only if you don’t mind me kicking your ass, sucker.”
