Page 62 of Neighbors With Benefits

“Just ignore her,” I said. “Let’s focus on closing out this game.”

He slapped me on the back. “I like the attitude.”

Despite Cat watching from the sideline, I was able to focus on the game. If anything, I playedbetterwith her there, and we closed out the match without any trouble.

Bash and I shared a celebratory hug, then a celebratory beer.

The alcohol was probably what loosened me up. Our semifinals game was against two grey-haired men who were surprisingly spry. We traded the first two games with them, then scored a few lucky shots to win the third game. Bash pumped his fist, and we hugged for a little bit longer, not caring about how sweaty we were.

“Yeah, Jazzy and Bashy!” Cat cheered from the sideline.

Everyone was so friendly—as we walked back inside to report our score, everyone we had beaten congratulated us and wished us luck in the final. It was a refreshing experience: everyone was just having fun.

Until we met who we were playing in the finals.

It was a married couple in their mid-thirties, wearing matching “Schultinators” tank tops; apparently their last name was Schultz. We caught the end of their semifinals match: the wife jumped into the air and slammed the ball down as hard as she could, hitting their opponent—a teenage girl—on the arm. The girl held back tears as they shook hands at the net, but as the Schultinators walked away, the husband mimicked a crying motion with his fist. The wife cackled with laughter.

“Yeah, they’re assholes,” Bash told me. “They aren’t good enough to play in the professional league, so they play in this one and destroy everybody.”

“I’m just happy to have gotten to the finals,” I said. “Let’s go have some fun!”

There was a crowd for the final game; all the other courts were empty, and most of the tournament participants were sticking around to watch the finals. When we shook hands with the Schultinators at the net, the husband said, “Good luck.”

“They’ll need it,” the wife said, loud enough for us to hear. “I saw her playing here on Tuesday. She sucks.”

“I was happy making it this far,” I told Bash as we took our positions. “But now I want to make her cry.”

Bash gave me a savage grin. “I liked normal Jazz, but Ilovecompetitive Jazz. Let’s do it.”

We lost the first game.Badly. The final score was 11-2, both of our points coming on unforced errors from the Schultinators.They screamed and shouted on every single point, like they weretryingto be obnoxious.

I tried not to let it bother me, since I had only picked up the sport five days ago. But it was a frustrating end to an otherwise fantastic day.

“Jazz!” Cat shouted, waving me over to the sideline. “Come here!”

Bash and I walked over there. “What is it?” I asked.

Jazz put her arm around one of the elderly men we had played in the semifinals. “Marty, tell my best friend what you just told me.”

Marty leaned toward me and lowered his voice. “I have it on good authority that Kayleigh Schulz has elbow tendinitis in her arm.”

“Doesn’t look like it, based on how she’s playing,” Bash muttered.

“It only bothers her when she hits a backhand shot,” Marty insisted. “Hit it to her backhand and she’ll fall apart.”

“That’s why she’s playing so far to the left,” Bash realized. “So she can hit forehand every time!”

“Why are you telling us this?” I asked.

“We don’t want the Schultinators to win,” Marty replied bluntly. “Nobody does. Everyone is rooting for you two!”

I looked around the crowd. Several other players were watching us, and nodding along.

“Let’s GO!” the husband Schultinator shouted. “If you take any longer, I’m going to have the official disqualify you!”

Marty gave me a look. “See?”

“We’ll do our best,” Bash said, putting an arm around me and guiding me back to the court. “It’s the best plan we’ve got. Hammer her backhand side.”

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