Chapter seventeen: Volleyball
RILEY'S POV
Max was already grinning like a maniac by the time we got outside.
"Volleyball time! Losers do whatever the winners say."
Perfect. Just what I needed—another opportunity to embarrass myself in public.
We split into teams, and of course, Xander ended up on the opposite side. He ran a hand through his wet hair, water dripping down his neck, looking like he'd stepped straight out of some sports commercial.
I wasn't staring.
I was… assessing the competition.
Obviously.
The first few volleys were harmless—laughing, splashing, people missing on purpose. Then things shifted.
The ball flew toward me, and I dove, skimming the surface of the pool before sending it back up. Xander caught it mid-air and spiked it hard enough that I barely managed to return it.
He laughed—low, smug.
My stomach flipped.
Fine. Game on.
We traded plays, neither side willing to back down. Then the ball dropped between us at the same time. We both lunged.
Water splashed everywhere as we collided, the ball floating away while I grabbed his arm to keep from going under. His skin was warm beneath my fingers, even through the cool water.
For a second, everything else faded—the noise, the laughter, the game. I could hear his breathing, feel the steady strength in his arm.
Then I pulled away.
"Nice save, Rachel," he said, sarcasm curling around his words like he'd expected me to fail.
I rolled my eyes, though the corner of my mouth betrayed me with a small smile.
After lunch, Max announced another one of his "brilliant ideas," which, coming from him, usually meant chaos.
"Pool volleyball again," he said, grinning. "Teams of two. And you don't get to choose your partner."
Amber groaned. "This is going to end badly."
Names were drawn from a hat. I silently begged for anyone—literally anyone—except Xander.
Max unfolded the next slip and smiled like the universe had personally set him up.
"Riley… and Xander."
Laughter erupted around us. I froze.
Xander's jaw tightened slightly, but he didn't comment. He just grabbed the ball and moved to our side of the pool.
Great. Just great.
When I joined him, he didn't look at me right away. "Ready?" he asked, eyes fixed ahead.
"Totally," I replied, matching his clipped tone.
The game started slow, but somewhere between the second serve and me nearly losing my balance, something clicked. We moved together without thinking—him blocking, me diving for saves. An unspoken rhythm formed, the kind that made us frustratingly good.
At one point, he caught my wrist, steadying me before I slammed into the net. His grip lingered for half a second—warm, sure—then he let go like it meant nothing.
We won.
Neither of us cheered. Just a brief look—quiet, charged—saying more than either of us wanted to admit.
When everyone drifted off afterward—some to the kitchen, others to lounge chairs—I slipped away to the side patio, wrapping my towel around myself like armor.
The sun dipped lower, turning the pool water gold. I told myself to stop thinking about the way his hand had wrapped around my wrist.
It was nothing.
A reflex.
Not worth replaying over and over.
Except I was doing exactly that.
And that look we'd shared after winning—no smile, no smirk. Just something unspoken. Like he'd noticed me, really noticed me, and then shut the door on it.
I rested my chin on my knees, trying to shake it off. Xander was complicated enough without me reading into moments that probably meant nothing.
Inside, laughter drifted out—Max's loud cackle, Amber's protests, the pop of a soda can. Easy. Normal. Where I should be.
Instead, I stared at the shimmering water, wondering why the smallest moments with him always felt so much bigger.