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Kate purses her lips as she readies her aim once more.
This time, the ball tips the net, and we collectively hold our breath, waiting to see if the other team can recover.
“I got it!” their front right says, diving to save the ball. He’s able to pop it up to the back middle, who sets it over.
“Bryce, get ready!” I urge him, but he’s a force to be reckoned with when blocking.
He jumps as the man in front puts everything he’s got into sinking the ball. It bounces off Bryce’s forearm, and I take off.
“Mine!” Kate and I shout of the same time, Aakesh’s back middle position forgotten.
We both dive for the ball, arms extended, before crashing into each other.
Teeth clacking, I catch a knee to the groin, and I’m pretty sure I just elbowed Kate right in the chest.
“Ow,” she moans.
“Shit. Are you alright?”
I glance up in time to see our team make an impossible recovery that allows Vedant to spike the ball across the net.
They jump and cheer over the victory, but I’m too concerned with the angry red spot puckering just above the swell of Kate’s left breast to care about the game.
I flatten my palm over her bicep and brush my thumb over the area. “That’s probably going to bruise.”
She’s adorable with her legs curled into mine and sprinklings of sand coating her hair where she rubs her head. “A temporary memento.”
Sand trickles from my fingers when I reach up to cup her cheek, but as I move to inspect her head, she startles me with a gasp.
“Damon, you’re bleeding.”
The pad of her thumb sweeps across my temple and I hiss, involuntarily jerking back.
Walter races across the court before stopping short and helping us to stand. “You guys are so lucky we were able to save the game.”
“Yeah, I thought for sure it was over.” Aakesh looks to my temple. “Holy shit, dude. You alright?”
“Wait here,” Kate says before jogging over to the refs.
When she returns with a first aid kit, I’m being yanked along behind her to one of the picnic tables on the lower side of the hill next to the court.
“This really isn’t necessary,” I say, hoping none of the guys are around to witness me being forced to sit even though part of me enjoys a bit of authority.
My protest remains ignored as she fishes through the box before finding two white adhesive strips and an alcohol pad.
I try to swat her hand away when she reaches for my face. “It’s just a scratch.”
“Hold. Still.”
We look like a couple of kids, batting our hands at each other while she fusses over me. I grab her wrist, pulling the small square in her hand away from my eye, and in turn, she straddles my knee.
“What are you—”
Satisfaction twitches the edge of her mouth when she leans forward and all but slaps two sterile tape strips just above my eye.
“There, now let me clean it, you stubborn ass.”
Stunned silent, I flex my fingers, having no choice but to sit—and scowl—while she works.
