Rowan
February - Australian Open
My shoulder twingesin pain but I do my best to push through it, focusing on the blue court under my feet. My neon pink shoes stand out in high contrast against the court, and I smile, thinking about my best friend. She took one look at my shoes and matching shirt this morning, when I joined her for breakfast, and told me that neon should firmly remain in the 80s. I laughed and threw a grape at her, which she expertly caught in her mouth, winking at me.
I shake the memory away and bounce on my feet, antsy for the fifth set to start as my opponent, Jacob, gets ready to serve. My left foot slides on the court, likely worn out from all the practice and games the last few weeks, and I let out a sigh. I much rather prefer the grass courts, which cater to my agility and allow me to maintain control while changing directions quickly. But the synthetic surface is fine, I suppose.
Jacob serves and I hit it at the perfect angle.
Love-15.
My eyes stay trained on his movements, on the ball, and soon enough I’m in the lead.
15-40.
I need one more point to win not just the set, but the whole championship. Jacob serves it again and we rally back and forth a few times until he makes the wrong move. He hits a drop shot, thinking that I won’t make it, but I slide up to it just in time, hitting and landing the ball by the baseline, just inside the line. And this is how I win the Australian Open for the third time in my career.
In a move that many have called dramatic, I drop to my knees and raise my hands over my head in victory.
When I finally pick myself off the court, I make my way to the net. Jacob smirks and gives me a hug and a back slap. “Drinks later?”
“Sure, man.” I chuckle and punch his shoulder lightly. Jacob currently holds the No. 1 spot in the men’s singles ranking, and even though I would very much like to steal that from him, he’s become a good friend in the last few years, after he crushed me in the Madrid Open.
I wave at the two people cheering for me in the stands and bask in the win, accepting the trophy, giving a few interviews, and making my way back to the hotel. My plan is to meet up with my best friend and her sister, but Jacob waits for me in the lobby and signals for us to head to the bar.
By the time we finish our margaritas and conversation, I’ve got a pleasant buzz going. I take the elevator to the fifth floor and a quick glance at my phone tells me it’s way past midnight. There’s a text that I missed and I click into it, biting my lip. Reaching for my wallet, I take out the two room keys, turning them over between my fingers, contemplating which one I should usetonight.
I look at the text again.
I’m proud of you.
My feet carry me of their own accord to the room opposite the hallway from mine. I wait for the beep and whir of the lock before gently opening the door. I pad through the darkness, taking off all my layers until I’m wearing nothing but my boxers. Climbing under the covers, I gravitate towards the woman radiating so much heat she could be on fire.
A smile tugs at my lips and I press a kiss to her shoulder as my right arm bands across her middle. The feel of her silky nightgown has my cock twitching as I press myself closer to her. She stirs a little, wiggling her ass against me and I bite back a groan. I can’t help how much I want her. All the damn time.
“Ro,” she mumbles, her hand covering mine where it’s resting across her toned stomach.
“Mmm, I’m here,” I whisper, pressing a kiss to her neck.
“I didn't think you’d come.”
“I’m sorry, Jacob was very chatty tonight and I couldn’t get away sooner.” I sigh, rubbing small circles on the silky material.
“S’fine,” she yawns, gripping my hand harder. “We can celebrate tomorrow.”
“Goodnight, Mags,” I say with a small smile.
“‘Night, Rowan.”
CHAPTER 3
Maggie
Ten Years Ago - Stanford University
College parties are overrated—there,I said it. I’ve never understood the need to get blackout drunk on a random school night and make a fool of myself in front of my peers who will never let me live it down.
That is why I’m sitting at the local college campus bar on a Saturday, nursing my second margarita for the night and trying to convince this random guy that we should hook up. My annoyance flares with each sip I take of the fruity tequila concoction, because why the hellshouldI even convince him? I’m a fucking knockout. He should be the one convincing me.
