Page 38 of Wicked Serve

“This is the terrible metal band you took me to see, right?”

I press my hand to my heart. “You wound me.”

“Okay, fine. They had a couple good songs.” She sips her Fanta. “But generally speaking, your music taste needs help.”

She reaches for my phone, but I grab it before she can. “No. No more Carrie Underwood on my workout playlists.”

“It was one song—”

“One song that blasted to the entire team in the middle of warm-ups.”

She huffs. “Which is not my fault. You’re the one who volunteered your phone.” She lunges for it. I hold it over her head, making her scowl adorably. “Come on. I promise this is going to be cooler.”

“Who?”

She climbs into my lap, still reaching for the phone. I almost tickle her—it would be so easy—but she’s so sensitive to that, she’d probably kick me and send the pizza flying across the room. I learned that the hard way last week. “Ariana Grande?”

“Ugh.”

“Dua Lipa.”

“No.”

“Sabrina Carpenter?”

I heave a sigh at her hopeful face. It’s hard to say no when she’s swimming in a Rift T-shirt, a bit of pizza sauce on her cheek. I swipe it away with my thumb. “Fine. One song.”

She already has my phone in her hand, cackling to herself as she fucks up my Spotify algorithm again. It’s not like I actually mind; it’s just too fun to wind her up first. Even though we’re back at school, along with everything that entails, it’s been as easy between us as it was in New York City. I don’t know if I’d have been able to move on if I stayed in Massachusetts. It’s not the sex, although the sex is fantastic. I just like being around her, as long as I don’t think about the eventual end. Somehow, whenever I spend time with her—even if it’s stolen moments like this on a Tuesday evening—I feel lighter. Calmer.

I kiss her, pizza breath and all. “How was practice?”

“Pretty good, actually. Do you remember Brooklyn Ortega?”

“The senior setter you keep fangirling over?”

“She’s amazing.” She finally relinquishes my phone. “She heard I’m looking to get back into the position and offered to do extra practices with me.”

My heart does a delighted backflip. “That’s great.”

“Yeah.” She wiggles happily as she returns to her pizza. “I hope Alexis will notice.”

From what I’ve heard about Isabelle’s coach, it’s best if I never meet her. I’d have a hard time holding my tongue. Over the years, I’ve played alongside plenty of guys who think they’re owed something just because they’re on the team, but I know Isabelle isn’t like that. She’s putting in the work, and extra practices with Brooklyn will help even more.

“I’m sure she will.” I put my hand on her knee, squeezing. “The stuff I’ve been doing with Micah is really helping him.”

She smiles as she tucks her hair behind her ear. “I’ll be too embarrassed to face my parents otherwise. It’s bad enough to have my brothers asking about it whenever I get home from a match.”

I make a sympathetic noise. “You never told me how you got into it, you know.”

“Volleyball?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, I had to do something athletic,” she says. “You get it.”

“True. I don’t know what my father would have done if I didn’t like hockey.” I don’t want to think about it, either. I shove the thought aside. Everything that I went through to become the best when I was young—if I hadn’t loved it, it would have been pure torture.

“By the time I was, like, four, James was already playing football. Dad tried to get Cooper into it, too, but he decided he wanted to play hockey. So I tried dance, specifically—”

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