I don’t know what I expected when I rolled up to the annual beach volleyball tournament. Maybe some sun, some sand, and the same old gang of idiots I’d grown up with—those lovable morons who used to wipe their sweaty foreheads on my T-shirts and belch the alphabet in my general direction. What I did not expect was for them to suddenly lose all motor control upon seeing me in a bikini.
“Dolly?” Mike squinted at me like I was an optical illusion.
“Last I checked, yeah,” I said, tossing my bag down next to our makeshift court.
Jeff actually whistled. Whistled. Like I was a dog or a steak dinner. “Damn, Dolly, when did you…?”
“When did I what, Jeff? Develop mammary glands? Hit puberty? Graduate from cargo shorts to an actual waistline?”
Jeff turned red, scratching his head like he was trying to summon an answer from the depths of his two brain cells. “I mean—”
“Yeah, I know what you meant,” I cut him off, rolling my eyes so hard I probably strained a muscle.
Now, let’s be clear—I had no problem with a little male attention. But these were my guys. The same ones who used to shove worms in my lunchbox and dunk me in the lake. And now they were acting like I’d suddenly turned into Aphrodite rising from the sea foam. Worse, they were flexing. Like, literal biceps-flexing, pec-bouncing, deep-voiced posturing. It was unbearable.
Mike cracked his knuckles like he was about to bench-press a shark. “We should, uh, warm up. Maybe stretch?”
“Oh, you should definitely stretch,” I said sweetly. “Wouldn’t want you pulling something when I kick your asses.”
And boy, did I.
It was almost too easy. They were too busy trying to show off to each other—spiking way too hard, diving dramatically, making noises that belonged in an adult film—to remember that I had actually been good at this game since we were kids. I mean, yeah, sure, my new sports bra and strategic tan weren’t hurting my cause, but my real assets? Killer reflexes, a wicked serve, and the ability to read these buffoons like a book.
I spiked the ball so hard at Jeff’s face he actually yelped. “Sorry, Jeff! Guess my aim’s off. Been too busy glowing up, you know?”
Mike dived for a ball and missed spectacularly. “Aw, Mikey,” I cooed. “You’re supposed to hit it. Maybe you’re too distracted by all the estrogen in the air?”
By the time I’d secured my victory, they were sweaty, exhausted, and thoroughly humbled. I sauntered over, arms crossed, wearing the smuggest of smug grins.
“So,” I drawled, “still feeling the urge to flex, or are we back to normal?”
Jeff groaned from where he was sprawled in the sand. “You are so annoying.”
“Damn right,” I said, swiping the can of beer from their cooler. “And don’t you forget it.”
