Page 8 of Riot

“Please,” I said, catching the bounce and tossing the ball to Marcus at the top of the key. Sweat slid down my spine. My chest was damp, my shorts sticking a little at the waistband, and for once, I didn’t feel like the sun had personally declared war on me. “That was skill. Try not to be threatened.”

Marcus snorted. His sneakers squeaked as he pivoted and passed to Jamal. “You say that every time one goes in.”

“Because every time one goes in, I’m right.”

Jamal shot. Missed. The rebound came long, and I grabbed it with both hands, more out of desperation than talent. Then I heard a motorcycle engine cut off somewhere near the parking lot.

The sound snagged my attention.

Holding the ball against my hip, I glanced toward the rec center entrance. Two men crossed the lot in leather cuts, moving like they belonged wherever they decided to stand. The morning light caught on metal and dark ink. One was broader, heavier through the shoulders. The other one—

Well. Great.

The other one was exactly my type, which was unfortunate for me and my blood pressure. Short black hair. Olive skin. Easy stride. He looked up as if he felt eyes on him, and I forgot I was on a court and technically meant to be participating in sports.

His cut shifted when he moved. Bottom rocker. Riot.

The other one read Mayhem.

I stared after them for one beat too long, because engaging men with those two names together felt like a decision no one sensible should make. Riot and Mayhem. Sounded less like men and more like warning labels.

“Cal,” Marcus said.

The ball hit my sneaker.

Blinking, I looked down, then back at him. “Sorry. Distracted by the leather-based mystery.”

Trevor followed my line of sight. “Bikers.”

“Thank you,” I said dryly. “I was worried they were nuns.”

Jamal barked out a laugh. He wiped his forearm over his face and pointed at the building. “They here for the fundraiser thing?”

“Apparently.” I bounced the ball once and rolled my shoulders. My shirt was still in a sad heap near the sideline. I had tossed it off ten minutes in and never looked back. “Good for them. Love civic engagement. Very wholesome. Very terrifying.”

Marcus grinned. “You checking one of them out?”

Heat prickled under my skin that had nothing to do with the weather. I shot him a look then took the ball back into play. “Mind your own layups.”

“That’s a yes,” Trevor said.

“It’s a maybe,” I corrected, dribbling hard and driving past him. “Some of us appreciate facial structure. I’m only human. Tiny. Fragile. Full of eyes.”

“Fragile my ass,” Jamal muttered.

I went up for another shot. It rimmed out.

As we reset, I glanced toward the doors again, but the two of them were already inside. The place looked ordinary enough from out here. Brick building. Glass doors. Flyers taped in the window. Meanwhile, my brain had fully derailed over one handsome biker whose name sounded like he probably came with poor choices and excellent forearms.

That felt healthy.

For the next few minutes, I forced myself back into the game. My lungs worked harder. Sweat cooled where the breeze caught it. The ball slapped skin and concrete in a rhythm that helped settle me. Mostly.

Then the side door opened, and Marlene, the rec coordinator, stepped out with a clipboard tucked to her side.

She lifted a hand. “Calvin.”

I caught the pass one-handed and turned. “That sounded official. Am I in trouble?”