Page 22 of Set Fire to This Cardhouse

“Aloha.” He shoots Toby a grin that passes for carefree if one misses the subtle tension tucked into the corners of his eyes. Toby doesn’t miss it, and that probably says something about him, about them.

“Hey.” Sliding the phone back into his locker, Toby gets up and crosses his arms. “Jesy sent you?”

“She named me her second. Kept insisting it’s only until she gets in, though.” Mike adjusts the strap of his backpack, glances up at the neon light illuminating the room—the Agency’s underground fitness center is untouched by modern trends in the gym scene, such as the pleasure of natural daylight. A brief pause before Mike adds, “You’ve been avoiding me, so this seemed like a good way to catch you.”

“I’m not avoiding you,” Toby says, too quickly.

Mike sends him a look that borders on insulting.

“I’m not,” Toby insists. “I’ve been busy.”

“Busy,” Mike repeats, no inflection. “Too busy to discuss the plan for France?”

“I’m moving apartments.” It’s a lame excuse—Toby is aware. “I was going to find you later today.”

Mike snorts. “Right.”

Rather than argue the point, Toby picks up his own racquet, weighing it in his hand. He doesn’t want to play Mike—two people, a shared court and a fast-as-a-bullet rubber ball spell disaster if Toby is one of those two people, and Mike is the other. Of all the times for Jesy to be running late...

After Toby’s been quiet for a few moments, Mike shakes his head and crosses to the locker that must have been reserved for him. He stabs at the keypad, his back to Toby, and Toby’s eyes are drawn to the arches of Mike’s shoulders, the bunch of muscles.

“Are we playing, then?” Mike asks without turning around.

Toby slams his own locker shut and drudges up a cocky smirk that he doesn’t feel. “We’re playing.”

A beat passes. Then Mike turns around, a similar smirk on his face that comes with a challenging edge, the cool neon light emphasizing the angles of his face.

***

They warm up in separate corners of the court, and in the interest of the game, Toby gives himself license to study Mike’s build. With Jesy, Toby can count on his superior weight and sheer physical strength; with Mike, he needs to rely on other factors.

Toby serves first.

He starts them off easy, the ball rebounding off the front wall, well within Mike’s range even if he doesn’t move. Mike hits it at an angle that lets it rebound off the side before it drips off the front wall, just above the tin and unreachable if Toby hadn’t already been moving in the right direction, prompted by the shift of Mike’s muscles.

All right, then. Mike knows how to play.

As expected, Mike is fast and strong, willing to take risks, his every hit precise. He’s... beautiful, fuck. This is such a bad idea.

Toby holds his own, though—he’s more agile, and he’s better at predicting the ball’s final destination even when it rebounds three times. He’s also better at strategically hindering Mike’s moves without blocking him so openly that it would be considered a foul, and lead to replays or points for Mike. It’s not breaking the rules if Toby gets away with it.

It takes several rallies for Mike to catch on. When he does, his response is to plant himself in Toby’s path repeatedly, openly, and while a referee would call it off, there is no referee and Toby is perfectly able to give as good as he gets.

His pulse is pounding in his ears. Mike’s T-shirt is dark with sweat. The court is silent but for their gasping breaths and the thump of the ball when it connects.

When Toby serves, the ball hits the front wall with enough force to rebound off the glass wall at the back. Mike hits a perfect boast that comes off the front wall, landing on the nick, Toby sliding across the floor to make it in time. He considers sticking out his leg when Mike rushes past; instead, he jumps back to his feet and hits the next one easily, Mike already too certain of the point to put much effort into it. Rebound, bounce, and Toby is in Mike’s path, he’s well aware that he is, but he makes no move to get out of the way.

He ends up with his back against the side wall, Mike bracketing him in with his hips. His racquet digs into Toby’s thigh.

Behind them, the ball bounces once, twice. Rolls another few feet and comes to a halt.

“My point,” Toby manages to gasp out. If asked, he would blame his harsh breathing on the exercise, only on the exercise, nothing at all to do with Mike. Dimly, Toby is aware that if anyone were to walk in on them now, it’d look bad—this is squash, not a wrestling match, and there’s no actual justification for Mike pinning him against the wall. Toby could break free—should—but his thoughts are spinning like a kaleidoscope, and Mike’s eyes are a fascinating shade of hazel that seems green in this light, his chest solid against Toby’s, and they’re so close, all it would take...

No. No.

“What” —Mike’s voice is rough, his chest rising and falling rapidly— “is your fucking problem? I asked you whether it was okay. Twice! You had every chance to stop me, so you don’t get to fucking blame this on me.”

What? Toby’s breathing is still too fast, Mike panting into his face, and it’s the exercise, just the exercise, that’s all it is. “Blame you? I don’t blame you for anything.”

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