The Volleyball Captain Next Door

Amelia

"You'll be my maid for a week. Deal?"

Yeah. That's me, shaking the pinky of the devil in a Gladdis jersey. No. 4.

But hold on—let's back up. Because you need to understand exactly how I, Amelia Hart, not-an-honor student, responsible daughter (that’s very debatable by the way), and chronically broke human being, ended up auctioning off my dignity in a locker room hallway.

It started with a window:

"Amelia Hart!" Dad walks into my room just in time to see me hopping out my window.

"Bye, Dad!" I grin stiffly and drop down through the flower beds, backpack bouncing against my back, and make it to the road.

Hehehe.

I'm in for a dragging the moment I get back, but whatever punishment is waiting for me later... I'm going to make it worth it. Chores can wait. My love can't!

My heart dances giddily as I skip down the sidewalk, headed for none other than Pitchers.

The one and only—the most popular volleyball arena in our city. I mean, locality. Westside is a countryside, compared to Northside, Southside, and Eastside... but I like to believe it compares to those cities.

I glance at my wristwatch—sh*t! I'm late!

I take a taxi to Pitchers—with money I don't have—my heart thumping so loudly in my chest I can hear it.

A whole long while later, I finally arrive at the entrance. Phew! That was a wild one. I glance up at the towering buildings and grin.

My baby.

If only I were rich-rich, I'd be attending this university instead of Gladdis.

"Hi, Grisham." I beam at the middle-aged security man as I dash through. He simply grunts in response.

Hehehe.

Don't blame him. I've traumatized the poor man countless times. He and his colleagues have probably lost count of the number of times I've sneaked in here.

But today, Pitchers is open to everybody.

I trudge down the hallway, and upon reaching Entrance A of the arena, I breathe in deeply, then out, combing my hair down with my fingers. I check the time...

Twenty-one minutes late.

D*mn, Amelia. Eish.

I hastily walk in, hunching low as I feel my way toward any available seat at all. I find none, by the way. Tchew.

Begrudgingly, I make my way up the steps to the very back. It's filled up too, but I squeeze myself in.

Heaving a sigh, I squint at the court, trying to make out the reason I'm here. The major one of two.

It takes all of five seconds to spot... h...

Her.

My gosh. My queen! Radiant as always.

I can't help the squeal that leaps out of my throat.

"Shhh!"

I'm met with hard, deathly glares.

Sorry. But shhh for what?! We're supposed to be cheering!

My mouth twitches in discomfort, but it doesn't last long, because I'm soon transfixed on the court again.

I've been a fangirl of Rachel Lancaster since I was twelve. The same year we lost Mum, actually. I stumbled onto one of her matches one terrible afternoon, and for two straight hours, nothing hurt...

She made me fall in love with volleyball that day too. She's the best player we have here in Westside—and globally, I'm sure.

The game is on, and it stretches on forever before it finally ends.

Tchew. My queen's team lost 3–2.

My nose scrunches as I watch, on tiptoes, her hunched, disappointed back.

The match was a friendly one between Pitchers University's women's volleyball team and Gladdis University's. Thankfully.

Rachel attends Pitchers, and I, Gladdis. Pitchers is the school for the upper class while Gladdis is for the rest of us.

And how could those girls have beaten my queen's team?

Never mind that "those girls" are half my own schoolmates. My loyalty to Gladdis ends where Rachel Lancaster begins.

Frowning hard, I trudge down the steps, brushing through the crowd. I race outside for a bottle of energy drink, then tear a sticky note from my backpack.

"My queen, never give up. They won by luck. Love you! The championship is coming. You'll win for sure!"

I stick the note on the bottle and find my way to the locker rooms, my heart thumping hard.

Now, how do I sneak in? How do I get this into her locker? Geez Christ!

I stand frozen in the hallway outside the women's locker room, face mask on, pacing back and forth. I peep in—the team's already inside.

"Hart?"

I spin on my heel to find none other than Everett Griffin approaching.

My eyes roll.

"Don't tell me you're here fangirl-ing as always."

"Mind your d*mn business!" I hiss in a low voice.

And how does he know that???

He chuckles, the sound low and rough.

Everett Griffin stands at least six-foot-three, broad-shouldered, with the lean, sculpted build of someone who's spent years on a volleyball court. Dark hair falls carelessly over sharp brows, framing a face that's unfairly handsome. The kind of face that makes girls lose their minds.

Which is honestly a waste.

Because his personality is absolute trash.

Everett is the captain of Gladdis' men's volleyball team, and annoyingly, he's incredible. His spikes are brutal, his reflexes ridiculous—I've watched the men's championships once or twice—and everyone treats him like some volleyball god.

Doesn't change the fact that he's a first-class jerk.

Volleyball is the only good thing about him, by the way. Aside from that, he's an annoying son of a b*tch. Figuratively. His mom is a lovely woman.

My eyes squint at the thought.

"Why are you here?" I snap.

"Not that it has anything to do with you, Hart... I'm here to see someone. And train."

Here to see someone… one of the girls he bangs, I’m sure.

Whatever.

"All that training and you still s*ck, Everett."

I take a quick glance around.

Empty. Good.

"We both know that's a lie from that smart mouth of yours. By the way, Mr. Edward is going to kill you this time around." He smirks.

How does he know this too?

Eish. Are you a stalker? I'm tempted to ask.

But then again... this annoying guy is actually my neighbor.

He must have seen my pretty *ss when I leapt out my window.

I grimace at his words. Dad... Whatever. I'll sort that out later. First, the issue at hand. I pout down at the drink in my hand.

Everett has turned and is already heading for the men's locker room directly opposite the women's.

"Wait!" An idea pops into my head, and my face brightens instantly.

He turns, mouth twitching, and brow arched.

"Help me pass this to my queen." I take his hand and shove the drink into it.

His brows furrow.

"Pleaseeee. I'll do anything you want in return. Pleaseeee. Just hand it to Rachel and tell her it's from a longtime secret admirer. Everett, please." I rush the words out before he can turn me down.

"Hart—"

"Anything you want, I'll do it. I promise." I stretch out my pinky finger.

He's silent for a few seconds, staring intently at me.

Then something shifts in his eyes as they narrow.

"Anything?" He asks, so calm it sends chills up my spine.

Hum…

I swallow. "Anything."

His face is devoid of emotion, but a moment later, a corner of his mouth tugs into a smirk, and I frown. This son of a b*tch... what's he cooking up in that gutter head of his?

"You'll be my maid for a week. Deal?"

What?!

My jaw clenches, my teeth grinding hard against each other. Preposterous! Just for a simple favor?

See? A son of a b*tch, through and through!

My hands ball into fists at my sides, and I’m tempted to tell him to go f*ck himself but...

Well. This concerns my queen. And anything—anything at all—for my queen.

I smack my lips. "Deal."

With his stupid signature smirk still on his face, he turns and disappears into the men's locker room.

What. On. Earth, have I gotten myself into?