Page 2 of Play With Me
“He’s definitely got your pizazz,” she said.
“It doesn’t bother me when you call it that, you know.”
This, of course, only made her burst out into laughter.
A decade ago, when I’d been playing pro tennis, I’d been known for my exuberance. That and my blond man bun, which I wore simply because it drove my older brother Eli bonkers. Some sports reporter once said I played with “pizazz” and none of my family had ever let me forget it.
“Do you still do that, too?” Seamus asked. I followed Chelsea’s partner’s gaze to see Cap on his knees now, playing air guitar like I’d used to with my racket after the victory lap.
“Okay, buddy,” I called. “I think you made your point.”
“Yeah, the winning point!” he quipped.
I scooped up a snowball and lobbed it at him, aiming for his butt as he feinted left.
Next, we were all at it, except for Nora, who’d lifted her camera again. I was tempted to throw one at her. But then a hail of snowballs hit me at once—from Seamus, Chelsea, and Cap—a coordinated attack.
Everyone whooped.
“Unbelievable!” I gathered up the fallen balls that were still intact while they continued their assault.
Running behind my best friend for cover, I shouted, “At least Nora’s on my side!”
“Not today!” Nora said in her signature soft voice, before squatting low.
Cap’s ball hit me square in the forehead.
“Ow!” The kid’s aim was as good as mine. In fact, that was how my dad had gotten me to a tennis coach when I was in kindergarten: I smoked him in the stomach with a ball, winding him. He hadn’t even been mad, just kind of agog.
Cap had adamantly stated he had no interest in tennis, which I understood and respected. He was his own little dude and I’d follow his lead, just like my parents had followed mine, letting me live and breathe tennis from the age of six.
The snowballs kept coming, so I hooked my arms under Nora’s and hauled her back up to standing, using her as a human shield—and knowing no one would throw a ball at sweet Nora and her video camera.
She shrieked, stumbling back into me. I lifted her off her feet, my arms around her waist.
“Mwa ha ha!” I gave an evil villain laugh and spun us around, forgetting she was supposed to be shielding me from the others. But I suddenly realized her butt was pressed against my crotch, and as she squirmed in my arms, laughing, a surge of heat shot through me, right where we were pressed together.
I closed my eyes, telling myself to put her the hell down.
Luckily, the others weren’t paying attention to us anymore and had turned on each other, because Nora stiffened in my arms as something else stiffened in my jeans.
“Jude!” she squeaked.
Whoops.
I lowered my best friend to her feet. She looked up at me, breathing hard, and for a terrible, wonderful moment, with the feeling of us touching still rippling through me, I pictured my best friend naked.
Stop!
But my stupid brain wouldn’t. It just made the picture clearer. Nora, breathing hard as she tossed her long red hair out of her eyes, her tits bouncing as she rode my hard—
I pressed my fingers to my eyes.Tennis. Jock itch. Toe fungus.
That did it. When I looked back, Nora was eying me strangely.
Sometimes this happened. It was only natural—my best friend was a beautiful woman, even if she didn’t think so. And I hadn’t been with one of those in approximately one million years.
On purpose.
