Page 54 of Checking Out the Librarian

“A date?” Hank muttered.

His turn to serve again, and he’d do better this time. “I’m sort of dating someone. Maybe.”

He glanced at Hank to see his response to the news and then swung his paddle at the ball.

“Shit!” The ball bounced in the wrong half of the court. Should not have looked at Hank first.

Hank glared at everyone.

At Connor, he assumed for being a stupid prick who couldn’t walk and talk at the same time, or at least couldn’t simultaneously serve and think about his date tomorrow. At the guys on the other side of the net for high-fiving each other and taking forever to send the ball back for Hank’s chance to serve. At the territorial crow berating them from on top of the garbage can.

Hank nailed all of them with his tight mouth, flared nostrils, and narrowed eyes.

Hank served, Connor kept his head in the game for ninety whole seconds, and they scored.

When they rotated sides for Hank to serve again, he grumbled at Connor. “You didn’t tell me.”

Maybe his buddy was more pissed at being left out than at Connor’s lack of game today. “Well, I am now. His name’s Jonathan.”

“Nine-seven, server two.” Hank said the score like it rhymed with fuck you.

Maybe Jonathan would be willing to play pickleball sometime. He probably had quick reactions.

And that shot bounced twice in front of Connor, once more than allowed, ending their opportunity to score because he’d spaced out and hadn’t run to the kitchen line after the serve return.

No question, Hank was mad about the pickleball, but his teenaged hissy fit wasn’t going to bother Connor, because Connor had a date tomorrow night that would, if prior performance was any indication of future outcomes, lead to hot sex.

Hank did not have a date. Moving a couch with Emma was nothing like sharing a picnic at a concert in the park, so Hank could crap himself for all Connor cared at this moment.

The guy on the other side whose turn it was to serve fiddled with his shoelaces.

“He’s a librarian, can you believe it?”

“Who?”

“Jonathan.”

“What’s he want with you?”

Connor shifted his weight between his feet, staying ready, staying loose. “Asshole. I read all the time.”

The other team’s serve came to Hank, who blew it back with a wicked reverse spin that Connor envied.

“Garbage.” Hank wasn’t muttering. He’d be doing better playing alone this morning instead of with a partner who couldn’t think of anything but his dick.

“Thrillers and romance and, like, Murderbots, are not garbage.”

“Not talking about books.”

Since they’d scored, the other team switched places for the next serve. Hank moved back to the receiving position and Connor shifted forward to the kitchen line. “Yeah, I’m playing like dogshit today.”

“No lie.”

“And you know why.” He wiggled his ass at Hank, who stood behind him at the baseline. “Wait, I guess you don’t know why! Ha!”

The serve came to Hank, imminently returnable, but then the ball hit the back of Connor’s upper thigh with the sting of a yellow jacket, or maybe one of those murder hornets.

“What the hell, Hank!” He rubbed at the spot, and the other team celebrated the point Hank had given them to tie the game at nine each.