Out on the Serve (Out in College 7)

The problem was…every little thing about Braden triggered desire: his board shorts slung low on his hips, his big hand splayed over the ball, and the flex of his biceps before he crushed the hell out of it.

Concentrate, Newcombe. I spiked the ball over the net to Colby’s feet.

“Nice shot, man.” Braden held up his hand for a high five.

I smacked his palm and motioned for Tucker to return the volleyball. He tossed it over the net and discreetly signaled for Colby to cover the far corner. I rolled my eyes behind my Ray-Bans. I’d been playing indoor and outdoor volleyball with Tucker since junior high, but that didn’t mean he knew all my tricks. I turned the ball idly, as if I were checking the seams, and snuck a peek at Braden as he brushed his palms on his knees and crouched into a ready position.

“What the hell are you waiting for?” Tucker yelled.

I discreetly flipped him off, tossed the ball into the air, and drilled it over the net, aiming for the patch of sand between Colby and Tucker. Colby scrambled to return my serve. He bumped it to Tucker. They passed it back and forth between themselves. Then Tucker got under the ball and hit it across the net, almost directly to Braden. They prepared for immediate attack, adjusting positions when Braden passed the ball to me. I bumped it again, giving it some airtime before jumping high and spiking the crap out of it. Tucker saved it easily, dammit. They passed the ball between each other a couple of times, changing the momentum. But they also revealed their strategy.

Braden must have noticed it first, because the second Tucker jumped for the ball, Braden ran toward the net and called, “Switch!”

I instinctively obeyed, racing for the backcourt just as the ball arced overhead. I passed it to Braden, who turned into freaking Spiderman, springing a few feet in the air to deliver a stellar kill shot. The kind you just had to marvel at, ’cause I swear it detonated like a grenade in the sand.

I barked a laugh at our friends’ startled expressions, then instinctively offered my partner a high five. But that didn’t really feel like enough praise, so I hooked my arm around Braden’s neck in a bro-style hug and damn—my dick swelled against the seam of my board shorts.

I pulled away quickly and gave him a light smack on the rear…the unconscious tap that spoke volumes among athletes in every sport known to man. “Good job, tough break, you got this…” That harmless gesture said it all. No words required. But I was obviously in worse shape than I realized if an innocent tap on the ass made my skin tingle. I moved my hand to his shoulder, but that wasn’t any better. His sun-kissed skin was warm and smooth. I had a very real urge to run my fingers down his spine and slip them under his shorts.

And that was…not okay.

I hightailed it to the other side of the net and clandestinely plucked at the Velcro at my crotch, hoping for a little relief. When I finally got my dick to behave, I set my hands on my hips and sucked in a deep breath of ocean air. Note to self…get laid. Fast.

We crushed ’em. And yes, I might have gloated. But it was all in good fun. Mostly.

“You gotta remember who you’re playing against, Tuck. I taught you some of those moves,” I teased.

“Fuck off,” he replied. “You got lucky.”

“Nope. I haven’t gotten lucky in a while,” I countered with an exaggerated sigh.

I scanned the café as I shook the ice from the depleted glass of water the hostess delivered when we first sat down. I wanted more. Other than the three middle-aged surfer dudes nursing beers in front of the flat-screen TV behind the bar, we were the only ones here. But it was only eleven-thirty a.m., and Tres Muchachos was a pretty popular spot. By noon, this place would be bumpin’.

I reached for Tucker’s glass, chuckling when he smacked my hand and flicked water at me. Braden slid his glass over before I could retaliate. I smiled my thanks and fuck me…I think I blushed. My face felt warm, and my heart did a funny somersault. I gulped half the contents and didn’t bother looking up until I felt somewhat normal again. Except for the part where I had no idea what we were talking about now.

“Me either,” Tucker groused. “I’ve got serious blue-ball syndrome. I haven’t been with a chick in a month.”

“Probably because you say words like ‘chick,’ ” Colby chided.

Tucker shrugged, then went into painful detail about his no-nookie month. Colby and I rolled our eyes, but Braden seemed amused, so I didn’t call bullshit even though I highly doubted Tucker had any real issue with blue-ball syndrome.