Nothing But Trouble (Malibu University Series)(21)
“Nuh huh, keep me out of this.”
“Because it makes you look like Mr. Rogers. Okay. There, I said it. Now take it off.”
I button my worn Levi’s, grab my Yankees hat, and make my way there. Inside Dora’s room, I find Blake with her lips curled around her teeth, a burst of laughter imminent, while Zoe stares into Dora’s closet like she’s staring into the bowels of hell.
“Khakis. It’s all khakis. Button-downs and khakis,” she mutters.
“I don’t like to think about w-what I’m wearing.” Dora shifts uncomfortably from foot to foot, her cheeks flushing pink.
“Clearly.” Zoe looks down at the bottom of the closet. “Are those actual pennies in your penny loafers?”
Dora chews on her lips but the corners of her mouth are already lifting. “Umm, maybe.”
Zoe throws up her hands. “This wardrobe has officially put me in a sad coma.”
Half an hour and three wardrobe changes later, my crutches earn us seats in the first row of the bleachers around the outdoor pool.
The stadium is packed with screaming fans, a highly disproportionate percentage of them female. I’d have to be blindfolded not to notice––and wearing noise-canceling headphones to safeguard my ears from all the trash talk around me.
“I’d do him,” one snickers.
“I’d do all of them at once,” the other serves back.
Next to me, Dora makes a face and squirms. The tight designer magenta top and white shorts she’s wearing are not hers. Quite frankly, watching Zoe harass Dora into borrowing her clothes––in which she looks amazing––was worth the price of having to sit under the blazing sun for an hour.
As soon as we get settled, I go through my routine: adjust my Yankees ball cap low over my eyes, fish the SPF out of my messenger bag that’s tucked against my Leica D-Lux, and slather it over my arms and thighs.
Zoe squeezes her skinny ass in between me and Dora and announces, “One game and you’ll be a fan for life.”
“I’ll keep an open mind,” I reply dryly, but the truth is I’m already having a blast and the game hasn’t even begun yet. I’ve never had a group of girls to hang out with and damn if it isn’t underrated. I haven’t had this much fun in forever.
“I love that you think I’m exaggerating right now,” Zoe continues, bouncing in her seat. Her giddy delight is starting to rub off on me. “Wait till you see all the tan, wet muscles. All the touching and ass grabbing that goes on.”
“What are the r-rules?”
“Similar to basketball.”
When neither Dora nor I respond, Zoe rolls her eyes. “Okay, here are the basics: six on six plus the two goalies. You can move the ball by dribbling it, which in water polo means swimming with it in front, or they can one-hand pass it forward, sideways, and backward. You get thirty seconds to score. You can’t foul by taking someone under, or the ball, but shit happens underwater all the time.”
“I’m getting the impression you’ve attended a few of these?”
Zoe blushes. Actually blushes, something I never thought to witness. “Only the goalie can touch the bottom. The rest have to tread water for four quarters, which are each eight minutes long. And most of the time they last even longer.”
Both teams file out of the aquatics building and with the way the crowd goes wild you would think we’re at a One Direction reunion concert.
Among the rabid fan base are Zoe and Blake who raise their arms and shout at the top of their lungs, “Go Sharks!” Then they smash together to take a couple of selfies. When they try to wrangle me and Dora into taking one with them, I steal the iPhone out of Zoe’s hand and snap away. I’m an introvert. There’s a reason I live behind the camera and not in front of it.
In the meantime, the teams go to their respective benches and start divesting themselves of their clothing. Some of the guys are wearing rip-away track pants and each time a pair comes off the girls around us scream. If I had any doubt whether this was by design, watching the guys smile broadly answers that question.
“Was I right? Am I right?” Zoe squawks over the ruckus, a perfect grin prying her bee-stung lips apart. Her mad enthusiasm has me grinning from ear to ear.
My eyes move to the home bench of their own volition, taking cursory stock of each and every player until they reach the last one. Reagan’s head comes up and our eyes lock. For a moment I’m trapped in that gaze, unable to move a muscle as some heavy-duty vibes fly between us. Well, this is inconvenient.
A knowing grin cuts his face in two and I’m jolted out of my trance, my gaze flitting sideways, finding something else to stare at. I’m a coward. I fully admit it. Those go-green eyes have the power to pluck every thought from my head and seeing as some of those thoughts involve him I’d rather keep them to myself.
One by one, the guys jump in the water. Reagan is last. I catch sight of the body Zoe was raving about and holy hell I really need to give the girl some credit. He’s a diamond, cut to exacting precision. Broad shoulders, a powerful chest smattered with hair that tapers down to a set of cobbled abs, narrow hips, and muscular thighs. My entire body bursts into flames and it has nothing to do with the blazing SoCal sun.
The players begin swimming warm-up laps, raw power cutting through the water with grace. The screams reach an eardrum-shattering level.