Page 23 of He Has It All (Boston Brawlers Hockey)
“Let’s get on with this game or match or whatever you call it,” he says. “You’re eating into my nap time.”
In a whisper, she leans in and says, “Maybe we should take him inside.”
“Nah.” I try not to react to her low voice in my ear, the vibration sending sparks raging through me. “He can take his cat nap after the game. He’d kill me if I let him miss the excitement. And I mean real excitement.” Focusing on her eyes, I take her in. “Come to think of it, our volleyball game does have my blood going.”
The excitement is true and it’s real, though it mostly comes from her proximity. Her smile lights up the day like a second sun and I feel like I’m looking into the universe of possibilities.
“Guess you’re gonna win this game, girl?” Gramps says. The old man assesses the situation correctly. Just when you think he’s fading, lost some of his snap, he proves that he’s still sharp as ever.
“Of course,” she says.
“I should make a bet,” Gramps says. “How about a victory dance when you win?” He surprises me with that and suspicion immediately rises, knowing the devil he is.
“I’d be delighted. As long as you still know how to dance,” Chelsea says, matching the twinkle in the old man’s eyes.
“Sure you don’t want to join us for the volleyball game, Gramps?” I say.
“Don’t want to show you up—Or maybe I don’t want to get beat by this girl here,” he says, laughing. “You watch out for her. Try and score a few points.”
I laugh, but Gramps is probably right. “It’s been a long time since I’ve played volleyball,” I admit.
She smiles a killer smile and if her game play doesn’t get me it’ll be my own drool that chokes me.
Chelsea gives Gramps her phone. “Then you’ll have to take photos for me. You up for it?”
I laugh. “Fucking brilliant idea—pardon my French. Your station’s going to pay him for the photos, right?”
That perks Gramps up as I knew it would. Chelsea squints at me and I know she hasn’t thought of it, probably doesn’t have the authority to make such promises, but she quickly capitulates.
“Of course. A hundred bucks for each one we use.”
Raising my brows, I’m impressed and hoping the money isn’t coming from her pocket.
“Give me that thing. Tell me where the trigger is,” Gramps says. Chelsea shows him how to use it and I insist he take a test shot of the two of us.
Wrapping my arm around her, I take the opportunity to lean in, feeling her skin under my hand, warm and silky, her back toned and curving down to her waist as I glide my hand to rest on her hip. Taking a deep breath, her and the ocean mixing in my lungs, the smile on my face as we pose for Gramps is the most real smile I’ve had photographed since the last family holiday. The only real smile likely to ever make it onto the airwaves or social media—at least that I know about.
“Let’s see,” she says, breaking away from me to look over Gramps’s shoulder. “Wow—you’re a natural. This is great.”
“Of course it is. How can I go wrong?” Gramps snorts. “Look at who I’m photographing—the best-looking couple here.”
“Aside from the bride- and groom-to-be,” she says. I look at the camera and take it from Gramps.
“Shit—don’t tell them I said that.” Gramps panics and I laugh.
“Don’t worry, old man. No one’s gonna hear it from either of us.” I slide a glance at Chelsea as I tap into the phone, sending it to myself via text. The shot is good enough for me to want it.
“It’s a keeper,” I say. She nods, holding back a smile.
“I’ll crop myself out of it and use it,” she says. I want to say more, something about Gramps being right about how we look together, but it’s cheesy and at that moment Levi blows an ear-piercing whistle calling for the game to start.
“Time to take our places,” she says. “Don’t forget how I told you to take video shots, Gramps.”
He nods and I hand the camera back to him, punching on the video button to get him started and he holds the camera up. I jog to catch up to Chelsea as she joins her side, taking the position as server. The server spot on my team is reserved for me so I trot to the back corner. Doc takes over the whistle-blowing duties and the wedding weekend guests turn into rabid beach volleyball fans fueled by the abundance of good liquor.
Chelsea spikes her first serve and it’s downhill from there. She’s outclassing us all and it doesn’t help that the net is lower than regulation, making it too easy for her. Levi and I get in a few volleys and spikes, but my brothers team up with Chelsea to set her up time and again to smash the ball down our throats.
Before the game is over there isn’t anyone left who hasn’t crashed to the sand or taken a dive to make a save—usually unsuccessful, except for Chelsea.
