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He hoots with laughter. “God, I love it when you talk smack.”
I blush. “Just so you know, I can’t back it up at all. I’m even worse at basketball than ping-pong.”
He winks. “Who knows? Maybe today will be your lucky day.”
My heart skips a beat. It already is, I think.
Hand in hand, we head to the basketball court, where we find not only Dax and Colin and their beautiful dates . . . but the one and only Laila Fitzgerald, too.
I freeze at the edge of the court, incapable of commanding my limbs. “Oh, God,” I whisper. “Fish.”
“You’ll be fine,” he says. He grips my hand and pulls me forward. “She’s super chill. She’s gonna love you.”
I stand my ground. Refusing to move. “Please, Fish, don’t let me embarrass myself. Be my wingman.”
“Dude, I told you. I’ve got you.”
He pulls on me again, and, this time, I let him lead me onto the court. When we reach the group, he reminds his bandmates of my name, since we met only briefly earlier at the pool. And then, Fish turns to Laila. “This is my date, Alessandra,” he says. “She’s a student at Berklee in Boston. A kickass singer-songwriter.”
“Oh, wow. Impressive.” Laila extends her hand. “Hi, Alessandra. Nice to meet you.”
My heart is clanging wildly. But I manage to take her hand in perfect mimicry of what a sane human would do. “Hi, Laila. I’m a huge fan.”
“Thank you so much.”
“I . . . I’m so happy to meet you,” I babble. “I love you.”
Fuck.
Fish chuckles. “She’s a big fan.” He slides his hand in mine again. “Don’t get a false sense of security around her, though. I promise, this one’s about to wipe the floor with you in HORSE.”
“Is that so?” Laila says playfully.
“No,” I say. “Not at all. I’m terrible at basketball. And I’m sure I’ll be especially useless around you.”
“Aw, no need to feel nervous around me,” Laila says. “We’re all friends here.”
“Speak for yourself,” Fish taunts. “You’re all my mortal enemies until this game is over.” He squeezes my hand again. “Come on. Let’s show ‘em how it’s done, Little Lioness.”
As Fish is speaking the foursome from the ping-pong table arrives, and, quickly, our game begins. Unfortunately, for the first few rounds, I’m too starstruck to throw the ball anywhere near the basket. Like, seriously, I’m flailing so badly, you’d think I was making a joke. But, after a bit, I calm down, thanks to Fish’s smiles and little whispers, until, soon, I’m able to sink a few shots. At which point, I slowly begin laughing and smack-talking with Fish and his friends, the same way I did when it was just Fish and me at the ping-pong table.
After Keane wins, we start again. But before our second game is over, Dax holds up his phone and says he’s been advised it’s now his turn to assume the large stage in Reed’s living room, along with his choice of musicians.
The three Goats powwow to figure out which friends they want to invite onstage with them as part of their “supergroup.” When they’re done, our large group meanders toward the house—with Fish and me, yet again, holding hands.
“Don’t judge this performance too harshly,” Fish says. “This is just gonna be a sloppy jam session with no prior rehearsals.”
I look at him and pointedly roll my eyes. “Your sloppiest jam session will undoubtedly be the best thing I’ve ever witnessed in my life.”
We make it into Reed’s large living room, and Fish pointedly leads me to the front of the stage. “Watch the show from here, okay? I want to be able to look down while I’m playing and see you.”
“I’ll be here.”
As he strides away he shouts, “See you on the flip side, cutie!”
And I reply with an enthusiastic, “Break a leg, Matthew!” That’s what I’ve yelled at his retreating form in a weird, high-pitched, giddy voice. But what I’m thinking as I watch his cute butt and perfect shaggy hair gliding away is: Holy shit.
It’s official. Matthew Fishberger is a swoon factory. A smoke show. A stone-cold fox.
Or, I suppose . . . a rock star.
As I watch Fish performing with his band and an array of guest musicians and vocalists—including Aloha and 2Real!—I feel the need to change my panties. Even among the megawatt stars surrounding Fish on that stage, he’s a star. Mesmerizing. Drool inducing. Panty melting. Glorious.
I love every subtle nod of Fish’s head and shake of his sexy hips as he masterfully plays his instrument. I love the way he sings the most tasteful, perfect harmonies. The way his tattooed forearms flex as he manipulates the strings of his bass. I love the way his lips rub against that mic, making me imagine what it’d be like to kiss him. And last but not least, I’m losing my mind over those beaming, heated smiles he keeps sending me throughout his performance.
