Gage holds out his hand. “Give it here.”
I turn the mat away from him. “It’s okay. I’ve got it.”
Then the bottom of the mat hits the ground right as I take a step, and I’m tripping forward. Gage grabs me around the waist and sets me on my feet.
“Thanks,” I mumble. I’m not sure if my face is hot with embarrassment or because I’m standing directly in the sun. We’ll say it’s the sun.
Without saying a word, Gage holds out his hand again. I give him my mat, paired with a scowl. He smirks and gestures for me to walk ahead of him as we start climbing the stairs to the top of the slides. We make it halfway up before we’re at the end of the line. Fortunately, because there are four slides—two sets of two—the line moves quickly.
When it’s our turn, Gage hands me my mat, and I set it in the water on the innermost slide. I grip the handles, leaning over the mat but not yet lying on it.
On his side, Gage remains standing, holding his mat by the handles. He’s hoping for more momentum by starting from a stand.
The lifeguard gestures to let us know it’s safe for us to go, so Gage counts us down. “Three. Two. One!”
I dive forward to propel my mat down the slide, turning my head to see how close I am to Gage. I can’t tell with the wind and water blowing past my face. I glide over one drop, then the second, and soon I splash into the runout at the bottom. When I slow to a stop and stand up, Gage is already out of the water, smirking as he leans against the handrail of the steps to exit the ride.
“Best two out of three!” I call.
We can’t keep our mats—there’s a small line of people waiting to take them from us—so we give them up and get in line again.
After a short wait for mats, we go back up the stairs. This time I try a standing start, but my foot slips as I push off the ground and I end up starting at least a body length behind Gage. Needless to say, he beats me to the bottom.
He waits for me on the steps of the exit pool again, smirking.
“It’s because you weigh more than me,” I huff.
Gage holds up a finger. “Last one.”
When it’s our turn again, I push off the ground to launch myself and my mat down the slide. I lean my body forward and try to keep my legs straight and tight. I lower my head, which I hope will reduce drag, but which also means I can’t keep tabs on where Gage is.
As soon as I stop at the bottom, I jump up. Gage is standing up at the same time.
“Who won?” I shout over to him.
He shrugs. “I don’t know. A tie?”
“No way.” I slosh through the ankle-deep water to the exit steps, dragging my mat behind me.
Gage meets me on the wooden deck at the top of the exit steps and takes the mat from my hands.
“Not a tie,” I insist as we walk toward the line of people waiting for mats.
“Fine. You, then.” His voice pitches higher, bright amusement evident in his tone.
I narrow my eyes. “Are you saying that because you actually think I won or because you’re humoring me?”
Gage hands our mats to the next two people in line, and we move to the side, toward the cabanas.
“Have you always been so competitive?” he teases.
I think back to the weekends we spent climbing trees in the woods behind my house. Gage and I challenged each other to climb higher and higher while Annie watched nervously on the ground. Or the summer afternoons spent by the Carters’ pool, when Annie judged who had the biggest splash when we cannonballed into the water or the smallest splash when we tried pencil jumps.
“You know I have.”
He stops walking and pulls me to the side of the walkway, almost into the landscaping. “Yeah,” he agrees in a low voice. “And I love it. It’s hot.”
I tilt my chin up and kiss him, opening my lips right away to feel his tongue glide against mine as smooth as the mat against the waterslide.
