“I’ve gotta go,” she mumbled, nodding to Caroline as she passed her, careful not to get any dirt on the woman’s designer clothes.
As soon as Penny stepped through the door of her house, she caught sight of Jack pacing back and forth in the living room, his cell phone glued to his ear.
“Who is that?” she mouthed, but he shook his head. She moved into the living room and plopped down on the couch, waiting for him to finish up.
“Thank you, Frank. I’ll be in touch tomorrow and her schedule will be in your inbox as soon as we hang up. All right, have a good night,” Jack said, and ended the call.
“Who’s getting my schedule?”
“Frank Granholm from Nike Tennis.” He nodded at a stack of papers at the center of the coffee table, brightly colored tabs protruding out of the pile. “They sent over your contract.”
It was the perfect distraction: dozens of pages to sift through that would take her mind off Alex and everythingthat had happened while they lay side by side on her practice court.
They had almost kissed.
She wanted him to kiss her and she felt like a ridiculous child, especially in those last few seconds while Caroline Morneau bugged him about their date or whatever it was.
It wasn’t jealousy. There was nothing to be jealous about. Maybe they were having a business meeting; maybe Alex was looking to sign with Caroline, or maybe he just wanted to screw her. It didn’t matter. Despite what he’d said, about how beautiful he thought she was, he’d probably thought that Aussie supermodel was beautiful, too, and Caroline was undeniably gorgeous. Besides, Alex could go out with anyone he liked, why should it make any difference to her?
The contract required her signature in several places and there were three copies—one for Jack, one for herself, and one to send back to Nike. Each time she signed it, the small sparks of everything she’d felt for Alex since that night in Australia were pushed aside, and eventually, she hoped, they’d be gone for good.
FOR AS LONG AS JASMINE COULD REMEMBER, HER DADwould give her a last-minute pep talk before each match, and the final of the Classic was no exception. It was hard for him, after so many years of playing, to sit in the stands and watch with very little control over the outcome. So he would create a strategy for every match. Most of the time it was helpful, especially if she didn’t know much about her opponent’s strengths and weaknesses.
At most tournaments she was too busy playing to scout out the competition, but she’d watched Indy every day at training and all week during the lead-up to the final. She knew what she had to do. Of course, that didn’t stop her dad from giving his traditional pep talk in the locker room just minutes before she had to be out on the court.
“Keep your feet moving and don’t give an inch on herserve,” John Randazzo said as Jasmine packed her racket bag. “On change-over have a banana, and then after the first set, an electrolyte chew.” He handed her a plastic bag with the items already packed.
“Thanks.”
“If she plays a baseline game, make her move and force an error. She’s got power, but she’s sloppy. Be patient like always and you shouldn’t have any problems.”
“I know, Dad,” she said, trying to hide her exasperation. It was everything she’d observed about Indiana all week, and yet Dom was still gaga over the girl. Jasmine planned to put a stop to that today.
Her mom saw through her right away. “Okay, John. That’s enough, let’s go get our seats.”
“What?” her dad asked, looking at his wife and then back to Jasmine. “Okay. Good luck, Jas. You’ll do great. Just stick to the game plan.”
“Thanks, Dad.”
Jasmine sent a silent thank-you to her mom as she led her dad from the locker room.
She let out a sigh of relief and checked the clock. Her ankle was wrapped up tight. She’d sprained it last year and the wrap was a precaution, plus it gave her a little bit of extra stability. Her rackets were ready and her bags were packed. Fifteen more minutes until it was time to step onto the court and win her first Classic trophy. A thrill shot through her body at the thought.
Shaking out her arms and then her legs, she tried to stay warm, but it was impossible. The air-conditioning was pumping at full throttle as the temperature outside climbedinto the mid-nineties, high for May in the Outer Banks. Jasmine was counting on that as well. She was in better physical condition than Indy and the heat would expose it. She planned to make her run, blocking back her shots, tiring her out. That would help weaken her serve and whatever advantage she had.
She checked the clock again: ten more minutes. A run in the hallway wouldn’t hurt, just a light jog to keep loose. The hall was empty and she could hear the crowd echoing down from the main court through the door at the end of the tunnel. The steady thrum of her heartbeat spiked, the pre-match adrenaline starting to flow. She jogged in the opposite direction, swinging her arms around, trying to keep her body warm and her nerves under control.
“Hey, Randazzo.”
She turned to see Teddy striding down the hallway from the door to Indy’s changing room. Of course he’d go talk toherfirst, another girl on Teddy’s list of potential conquests. She knew it was mean, but it would make beating Indy that much sweeter.
“Hey,” she said, avoiding his eye and moving back toward the locker room to grab her bag.
“You don’t call. You don’t write,” Teddy quipped. “Did you get any of my messages?”
Jasmine bit her lip, a small bubble of guilt building in her stomach. She got his messages, all ten of them, and ignored every single one. It was too hard to pretend to be his friend when she wanted so much more.
“I wanted to wish you good luck,” he said, hovering in the doorway as she slung her bag over her shoulder.
