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“I guess not.”
I take the ball back and hold it up. “This is a football. We throw this instead of kicking it and someone runs it into the end zone for a touchdown, rather than a goal. There’s a lot more, but that’s the gist of it.”
“So, in America, the football I know is called soccer?”
“Yes.”
“Weird. But okay. How do you throw it?”
“Take your ring finger and put it on the second lace and then your first finger should hit the stitch line. Don’t grip it too tight. There should be a little air between your palm and the ball.” I lift my hand to show her. She eagerly watches. “So when you throw it, it’ll spiral out of your hand.” I throw it up on the beach, not too far. Her eyes widen at the perfect spiral.
“You’re good at that.”
The best. Her compliment makes my ego balloon, although she has nothing to compare it to. She runs up the beach to grab it. Gripping a football while wearing a skimpy red bikini is a wet dream come true. I’m glad I’m deep enough to hide my semi. She remains there, following my instructions on how to throw it. When she launches the ball toward me, the wobbly football lands at least ten feet from me.
“You could have caught that,” she teases, walking toward me.
“Hold up. Stay there,” I instruct while grabbing the ball. Catching might be easier when she’s not knee deep in water. When I throw, she catches it. “You’re a natural.” I beam with my arms out. She does a small curtsy. The next few throws, her technique improves with each pass.
“Woo-hoo!” she boasts when the ball spins in a somewhat tight spiral.
“Good job, Whiskey.” I spin away from her to give myself a moment. Watching her play my game, her excitement over it, makes my cravings for her intensify. I glance up to the blue sky and pull in a deep salty breath.
“Did I do something wrong?” She calls out from behind me. I shake my head and blow out a ragged breath. Definitely did nothing wrong.
“I’m going long,” I say over my shoulder, swimming further out. The shallow end of these beaches go on forever. But that’s okay because I need space.
“That’s a little ambitious,” she screams at me, making me laugh.
I stand up, a good forty yards away from her. “Are you ready?”
“To swim for it,” she teases. “Sure.”
I cock my arm back and snap it. The perfect spiral launches through the air, straight for her. Her eyes widen and she readies herself to catch it.
She catches this and I’m marrying her.
I squeeze my fists, not able to look away. Not even as something brushes against my leg. I jump up as the ball lands in her arms for the perfect catch.
“Yes!” I snap, surprised as hell. But then my feet hit ground. A soft, rubbery ground. “Fuucckkkk!” I scream, tumbling down in the water with pain shooting from my foot up my leg. It feels like I just stepped on a knife. Pure adrenaline pushes me through the shallow water, afraid a shark bit me. And might not be done snacking.
Aspen rushes to me. “Ryker, what happened?” She helps me stand and I wobble on one leg. “Something bit me.”
“Can you walk?”
I put my foot down and wait for the stabbing pain, but it doesn’t get worse. I nod, hobbling to shore with her under my arm, helping. Once on dry land, I sit down and she inspects my foot.
“It looks like a stingray got you.”
“Should you pee on it, or something?”
She freezes while cramming our towels into her bag and stares at me, both brows raised. “Ryker, it’s not a snake bite.”
“Well, how the hell do I know?” I chuckle through the throbbing, although it’s not unbearable. Dislocating my shoulder during a game hurt worse than this. She rushes to grab everything and then runs to the shoreline to retrieve my ball.
“That was an impressive throw.” She beams as she stuffs it in my bag. That was nothing. If she only knew.
“That was a more impressive catch.” I’m certain had this stingray not tried to kill me, I would have kissed her.
