Chapter 1

1

Saturday afternoon

Mason shifted his weight and stared down the court at the two men across the net. The sweat on his back made his shirt cling uncomfortably and he had a second’s thought on how that just wasn’t right considering how much he’d paid for it in belief of its promise to provide ‘wicking’, before he had to drop the internalizing and focus. There was no way, no way in heaven or hell, that he was about to lose another match. Not to these two. Not again.

His heel ached from pounding it off the floor, something else he shouldn’t have to be dealing with considering the inordinate cost of the tennis shoes on his feet; his hip was pinging in that way that meant he’d be sleeping on his left side all night, and his shoulder muscles felt like they’d been cinched to one another by some kind of god-awful wire that just kept getting tighter every time he moved.

“And this,” he mumbled, gripping the racket more firmly, “this is what I do for fun.”

He could hear Greg beside him, obnoxiously twisting the soles of his runners so that they squawked in angry echoes. He kept his eyes on the movement of Evan’s arm in an effort to get some kind of forewarning about the upcoming shot. He ignored Evan’s partner, Henry, as Henry flounced from side to side, right foot, left food, right foot, left foot, like he was getting ready to sprint or some damn thing. All that mattered was the ball—that fuzzy, yellow, elusive, bitch-ass, goddamn ball. His body jumped in time with Evan’s swing, the ball soared at their side of the net with the power of a bullet, and Mason lurched to the right, swinging his racket with a grunt and every last bit of power he could put into it.

“Game!” Evan shouted, tossing his racket into the air and side-stepping towards Henry in a dance that even Mason thought was about the most annoyingly flamboyant move he’d ever seen a person make on a tennis court, complete with swaying hips and teeny tip-toe steps. Mason turned to watch the ball bounce first off of the floor, then against the wall behind it, before making a half-hearted effort to tumble back towards the court. There was nothing more for Mason to do but roll his eyes and shoot a glance at Greg who was staring at the other two men as if he was trying to set them on fire with his eyes.

Mason stepped up to the net, considered it, then sighed and turned left to walk around it. Evan, instead, bounded forward and shot a hand out over the barrier. “Good game, buddy. Excellent effort. You almost had us there. Your swing is really coming along nicely.”

“Fuck that,” Greg’s voice boomed out from behind him, all play, no malice, but loud enough to make the rest of them wince. He reached around Mason’s body and smacked Evan’s hand away. “Fuck this, fuck that, fuck him, and fuck you,” he drew the last word out as if he was a toy train stuck on wail. “You both cheat and you know it. We don’t shake hands with no damned cheats.”

Evan clucked his tongue and Mason chuckled, completing the handshake anyway. “Well thanks for the game, regardless. It was, at the very least, a good workout.” Mason tapped his gut, thankfully still in fine form but nevertheless an endless battle. “Every little bit helps. Besides, what would a Saturday afternoon be without getting a good ass-kicking from the two of you, right?”

“Bah.” Greg swatted the back of his head lightly. “Get your mind off your ass for a change and we might actually win for once.” He nodded at the other two. “You guys going to join us for a beer or what?”

“Can’t,” Henry said, still swinging his racket in practice shots. “My kid’s sixth birthday party starts in an hour. Carey will shoot me if I’m late.”

Mason nodded and hurried to cut off Greg’s snort. “Totally understandable. Please say hello to Carey for me and my best wishes to…uh…”

“Connor.”

“Of course,” he nodded. “Yep, I knew that.” Mason grinned at Greg who started to dig at his right ear as if he was mining it for gold. Smile faded to mild disgust and Mason shook his head, turning back to Evan. “How about you?”

“Date,” Evan said with an eyebrow wiggle. “Twenty-six year old waitress that I met while I was at dinner breaking up with Melanie. God, that was awkward. But hey, you catch them where you find them, right?”

Greg stopped still, as if frozen in place, and finally let his mouth drop in complete, and totally feigned shock. “Oh. My. God,” he gasped. “You’re straight?”

“Fuck you, Greg,” Evan replied without missing a beat.