Page 34 of Striking Range

I rest a hand on his neck. “Dante. Breathe. We’re the A-Team for a reason. Let’s end this; one more round.”

Slowly, a sadistic grin covers his chiseled face, and he pats my back—hard. “Aye, aye, captain. Let’s go!”

The game resumes, and I give Jacksonville a standard serve, saving my strength for any strategic moves I can whip out here soon. Their number 13 spikes the ball down hard onto our side of the court, and I dive, barely recovering it.

There is a hushed gasp from the crowd on the jankily set-up bleachers, but I’m too focused on jumping back up and positioning myself to spike.

Only, as Dante sets the ball, passing it to me, I see number 78 jump high to form his roof to block me. Which is silly on his part, as now he’s left a space right above the net completely open.

I let the ball graze my fingertips, just barely tapping it forward to stop its movement. It falls right over the net. Number 13 drops low, but he’s too far away. The ball is on the sand before 78 has returned to the ground.

It’s so quiet for a moment that I’m afraid I’m panicking, drowning out the noise. But then—

“Sinclair, one point. And the match is over! Sinclair takes the game!”

Everyone is screaming. Dante has me in his arms, picking me up off the ground and spinning me in circles. And I can’t stop laughing—just laughing and laughing and fucking laughing.

The thrill, the adrenaline, the ecstasy of the game is coursing through me.

Once he finally sets me down, we shake hands with Jacksonville. Unlike Clermont, they’re good sports about the loss.

“Good game,” Number 13 tells me, offering me a tired smile.

“Y’all too.”

There are people everywhere, congratulating us and trying to get in on the rush of the win. Myers is talking to a college reporter, replaying the events of the game.

It takes Everett all of five minutes to get to me, and by the time he does, Dante is already at my side with his arm wrapped around my waist, leaning into me.

“Your best friend is a brilliant coach, Ev,” he praises.

“Uh-huh,” Everett mutters, eyes trained on every inch of me that’s pressed against Dante.

“He totally won that for us. I feel like dead weight to him. Isn’t that right, babyface?” He’s making kissy faces at me, ruffling my hair with his free hand.

I roll my eyes, shoving at his chest. “Alright, asshole. Celebrate with your frat bros.”

Winning always makes him disgustingly affectionate, and today’s win was hard-won.

Dante groans. “But you never give me your attention anymore. Let’s go and—”

Everett pulls me straight out of Dante’s arms with generous force, my back hitting his chest with an oomph. “He’s got plans, Dante. Congrats, though. You did great.”

Dante’s eyes grow wide, bouncing between Everett and me as he tries to read Everett’s possessive behavior and my confusion.

He grins like a Cheshire cat. “Thanks, man. Have a good night!”

Then he’s running off, meeting up with some brunette who was waiting a couple of feet away, and I feel the familiar weight of Everett’s fingertips tugging at my earlobe.

“Good job out there, puppy. You killed it,” he compliments.

I flush, hiding my face from him. Ever since that night, his compliments seem a bit more… suggestive in their intent.

“Thanks,” I mumble.

“Sky! Good job!” Henry finds us, Kelly trailing behind him as he yells. “You look sweaty.”

I flip him off, which only proves to make him laugh.