Julian
I SET ASIDE my plate and pat my belly. “Stick a fork in me because I am done.”
Pushing my torso away from the table, I scan the backyard and the people milling around. Carter and Tori couldn’t have asked for a nicer day for their barbecue. The sun is beaming, and the breezes are strong enough that we’re forced to hold down items on the picnic table with makeshift paperweights.
We’re now joined by Ashley’s grandparents on her father’s side, as well as a few cousins Ashley said she hardly knows. Although he’s sitting at a different picnic bench from mine, Grandpa James is studying me, his index finger steadily tapping his bottom lip. I pretend not to notice and use my peripheral vision every few minutes to confirm that his attention is still directed at me.
Ashley nudges me with her shoulder as she wipes her mouth with a napkin. “Hey, Care Bear, I’m going to grab some more of that hand-tossed salad. Want some?”
I crane my neck to get a good look at her face, but her expression is blank. Still, I know she purposefully emphasized the word hand-tossed. With my eyes narrowed into what I hope are intimidating slits, I lick along the front of my teeth. “You promised there’d be no innuendos, Love Biscuit.”
She straightens and gives me a sheepish grin. “Sorry, you’re right. I couldn’t resist.”
“That’s fine. I’ll exact my revenge later.”
I’m surprised she didn’t refer to the hand-tossing incident sooner. Technically, neither one of us is immune to being ribbed about it, but I’m more disciplined than she is, and I’ve kept my promise not to mention it again.
Doesn’t mean I’m not thinking about it. Because I am. A lot. The moment Ashley called out my name at the height of her orgasm plays like a song on repeat in my head. It’s the last thing I should be thinking about hours before our final night together in the same bed. Her brother will be sleeping down the hall, for Christ’s sake.
You didn’t consider that when you were jerking off next to her, though, right? No, I’m ashamed to admit I did not. In fact, I now realize Carter hasn’t taken up much of my headspace the past few days. There’s no room, not when Ashley’s around.
“You’re out for revenge, huh?” Ashley asks. As she rises from the bench, she shivers. “Oooh. I’m so scared.”
A few feet away from us, Tori blows a whistle. “Gather around, folks. It’s time to play football.”
Ah, revenge is near.
“Correction,” she continues, holding up a single finger, “it’s time to play flag football.”
Damn it, revenge is elusive as fuck.
Collective moans and groans fill the air around me. Tori snaps her brows together and continuously blows the whistle to drown out the complainers. “Did I mention that each member of the winning team will receive a prize?”
Tori’s announcement sufficiently motivates enough people to make two teams. After Tori and Carter drift away and bow their heads for a private discussion, they return to the circle of potential players and call out the people on their respective teams.
Kimberly and her daughter, Izzy, are on Carter’s team. They’re joined by Bianca, Carter’s dad, and me. Tori’s band of misfits includes Ashley, Kimberly’s son, Donovan, Anthony, who’s rubbing his hands in his teammate Eva’s face, and Tori’s dad, Pedro, who warns that he won’t mean to trip anyone with his cane but says it might happen nonetheless. Lydia sits on the sidelines with the remaining grown folks but volunteers to keep track of each down.
Tori and Carter then pass out belts with plastic flags attached to them with Velcro. I’ve never played flag football, but I know the rules are similar to tackle football, except we can’t . . . tackle. This game would be ten times more fun if I could wrestle Ashley to the ground, but I’ll take advantage of any chance to chase after her—especially when she’s wearing shorts that do wonderful things for her round ass and strong thighs.
The teams huddle up, and after the coin toss—and a few minutes of trash talk, mostly between Carter and Tori—we position ourselves at the line of scrimmage. Anthony bends over, preparing to pass the ball backward through his legs while Ashley and Eva jostle each other to work out who will receive his pass.
“Go, Eva, he’s waiting for you,” Ash says with a wicked grin.
“Don’t make me do it,” Eva says through gritted teeth. “There’s no way I’ll be able to concentrate with his butt in my face.”
Anthony overhears this, of course, because everyone on the field can hear her. “Ah, baby, let my tush be your guide.”
Eva grumbles her assent and readies herself for the pass. After the snap, she tosses the ball back to Anthony, and our team converges on him. He’s freakishly nimble and gets the team’s first down easily. Next down, he snaps the ball to Ashley. Kimberly, the former track star, chases after her like . . . well, a track star, but before she can swipe a flag off Ash’s belt, Tori calls a time-out.
“You can’t do that,” Carter says with a laugh. “The ball isn’t dead yet.”
“It should have been first down,” Tori counters. “Ashley ran more than ten yards with the ball”—she points to Lydia—“but our ref is on the phone.”
Sure enough, Lydia’s pacing and talking on her cell phone, a finger pressed against her other ear to drown out the noise from our game. “Sorry, there’s an emergency at work,” she explains to everyone within earshot. “They need me to run through a work-around.”
Bianca rolls her eyes. “You mean I did all that running for nothing? Mierda.” She arches her back and circles the group with a pained expression on her face. Pedro and Randall, both out of breath, sneak away during the break.
“I think that’s all for us,” Randall says over his shoulder.
I sidle up to Ash and pat her on the back. “That was a mighty run there, Champ. Proud of you.”
