Make Me Lose

by Leigh, Ember

  “You wanna go first?” Luke comes to the side of the boat, holding my life vest.

  “Sure, why not? Better set the standard early,” I crack, swimming toward the side of the boat.

  From the bow, Hazel snorts. “Oh please.”

  I ignore her. I’m not going to give her what she wants, which is a reaction. Every inch of my skin can feel her wanting me to notice her. And I refuse. Instead, I swim to the back of the boat, haul myself up on the deck, and strap my life vest back on.

  “Two or one?” Luke asks, when Anthony starts getting ropes untangled.

  “Two,” I say. “It’s been a while.”

  Anthony cues up the water skis while I ease into the lake again. He hands me each ski one at a time, pre-soaped so I can wiggle my foot into the rubbery opening. Then he tosses the rope out to me. I’m wobbling in the water, trying to get the hang of these things again. Huge, bulky, unwieldy weights strapped to my feet.

  Luke whistles, giving me a thumbs up in the mirror. There’s a whole secret language to waterskiing, like catchers on a baseball diamond. Anthony is the spotter on the back bench to watch if I wipeout or need anything. It’s pretty clear that Hazel plans to critique my performance, based on how she sits up at attention once I yell, “Hit it!”

  Luke speeds off, and the tension turns the rope to stone. I hang on for dear life, counseling myself on all the things I once knew like the back of my hand: don’t push the tips together, keep my knees slightly bent, unfurl like a birthing moth. Once I pop up, the exhilaration of the sport comes rushing back. This is a piece of cake. And damn, it feels good to be out on the water.

  The sun beats down on me, turning the lake surface into a choppy water prism, warming the life vest as Luke takes wide, looping turns. I zigzag across the tall waves behind the boat, even catching some air. I forgot how good an exercise this is for the upper body. Each time I cross the wake, I shout with laughter. I signal for more speed.

  I end up going for a full seven minutes. We’re damn near ten miles from Bayshore. I eventually let go of the rope and sink down into the turquoise water. A great first run. And plenty impressive to any amateur, which I just know Bryce is. When I resurface, I paddle toward the boat, arm crooked over the two skis. When I’m back in the boat, dripping water and grinning, I ask, “Who’s next?

  Hazel stands, heading toward me, fire in her eyes like always. “Me. Now that amateur hour is over, it’s time to let the real pros have a shot.”

  I fight back a smile. “Amateur hour? I’d love to see an amateur with a seven-minute unbroken run like I had.”

  “Amateurs use two skis,” she says with a tight grin, ripping off her sunglasses. She jerks her chin toward Anthony. “Get the slalom.”

  These are fighting words. Competition licks through my veins, no matter how badly I want to remain neutral. I can’t not take the bait. It’s like telling a dog to suddenly stop sniffing other dog’s asses. We’ve been doing this since we were born. It’s in our DNA.

  “Yeah, get the slalom, Anthony.” I call over my shoulder. “Once Hazel wipes out in thirty seconds, I’ll show her what a real slalom skier looks like.”

  “Ha!” Her sarcastic laugh slices through the air. “Like you would know. You get lucky on two skis after ten years and think you’re suddenly an expert. Where do I sign up for Grayson’s master class?”

  Bryce has come down to the back of the boat, curiosity on his face as Hazel and I spar. Callie, too, has pulled herself into something resembling sitting up, hair mussed as she tunes in.

  “I forgot how entertaining this was,” Anthony mumbles to himself.

  “Is he bothering you?” Bryce asks directly to Hazel.

  Oh, great. Knight in shining armor over here. I roll my eyes. How do we explain it? We can’t. There’s no explanation for how we revert to competitive children.

  “Permanently,” Hazel says.

  “These two sorta have…” Luke pauses, a laugh escaping him. “Dude, how do I say it?”

  “Bitter rivalry, I think is the term,” Anthony opines.

  I want to say she started it so badly, but that only makes things worse. But seriously. She did start it. She started it today, and in her office, and right before prom. Hazel is the shit-starter.

  “Unresolved daddy issues?” I offer, but that’s definitely not the case. Hazel and her dad are close—always have been, since her mother passed during childbirth.

