Problematic Summer Romance (Not in Love, #2)(44)

“What? Why?”

“You know why. She’s back—and we do not negotiate with her.”

I gasp. “She is not back.”

Paul moves closer. Looks between us. “She? Who are you talking about?”

“The Mayageddon,” Sul whispers.

“No,” I protest. “Come on, no. She’s locked in. I was just pointing out that Axel is terribly incompetent and the sole reason we might not win. But like, in a nice, friendly way.”

Eli shakes his head. “You kicked sand at Paul, you tripped poor Sul twice—you know he has a bad back—and you nearly destroyed Hark’s ability to have children with your knee.”

“I was megging him.”

“Maya, megging involves dribbling the ball through someone else’s spread legs.”

“Precisely!”

“The ball wasn’t even in your half of the field.”

“What? Come on! You can’t kick me out, I can still win this.”

“That’s exactly what the Mayageddon would say.”

I open my mouth to protest, but it dawns on me. “Oh my god.” I bury my face in my hands. “She’s here. She’s fighting to break out.”

Paul clears his throat. “Is this, um, a habitual behavior?”

“No.” I sound desperate. “There’s no behavior. There’s no this!”

Eli sighs. “The Mayageddon hatches out of its depraved little egg every time there’s a competition. Two weeks ago I beat Maya at Trivial Pursuit, and the following morning I found the pie slices crushed in the blender and the question cards in the recycling bin.”

“It was a pre-2000 edition. I wasn’t even born. Keeping it in the house was ageist and—”

“Out,” Eli repeats ominously. “You’re expelled. Banned. If I see you within twenty feet of the field, I will tie you to the pier. Go play with Tiny, or something.”

I let out a typical Mayageddon groan and stomp away furiously, brushing past Conor, who holds out his bottle to me. “Have some water. It’ll calm you down.”

“No. It’s always water this and water that, but when I try to drink the blood of my enemies—”

“Can’t believe I’d forgotten,” he says, low. Fond, maybe. A few feet away, the others are straightening their shovel-made goalposts.

“Forgotten what?”

“The monster within.”

I look at him, letting my gaze slip from his sunglasses to his bare chest. It’s not the first time I’ve seen him shirtless. Last summer he came over to help Eli put up a couple of raised beds for Rue, and even before…I’m sure there were other times. Not a big deal. I know his workout regimen, so none of this is surprising.

Still, I glance away.

“It’s cute,” he says.

“What is?”

“How competitive you get.”

I grab his water and take an angry sip from the same spot where he just drank. “I’m not competitive. I just want to win.”

“Two very different things. Maya?”

“Yeah?”

“Why did you leave, yesterday? At the theater.”

I bend my head. Curl my toes in the sand. “Did Avery not tell you? I wanted to explore on my own, and—”

“I know the excuse you gave her. Can I have the truth?”

My face heats in a way that has nothing to do with the sun. But I push through and turn to face him directly. “No,” I say firmly. “You can’t.”

He nods. Once. “Very well. Even so, don’t do it again.”

I laugh. Also once. “I will if I want to, Conor.”

“You said we are friends, Maya.” His lips thin. “Friends don’t do that.”

“Friends don’t do…what?”

“Disappear into the ether.”

A single, outraged laugh slips out of me. “Are you serious? You are telling me?”

His jaw tenses. “It’s not the same.”

“No? Please, then, enlighten me about how—”

“Maya?” Paul runs up to us. “I’m so sorry Eli kicked you out. Do you want me to speak to him? Get him to change his mind?”

I let my eyes linger on Conor’s face, defiant, angry. Don’t glance away from him until Paul says my name again, uncertain, clueless about the electric charge crackling between Conor and me. “Maya?”

Fucking Paul. “It’s okay,” I tell him, forcing a smile. “I totally could have won if he hadn’t kicked me out. It’s an old trick of his—sabotage. He was trying to cost me the game—”

Conor has yet to look away from my face. “Eli was on your team,” he points out.

Oh. Right. “He couldn’t stand not being the MVP. Jealousy is—what…?” I stammer to a halt. All of a sudden, Conor’s thumb is wiping back and forth at the base of my jaw, the pad of his finger cool in the rising heat.

“Smudge of sunscreen.”

“Ah.” I nod. “That’s fine then,” I say dumbly. As though he needs permission after the fact.

“Should we head back, Hark?” Paul asks him—and why is he here, again?

“Sure.” Conor sticks his bottle back in the cooler. Then tells me: “We’ll miss you.”