Page 120 of Double Bucked

The players zip around the arena like wasps, swarming around the ball. Mallets whoosh through the air and click as they connect with the ball, hooves beating against the ground.

I follow the ball and even get a couple of whacks at it, but the mallet is harder to swing than it looks, and I keep kicking up dirt, leaving the ball in my wake.

I’ve got my eyes on Everett. He’s fighting his horse, giving the gal mixed signals with his reins, but every time he swings that mallet, it’s a perfect hit that sends the ball sailing through the goal.

Their team scores. My team glares at me.

Even with the autumn chill, the game is more exerting than it lets on, and between the strain of riding and the sun beating on my fleece, I feel sweat sticking to my sweater. Through pure rage alone, I manage to knock my mallet into the ball with a few hard swings. I’ve finally got some kind of flow on this, and Fancy and I weave down the field as I knock the ball forward. Through the edge of my vision, I can see Loren and Everett flanking me, trying to chase me off the ball. But I’m on it now, like a hound dog, and I kick it closer and closer until I’m within reach of the goal. I swing my mallet back for the killing blow, but?—

Everett hooks my mallet with his. I was holding on too damn tight because the force of his tug not only knocks me off-balance, but it yanks me right off my horse.

Fancy darts ahead, and I hit the dirt. I hear myself swear, and I just manage to roll out of the way before Everett’s horse come pounding past me, hooves inches away from my face.

Son of a bitch!

The ball lies in the grass, a mere couple of inches away from me.

I’m pissed, I’ve got grass between my teeth, and I don’t like being yanked out of my saddle.

Without thinking, I grab the ball and chuck it at Everett.

It hits him square in the back.

Ha! Take that!

But then he tumbles off his saddle, too, and guilt seeps in my chest.

Well, shit.

The horses move like a thundercloud, getting further way. I walk over to where Everett is lying on the ground. His glasses came off, so I pick those up and hand them down to him.

He props himself on his elbows. He’s got a mean grass streak across his shirt and pants. He puts his glasses on his face and then shoots me an icy look.

“That was not very sportsmanlike of you,” he chastises.

“Yeah, neither was your move.” I offer him a hand. He takes it.

“I was following model rules,” he says.

“They’re dick rules.”

I yank Everett to his feet. His tall body sways and, briefly, brushes against mine. The heat of his breath hits my cheek when we nearly collide. This close, I can nearly taste the sweat and dirt on him.

Everett doesn’t release my hand—not right away, anyway.

He drops the British act. In a low murmur, he says, “Imagine how insidious we’d be if we worked together instead of against each other.”

“Yeah. Also. I’m thinking we’d make a good team.”

There’s polite eruption of applause from the stands as Loren’s team scores. The board is now even—four and four. The next goal settles the game.

Those steely blue eyes flash. “Do you want to destroy Loren?”

“I thought you’d never ask.”

As if on cue, Fancy trots up beside us and flicks her tail as if to say, What’re you waiting for?

Everett and I make eye contact, and somehow, that’s all we have to say.

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