  “You should talk,” Hazel grumbles as she snaps her life jacket on. And she’s right. Between the two of us, I’m the one with the asshole dad. The bright purple vest juts out from her chest, which forces my gaze down the sturdy slopes of her thighs, down to her cute little feet, toenails painted the deepest shade of purple. My gaze fastens on the cantaloupe curve of her ass—an ass I was once lucky to squeeze.

  Hazel has gotten better with age, and her appearance today is a stark contrast to the immaculate pinup girl I found at her office. Don’t get me wrong—both Hazels are hot as fuck. But out here on the boat, she looks more like the Hazel I once knew. Full, soft lips, without a trace of lipstick or gloss. Wisps of her cinnamon hair flying free around her face, escaped from the confines of her messy bun. Those gold-flecked, mossy green eyes that still make my chest hurt whenever she looks my way for too long.

  In a different world—a different dimension, maybe—we would have tied the knot after high school. We would have fallen so deep in love that they put up a goddamn plaque for us in the Bayshore pavilion that said From Bitter Rivals to Sweetest Lovers. We’d have kids by now, probably the estimated 2.5, and live somewhere active but bigger, like Cincinnati or, hell, Philly.

  But instead, this is where we are. Still shooting death rays out of our eyes. There’s no sweet ending to this story. Just more rancor.

  Hazel sits on the back deck and wiggles her feet into the rubbery openings of the slalom ski. Then she pushes off and slips into the water. Anthony tosses the rope. I take my place by the driver’s seat. My buddy Bryce joins me a moment later.

  “We like to pick at each other,” I offer after a moment, as though he needs to know more about what exists between Hazel and me. “She likes it, I promise.”

  He sends me a weird side glance, and I can tell I’m not doing a good job of convincing him. Whatever. He’s a moony-eyed douche. Hazel could do way better. I work my jaw back and forth, knee bouncing as Luke idles out into the lake a little, lining Hazel up with the center of the boat. Slalom skiing is harder, and a much better work out.

  “The water isn’t really good for slalom skiing today,” I tell Luke as he struggles to keep her centered with the back of the boat. It’s too choppy. Slalom skiing is best on the quiet waters of the bay in the early morning, right after dawn, when the water looks like glass. “We should pull her in.”

  “You think?” Luke casts a doubtful look through the rearview mirror.

  “Anthony, you should pull her in,” I shout to the back of the boat. “It’s too choppy—she’ll get hurt.”

  Hazel must have heard me, because my worry is followed by a very succinct “Fuck you, city boy!”

  I grimace and sit back in my seat. Looking at Bryce, I say, “She’s a peach, isn’t she?”

  A moment later, Hazel shouts, “Hit it!” and Luke takes off, accelerating hard to help the slalom ski take flight. Hazel emerges from the water in a huge spray, both graceful and bad ass, and all I can do is take it in. I’d record the spectacle if I were bolder. But I’m not—so I try to keep my jaw from hitting the floor.

  Hazel is all grin and powerful thighs as she cuts back and forth across the wake, leaning back to cut some huge sprays, sometimes so far it looks like she’s about to lie down on the lake surface. She’s really good—I’ll admit that. But I’ll never admit how much I’ve been fantasizing about having those thighs wrapped around me since I’ve been back.

  I look over. Bryce is grinning like a fool, sending out the occasional thumbs up. Desperate, much? Luke would have told me if there was a thing th
ere, but I need to be sure. I lean over to him.

  “You know, Hazel probably seems like a catch and all, but…” I pause, wondering if I have the balls to go through with this. It’s necessary, I remind myself. “Truth is, she’s a lesbian.”

  Bryce snorts, not looking particularly bothered. “Oh, yeah? Even better then.”

  Fuck. What will it take to get him to give up the chase? “Well, you should probably know—” My brain’s gears are whirring like the gears in Willy Wonka’s Chocolate Factory. “—she’s actually got like, a problem. Down there.”

  Bryce sends me a disbelieving look. “A problem?”

  The wind whips through my hair as I look out at the lake, forcing solemnity into my voice. “Yeah. She’s got this…rash…that covers her entire pubic area. Doctors still don’t know what causes it. Or if it’s contagious.”

