Page 64 of Wicked Serve

I balance my elbows on my knees as I lean forward on the gym bleachers, tracking her movements. She’s playing opposite hitter right now, and she keeps glancing at a girl with dark curly hair before arranging herself ahead of the serve. I’d bet that’s Brooklyn, the senior she’s been practicing with. She served earlier—I still don’t fully get how the rotations work, but to be fair, I was inside her the one time she tried to explain it—and watching her jump to hit the ball sent a jolt straight to my dick.

Here’s another thing I’m learning: it’s fucking hot, watching her play. Her ponytail, her knee pads, those tight shorts, even her goddamn elbow wrap has me on edge. I teased her when she breathlessly told me that the pads I wear for hockey made her wet, but now, I don’t have a leg to stand on.

I wonder if she’d chuck a volleyball at my head if I tried to haul her into a closet after the match.

Her team wrestles another point from the opposition. They’re behind this set, and since they lost the first, they need a win to even things up. During a time-out, Isabelle’s coach substitutes her with someone else. She perches on the end of the bench, drinking from her water bottle. When she meets my eyes, she winks.

I scrub my hand over my jaw. At least I’m essentially alone on the bleachers. There isn’t much of a crowd for the away team, given the fact we’re all the way in Boston.

The restaurant I chose for dinner tonight is definitely fancy enough to warrant heels and diamonds; the dress I brought for her already hangs in the closet of my hotel suite. The day after Thanksgiving, I went to Cartier and finally put one of my credit cards to good use. A girl who loves pink like she does deserves rose gold, after all.

She deserves everything. I’ve known that since the moment I met her, but the night she told me about Chance, it hit me again. I can’t erase what he did, but hopefully by surprising her here for her birthday—her Izzy Day—and spoiling her the way she deserves, I can give her some better memories.

The set ends in a victory for her team, and they head into the third with a fresh spark of energy. She’s playing setter this time around, directing the action on her side of the net. During one particularly difficult, long-lasting rally, she loses her balance and hits the gym floor.

I nearly get up, but manage to keep myself in check. She stays on the floor for a moment, her chest rising and falling rapidly. Victoria jogs over, her hand held out. When Isabelle takes it, I breathe again, although she’s grimacing.

Her coach strides onto the court, asking a question. Isabelle shakes her head as she replies. Her coach gives her a look, and she stares right back, chin lifted stubbornly.

I lean forward. She’s described the setter position as a leadership role, especially for the team’s offense. Sounds like a center in hockey, if you ask me. Mickey would have to be knocked out stone-cold before Coach could drag him off the ice midgame.

Same for me. My heart squeezes, because there’s no way that fall didn’t hurt, but at the same time, I understand it. I admire it. She’s a tough person, of course she is, but seeing it in action is something else.

The set resumes with her on the court, and even though I catch her wincing a few times, she settles into the groove. I’m starting to catch on to the intricacies: the huddle in between points that helps set up the formations, and the way the ball height varies for different moves. She uses hand signals to make adjustments, just like a quarterback before a snap. After a hard fight, they win the set, which ends the match. When the celebratory huddle breaks up, she hurries across the court to me, eyes sparkling.

I hurry down the steps two at a time, pulling her into a perfect, sweaty kiss. She lets me, but after a moment slips away from my grip, adjusting her headband. “It’s six hours between here and New York, you know.”

“I wanted to see the birthday girl.”

She shakes her head with a tiny, pleased smile. “My birthday isn’t for another week.”

“And I’ve been dying to watch you play, you know that.” I tug on her ponytail. “Are you okay?”

She crosses her arms, as if daring me to fuss. “That’s why we wear knee pads.”

“What, you mean it’s not for sex appeal?”

She rolls her eyes fondly. “I should go to the locker room before Coach kills me.”

“Come out with me tonight. An early Izzy Day celebration.”

Her breath catches. “Wait, really?”

“Really.”

She throws her arms around me with a squeal. “Oh my God. You’re the best.” She steps back. “But I’m supposed to stay with the team.”

“I’ll have you back in time.”

She frowns at her uniform. “And I don’t have anything to wear.”

I dart in for another kiss, speaking in Russian and then translating to English, mostly to feel her shiver. “I’m at The Newbury. You don’t need a thing but yourself, sunshine.”

I button my shirt in front of the window, gazing at the Boston skyline. I’ve seen enough cities to mark New York as my favorite—my home—but there’s a certain energy about Boston that makes me itch to explore it. This close to wintertime, the days are short, so it’s already dark, the lights from windows and streetlamps and cars illuminating the scene like so many candles.

I didn’t experience true wealth until thirteen, when my mother brought me back to America for good. My face was stiff with stitches, and I kept scratching the cast on my broken arm. I remember fidgeting so much in my new suit that she snapped at me just before Grandfather met us in his foyer. His handshake, and eventual hug, felt foreign, but at least it was gentle.

I couldn’t stop staring at his home, with its opulent details and uniformed staff and intense quiet. Since it was early January, it was still decorated for Christmas, and I felt a twang of longing as I stared at the tall, trim, perfectly decorated tree in the living room. I never wanted for anything in Moscow, and our apartment was the nicest in our building, but comparing those luxuries to his would’ve been like pitting a Prius against a Ferrari.

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