Chapter 116: Reid
The game lasted about an hour.
We’d been playing maybe ten minutes before it became painfully obvious that tackling us was a bad fucking idea.
Liam found out first. Poor bastard. He came charging at me like a bull, full sprint, sand flying, shouting something about “go big or go home.” I didn’t even brace—I just stood my ground.
He hit me square in the chest.
Didn’t move me an inch.
The sound that came out of him was part groan, part wheeze, like all the air in his body had been evicted at once. He stumbled back and hit the sand, muttering, “Jesus Christ, what are you made of, man?”
I just reached a hand out to help him up, trying not to laugh.
From where Charlie and Madeline were sitting, I heard the unmistakable sound of both of them cracking up. Madeline’s laugh—bright, unrestrained—cut through the surf and made me glance over without meaning to. She had her hand over her mouth, trying and failing to hide her grin.
After that, everyone unanimously decided tackling was off the table. Probably for the best—Jake and I would’ve ended up breaking someone’s ribs by accident, and our team is small enough as it is.
Still, Sloane’s got an arm on her, and Finn’s fast. I’ll give them that. Liam’s just chaos incarnate, diving for catches he has no business diving for, but he makes it entertaining.
Jake kept making comments between plays—stuff like “Maybe try using your other hand, to give them a chance,” and “Stop throwing that far, we’re making it fair.”
I smirked, tossing the ball to him again. “Fair for who, exactly?”
He caught it one-handed, grinning. “For them. Obviously.”
And he wasn’t wrong. Every throw, every run, every effortless play—it was like holding back gravity just so the rest of them could keep up.
Still, I didn’t mind.
The sun was warm, the ocean was quiet, and from the corner of my eye, Madeline was laughing again.
That alone made holding back a little easier.
The game ends when Liam nearly tackles Finn into the surf for the fifth time, and both of them are still somehow running laps like it’s mile three of a marathon. Jake and I exchange a look—the kind that doesn’t need words—and call it.
“Yeah,” I say. “We're done.”
Finn groans dramatically like a kid told recess is cancelled. Liam’s hair is plastered to his forehead, his grin manic. “You guys are getting old!” he shouts, jogging backwards.
“Thirty today,” Jake calls back, leaving but smirking. “We’ve earned the right to be old.”
Sloane throws her hands up and mutters something that sounds like finally, before collapsing back onto her towel face-first. “You’re lucky,” she says into the sand, “because I was one play away from quitting.”
I laugh, running a hand through my hair, and start heading toward my spot beside Jake when Charlie stands up, stretching like a cat. Her skin glows gold in the sun. “I’m going for a swim,” she says. “Reid—come sit here so my towel doesn’t fly off.”
“Sure,” I say automatically, wiping sand off my legs as I move.
It’s only when I drop down onto her towel that I realize what that means—Madeline’s sitting right there, and now she’s between us.
Jake on her left. Me on her right.
And fuck, it’s impossible not to notice everything.
Jake and I—we’re used to how we look, the scale of it. We grew up next to each other, trained together, fought, worked side by side—it’s just normal. Two tall, broad bastards who take up more space than we should.
But next to her?
She looks impossibly small, the difference is staggering. She’s this perfect, soft contrast between the two of us. Her shoulders brushing the air between ours, her knees drawn up, her braid slipping forward against her collarbone.
All three of us are sitting, but her head barely comes up to our shoulders. Jake and I can look over her so easily it’s absurd.
Jake shifts slightly on the other side of her, his knee brushing hers. She glances up between us and gives a small, uncertain smile, like she can feel the weight of both our attention without knowing what to do with it.
She closes her book with a soft thump and reaches for her water bottle, the sound of ice shifting inside it too loud in the slow, hot air.
And I swear to God, I almost have to get up.
The sun catches her skin, her shoulders, the faint sheen of salt and sunscreen, and I have to remind myself to breathe. Her swimsuit—mint green, the exact shade of her eyes—doesn’t help. It’s delicate, almost innocent, except there’s nothing innocent about what it does to me.
I’ve imagined her before.
I’ll admit that now.
Late at night, when I can’t sleep, when every nerve in my body feels like it’s on fire and the image of her won’t leave my head—I’ve pictured her. In my bed, flushed and out of breath, her wrists pinned under one of my hands, her soft, beautiful mouth moaning my name...
But this?
Seeing her in daylight, barely covered, her hair brushing her collarbone, her mouth parted slightly as she drinks?
It’s something else. Something feral.
Because now there’s no filter, no fantasy. Just her—real and right there.
And all I can think about, for one dangerous, unfiltered second, is how easy it would be to lean forward, slide an arm around her waist, and lift her like she weighs nothing.
How easy it would be to throw her over my shoulder, take her home, lock the door, and finally see what she looks like when she stops pretending she doesn’t want this too.
I drag my gaze away, jaw tight, forcing myself to focus on the horizon, on the damn waves, anything but the little sound she makes when the cold water hits her throat.
She wipes a drop from her lip with her thumb.
And I’m done for.