Winded and bent at the waist, she huffs out, “Thanks, Care Bear. Too bad it doesn’t count.” Then she looks up at me and smiles, squinting because there’s no shade to be found. She’s damp from her sprint across the backyard, her skin glowing and her eyes bright, and before I know it, I’m pulling her up into my arms, so I can nestle my head against her neck and breathe in all her goodness. My desire for her isn’t pretend. This feeling is as real as it’s ever been for me. And I’ll be damned if I fight it anymore.
She melts into me, as though she’s trying to meld our bodies, and her hands, strong and possessive, grip the back of my neck. We stay in that position for several seconds more, until Susan shouts, “Okay, you two, we get it. You’re smitten with each other, but it’s called flag football, not hug football.”
With our chins dipped like children who’ve just been scolded, Ashley and I leap away from each other, and I busy myself tying my sneaker. Kimberly strides near us and slows. “I get that you’re faking, but you’re doing a helluva great job. Makes me wonder why it’s been so easy to pull this off.” Then she winks at us and saunters away. I rise, meeting Ashley’s gaze and noting the color in her cheeks. We share a smile. I’m not averse to keeping secrets with her, but is her secret anything like mine? Does she, too, want to be with me, regardless of the consequences? I’ll make it my goal to find out tonight.
A commotion at our temporary sideline snags my attention. Susan sets her body in front of Lydia, halting her niece’s incessant pacing, and puts out a hand. Lydia, with her phone still at her ear, turns over the whistle to Ashley’s mom and resumes making sweeping hand gestures to accompany her very important phone conversation.
Susan motions everyone back to the field. “Okay, whippersnappers, let’s get this game back on track.”
The teams hustle to their spots and face each other, and Susan blows the whistle. This time, I receive Izzy’s snap and scurry around a pile of people, aiming to advance at least ten yards. Ashley, with fire in her eyes and her jaw set in determination, overtakes me and reaches for a flag at the front of my waist. I fake her out, sidestepping her with a shake and pivot worthy of an NFL highlight reel. The sound of her footsteps at my heels pushes me to run faster, and I’m so close to reaching the ten-yard marker that I slow down while holding the football in one hand and waving it triumphantly in the air. Behind me, Ashley says, “Oh no, you’re wearing shorts like the ones you wore for zip-lining. Shit, Julian, you know what that does to me.”
An image of her bouncing breasts flashes in my brain and brings me to my knees, the impact causing the ball to fly out of my hand. Horrified, I yell “No,” and it registers as dramatic, pained, and in slo-mo. Ashley stretches out her arms and catches the ball midair. With remarkable speed, she runs toward her team’s post, cheering triumphantly as she crosses the goal line.
Carter jogs toward me. “What the hell, J? What’s with the butterfingers?”
I stumble to my feet and smooth my hands on my shorts. “Sweat, man. The ball was too slick to hang on to.”
I’ve lost count of the number of lies I’ve uttered this weekend. I don’t even know who I am anymore. Maybe that’s a good thing, my inner voice whispers. Given how little I’ve thought of work and how much I’m enjoying the time off, maybe it is. But the lying—both to myself and to Ashley—must stop.
But not quite yet.
I take a step and wince.
“What’s wrong, man?” Carter asks, his brows drawn together.
I take another step, this one tentative, and then I buckle from the alleged pain, grabbing for my ankle. “Shit. I think I twisted it.”
Carter bends his knees and pulls my arm over his shoulder. “I’ve got you.”
Ashley rushes over, her brows knitted over wide eyes. “What is it?”
Her voice is laced with concern. I’m probably going to hell for this, too. “Not sure, exactly. My ankle feels funny.”
“Here,” she says to Carter, draping my other arm over her shoulder. “I’ve got him. I’ll take him back to the cottage. He needs to elevate his foot and get some ice on it.”
Carter objects. “Ash, I can help.”
She shakes her head. “Carter, he’ll be fine. Go out there and finish the game. End it on a high note. For Tori.”
Carter looks back at his fiancée. “Okay. But if you need anything, just send me a text.”
Ashley nods. “Will do.”
“Thanks, man,” I say to Carter.
He gives me a hard pat on the back. “Take care of that ankle. I’ll check on you later.”
We limp across the backyard, a few people shouting their wishes for me to feel better. I wince again when we pass the front of the house. “Hang on. Let me catch my breath.”
“It really hurts, huh? Maybe we should get an x-ray.”
I vigorously shake my head. “No, not at all. It’ll be fine. Probably just need to rest a bit.” I take a deep breath and lean on her again. She’s so soft. “Okay, I’m ready.”
We resume our trek to the cottage.
Beside me, Ashley worries her bottom lip. “I feel so bad about this. It was my smart-ass remark that made you drop to your knees, wasn’t it?”
Might as well strap me to a sonic submarine going to hell. “It’s okay, Ash. I’ll be fine.”
Finally, we reach the cottage, and I lick my lips, my body thrumming from the knowledge that we’re seconds away from being alone.
Once inside, she whirls on me, her eyes narrowed like a judgmental cat in an internet meme. “Care to explain why you lied about your ankle?”
Well, damn. Guess I’m busted.