  Bryce’s expression turns from disbelief to cockiness, and I think I may have shit on my own parade.

  “Didn’t see any rash the last time I was down there,” he delivers coolly.

  Fuck. Well, that backfired. So much for not with Bryce. I mask my irritation by crossing my arms and searching the lake distractedly. “It comes and goes.” I sniff. “Just thought you should know. Between men.”

  So that clears that up. Hazel is off limits—not like she was ever within my reach to begin with—and I should shut the hell up and move along.

  But it’s impossible to rip my eyes off Hazel.

  It was all through high school, and it’s worse now.

  And if anything, our history roaring back to life has brought more than competition along with it. Now, I’m remembering how hard I fell for Hazel back in the day.

  Good thing I’m older now. Wiser.

  And too smart to let that happen a second time.

  Chapter 5

  HAZEL

  I finish my award-winning slalom run and return to general fanfare on the boat. Except for Grayson, of course. God help him if he ever has a wife and children who look for approval because they won’t get it from that one. Any kid he raises will probably turn into a major league maniac.

  Bryce sweeps toward me and wraps me in a hug once I shuck my life vest, which is weird. He’s never been so touchy-feely in public. Hell, we’re not even dating. Usually he keeps his advances to text messages and drunken outings, so this is new.

  “Hard to top that one,” Bryce says.

  “Give it thirty seconds and you’ll see.” Grayson heads to the back of the boat, snatching up his life vest.

  “Oh, come on,” Luke says, turning in his seat. “We can’t go back and forth all day seeing who beats who. I wanna get my ass in the water too.”

  “You’re right. Let’s settle it now. I win.” I beam up at him, all teeth, eyes pinched shut.

  “You would never accept such a cheap victory,” he accuses me.

  Callie has dragged herself down to the seat next to the driver, looking slightly more alive. “Do tandem!”

  All heads turn to her like God has spoken truth from the heavens. It really is genius. And perhaps the only way to truly see who comes out on top.

  “Done.” Grayson jabs his finger into the air. “Tandem it is. And if I win, you’ll be my real estate agent and sell my grandma’s house.”

  I squint at Grayson. “Now, that’s not fair. I just had a long run, and that shit is hard.”

  “So you concede?”

  It’s pure bait. Of course I won’t. I huff and stomp back to my life vest, snatching it up, jabbing the buckles together. “Get the ropes ready, Anthony.”

  Grayson looks too pleased with himself as he suits up, and I force myself not to check out the sculpted lines of his abs or the rolling hills of his biceps. But it’s hard not to notice him. To absorb him, to get drunk on him. Masculinity and adrenaline and power roll off him in waves. It’s always been like that with him. He energizes, simply from being close. I’m glad to see that, at least, hasn’t changed. Even though he’s pushing us into a pointless battle I can’t help but participate in.

  We both step onto the back deck, shooting daggers at each other. Standing barefoot next to him, I realize how much height he has on me. My head about comes up to his collar bone, if we’re being generous. When he turns to receive the wide slalom ski, I’m reminded of the breadth of his shoulders. How wide and sturdy and manly he is. I swallow, jerking my gaze to Anthony, forcing myself to focus on his totally safe and neutral backwards OSU ballcap. He hands me the ski.

  I sit on the back deck next to Grayson. Water laps at the edges of the deck, tickling the bottoms of my thighs through the wooden slats, as we shove our feet into the slaloms.

  “It must be truly tiring to be such a sore loser,” I mutter as I shove my dominant foot into the front hole. My other foot goes in, and I reach for the rope. “And weaseling your realty needs into a waterskiing competition? Pathetic.”

  In lieu of a response, Grayson shoves me by the shoulder. I topple face-first, the look of shock on my face probably the last thing he sees before I disappear underwater.

  I surface a moment later, spitting water, and flip him the bird. “Not cool.”

  Grayson is laughing, real belly laughs, which take the edge off my anger. I’ve always loved hearing his laughter, and his smile is fit for a magazine ad. The man could make money off his looks. Just probably not as much money as whatever he’s doing now. He pushes into the water and takes a few strokes away from the boat.

