He had us doing sprints down the beach while the sun was still rising. I thought I was hallucinating a crab that gave me the finger halfway through our last set of burpees.
I look back at his little sister. She hasn’t gone in the water and hasn’t taken off her beach dress. And as much as I hate that she’s withholding me from seeing her in a bikini, I’m also glad. Because the second she strips in front of the guys, I’m going to be doing push-ups on someone’s face.
I walk toward the bar, passing her chair for what might be the fifth time. My eyes flick down as I pass.
Oh. Now this is interesting.
She’s got the magazine open on her lap. It’s one of those glossy, overpriced ones that smells like department store cologne and thinks calling an athlete “enigmatic” is journalism.
I’d bet a hundred bucks they used that exact word for their article on Zed.
And what’s she looking at? A full spread on us—the Miami Blazers. It’s a double-page feature with a photo of the full team and a column titled “The New Dynasty of the South?”
I grin.
Gotcha.
I stop walking, double back a step, and lean down slightly, letting my shadow fall right over her page.
“You could’ve just asked for a signed copy,” I murmur, voice low.
She startles—just a tiny flinch. Then she exhales slowly, not even glancing up.
“I wasn’t even reading that one.” She flips the page and taps on it. “I was reading this one,” she says coolly. “About some tennis player’s DUI and his emotional support parrot.”
“Right.” I glance down at the article again.
“Yours just happens to be bleeding onto his story.” She shrugs.
I chuckle, because the only thing on that page other than the article about our team is a sidebar that says Meet the Blazers’ Hardest Hitters with a quote from me that literally reads: I don’t play nice. I play to win.
So yeah, baby. You were reading me.
“Damn,” I say, squinting like I’m pretending to try to find this parrot. “Crazy guy. I’m pretty sure he’s not on our spread though.”
“You’re sure about a lot of things,” she mutters, still not looking at me.
“I’m sure you looked at the photo too.”
“Nope.”
“You didn’t see the arms?” I flex slightly. “Or the abs? They convinced me to wax for that shoot. That’s dedication.”
That earns me a barely-there twitch of her lips. I lean down slightly, close enough that I catch the scent of her sunscreen and something floral.
“You’re bad at lying, Melody.” I whisper, voice low enough that it hits just behind her ear.
She turns her head to look up at me over her sunglasses.
“I’m just selective about who deserves the truth,” she says, sweet and slow.
“Selective, huh?” I murmur, straightening up. “Guess I’ll have to work for it.”
She slides her sunglasses back up her nose, flipping the magazine shut like I don’t exist.
“I doubt you’ve ever worked for anything in your life.”
Couldn’t be further from the truth.
