“Mom, Dad, what are you guys doing here? I thought we were going to meet up later,” she whispered, glancing back over her shoulder to see if anyone else had noticed the appearance of the famous couple.
“We came for you.” Her mom, Lisa, practically skipped the last few steps between them, bracelets jangling at her wrists, before pulling her into a hug. “Number one ranked in the tournament. Mija, I am so proud of you.”
Jasmine lifted her head from her mom’s shoulder and saw her dad, John, standing behind them. Her parents were her biggest fans. Tennis was never something she was expected to do. They never even brought up the subject of her playing until she begged for lessons when she was seven. Yet, despiteall the success they enjoyed in their own careers, the smallest things, like a number one ranking in an invitational, had them beaming like she’d won a Grand Slam. The problem was, it was still a number one ranking in an invitational andnota Grand Slam victory. But she was going to eventually get one—that was the plan—and the OBX Classic was a necessary stop on the path she’d wanted to travel since she was old enough to understand exactly who her parents were.
A lock of salt-and-pepper hair fell onto her father’s forehead. “Dom called me when he put the rankings together. I wanted to be here when you found out.”
“Oh my God,” a breathy voice said from behind her. “They’re here.”
The crowd behind Jasmine converged around them. Though her parents had founded OBX, they pretty much gave Dom free rein to run the facility as he saw fit and stayed out of his way. Whenever they showed up on the grounds, it was a pretty big deal and incredibly annoying that no one could ever have an ounce of chill about it.
“Can I have a picture?” Lara asked, holding her phone out and sidling right up to Jasmine’s dad, snapping a picture before he could answer one way or the other.
“I watch the video of your French Open win all the time,” Katie said to her mom, leaning around Jasmine’s shoulder. Jasmine fought down the urge to snap her elbow into Katie’s stomach.
“Wait, will you sign my racket bag?” Cassie asked, digging through the bag for a pen.
Lisa shot Jasmine an apologetic grin but then turned to her admirers and patiently responded to them one by one.
A small shriek from over by the rankings list echoed over the din of autograph and picture requests, and Jasmine’s eyes flew to where Indiana Gaffney stood, hand over her mouth, staring at the board. The blond girl turned around, her hand falling away, a huge smile on her face. Apparently she’d worked up the courage to look at the list. Jasmine averted her eyes. She was ready to live up to her parents’ legacy, and if she beat Indiana Gaffney along the way, so much the better.
FOURTH.
Dom ranked her fourth in the Classic.
Sure, after coming to OBX, Indy had every intention of taking everyone by surprise in the tournament, battling her way into the final and winning the whole damn thing. She hadn’t expected Dom to rate her so highly. He hadn’t even watched her train before he put the rankings out—and thank God for that, because he probably would’ve changed his mind. It was all she could think about during lunch, right through the afternoon workout in the gym, and during dinner, just before he posted the list—that and the word Coach D’Amato had used during morning practice.Inaccettabile.That’s what the tiny Italian coach called her footwork, and now, the day was almost over, but the word was still ringing in Indy’s head. She was ranked fourth, even with her inaccettabile footwork.
Indy didn’t speak Italian, but that was easy enough to translate: unacceptable, not good enough, weak. That meant more practice. So, after dinner she headed straight out to the practice courts to start addressing that weakness.
Tossing her bag against the fence, she leaned down and grabbed the small orange cones sitting on the ground. She’d start out simply. Moving to the middle of the court, she placed them about ten feet apart and stood in the center. One crossover step to the right and then back to the middle, another crossover to the left and retreat again. Over and over, keeping her feet moving and then faster and faster, like she’d seen Jasmine Randazzo do this morning at practice, like Penny Harrison did against Zina Lutrova. Time flew, the spring sun beginning to set, and as the scuffing of her sneakers against the hard court sped up, so did her breathing, coming in short puffs. Her legs were tired after a long day of training, but that was all the more reason to push through. She couldn’t just take a little break during a match if her legs got tired. Finally, she had to stop to catch her breath, hands on her knees, sucking in as much air as she could.
There were eyes on her. Indy could feel the stares burning into her skin like white-hot laser beams, making the hair at the back of her neck, now sticky with sweat, stand up on end. She turned and saw Addison Quinn and Lara Cronin, who’d giggled when Jasmine snubbed her that morning. Lara was her first-round opponent in the Classic and Addison was the one who’d collapsed into sobs when she hadn’t made the cut at all. Indy bit back a sharp comment and ignored them, hoping they’d go away. She started up her drill again,focusing more closely on keeping her footwork crisp and her strides long.
They were still there. She could feel them, and anytime her drills took her close to the fence, their hushed, biting whispers, unintelligible but clearly about her, would stop.
“Look,” Indy said, finally unable to ignore them any longer. She slid to a halt and whipped around. They stood at the baseline of the court, a few feet behind her, hands on their hips, looking ready for a fight. “I don’t have time for this crap. If you want to train, you’re free to join me. Otherwise leave me the hell alone.”
Addison huffed and Lara’s eyes narrowed, but a stony silence was their only reply.
“That’s what I thought,” Indy said, turning back to her cones.
“It’s not like you have any chance, anyway. I’m going to destroy you in the first round, bitch,” Lara muttered.
“Is there a problem here, ladies?” a voice called beyond the gate, getting closer with every word.
Indy whirled around again and stared at the guy the voice belonged to as he made his way onto the court. She hadn’t even seen him approach—he was easily the best-looking man she’d ever set eyes upon. Tall, dark, and handsome didn’t even begin to cover it, but it was a good start. He was built, not super skinny like some really tall guys tended to be, dressed in jeans and a crimson T-shirt withHARVARDTENNISemblazoned across his chest—his very broad, very firm-looking chest, from what she could tell.
“Yeah, there’s a problem,” Lara spit out, flinging a hand out toward Indy. “She’s using our practice court, Jack.”
His name was Jack, but… Jack what? He looked sort of familiar, and as Indy tried to place his face, he said, “Last time I checked there were over forty courts around here. Why don’t you go claim another one as your own before I bring Dom down here and tell him about this misunderstanding.”
Lara’s jaw dropped and it looked like she was about to say something else, but Jack crossed his arms over his chest, stretching his T-shirt over the muscle there and making Indy swallow hard. He was too fucking hot for words.
OBX’s self-appointed court police let out twin, long-suffering sighs, and when Jack raised his eyebrow, probably daring them to protest, they marched away from the courts entirely, clearly having no intention of training anyway.
“Thanks,” Indy said, pulling her gaze away from his body and into his eyes, hopefully before he noticed her staring. It wasn’t a sacrifice. His eyes were bright green, an interesting shade considering his dark, thick curls and tanned skin.
“No problem,” he said, closing the gap between them with confident strides. “If there’s one thing I can’t stand, it’s bullies.”