  “You two ready?” Luke asks, turning the engine back on once we’ve floated far enough away from the boat.

  “Yep,” I confirm, wrapping my hands around the handle. I can’t wait to show Grayson what a needless ass he is. “Though he loses an automatic ten points for pushing me into the water.”

  “I didn’t need those ten points anyway,” Grayson shouts.

  Everyone settles into place on the boat, and nervousness licks through me. Shit, the tension is real. And it’s high. Even though this means nothing, it also means everything. He sends me a darkly mischievous look. How is Grayson so good at doing this? Making mountains out of molehills everywhere he goes?

  “Hit it!” I cry out when I feel ready, and Grayson echoes the same. The boat surges forward, a roar of engine and excitement. Energy zips through me, completely eradicating whatever soreness remained from my last run. We both surge up and out of the water, emerging from the spray like gods. The ropes are of different lengths and tied off to a pole at the back of the boat, so we can crisscross without running into each other. I look over at him. He looks over at me.

  And then he swerves. Cutting his ski into the water away from me, sending a plume of spray up into my face. I sputter and mimic him, swinging out wide to the port side of the boat. Waves crash toward us, the whitecaps making my stomach bottom out. I hang tight and ride it out. The lake is too damn choppy to be slalom skiing right now. I was lucky to get my good run in.

  Luke steers us toward an alcove where the water is slightly calmer. Grayson cuts hard back toward the center, and I instinctively do the same. We soar past each other, and I will my spray to cover him and submerge him entirely. It doesn’t, of course.

  I’m not a two-hundred-pound man with a four-hundred-pound ego, so my spray is naturally lesser. This isn’t rationalization, it’s a fact. It can’t be held against me. Except Grayson seems to spread his spray like a peacock fanning its feathers. Probably because he has the rope closer to the boat and knows that his spray hits my face each time.

  We crisscross a few times. My arms are tired already, but Grayson shows no signs of slowing. Callie is cheering from the middle of the boat. At least our rivalry helped cure her hangover. Grayson swoops toward the center and I veer to do the same. Except when he’s barreling past me, my vision goes watery and white as he passes, and my ski goes THUNK.

  Everything happens in a blur. The rope slingshots out of my hands; I’m flying along with it. My ski is left behind somewhere. I don’t have time to scream before I hit the water in a painful, awkwa
rd splash.

  Somersaults underwater yank my bathing suit bottoms down to my knees. I must have hit a huge piece of driftwood—nothing else could send me flying like that. Thank God I have the life vest—I kick a few times before breaking through the water in a sputtering, gasping mess.

  I expect Grayson to be on board the boat collecting his trophy for superiority, thanking his fans who’ve always supported him in his quest to outdo me, but instead I find him a few strokes away from me. His face is creased with concern.

  “Hazel!” he shouts gruffly. “Are you okay?”

  That’s real concern in his voice. I’m too shaken to bite back. “I…I don’t know.”

  He swears and swims faster. In my periphery, I see Luke swinging the boat out wide, circling back to us. The ropes drag behind the boat. Gray reaches me and grabs me by the lapels of the life vest.

  “What the hell happened?”

  He’s inches away from me, and I can’t do anything but stare up into his stormy blues. His walnut brown hair is plastered to his forehead, and the lake water chops at our sides.

  “I don’t know,” I whisper. I can’t look away from him. Fuck, this would almost be romantic if pain weren’t shooting through my left hip. Somehow, I’ve lost my voice a little too.

  “Did my ski hit you?” he demands, his gaze skating across my face.

  I shake my head.

  “Are you hurt? Like your legs?” He reaches underwater and his hand brushes my bare hip. I suck at my teeth, remembering my bottoms are hovering at my knees.

  “Hang on.” I poke my tongue out as I try to reach my bottoms. I can’t get past the life vest. They slip lower in my struggles, all the way down to my ankles. “Shit. My swimsuit bottoms…”

  Gray’s gaze slides to the surface of the water.

  “Don’t look!”

  “I can’t see anything.” He watches me struggle for a moment. The boat is nearing, and Luke and Anthony are shouting out to us. “Do you need help?”