“Hey, Sarah. How’s training going?”
She shrugs. “Not bad. I was hitting my serves today, so Claudio was happy.” Sarah’s serve has always been her weak point. Her coach, Claudio, has long maintained that if she could fix her serve, she’d be unbeatable.
“How are you?” she asks. “How’s the new job?”
“It’s . . . weird,” I admit. I explain how Heather hired me to work for Dr. Malone, who didn’t think he needed an assistant. “So I have nothing to do except manage his email and make him lunch.”
Sarah frowns. “That is weird.”
“Yep. And he wants to play tennis with me.”
Sarah’s mouth falls open. “What? Tell me you said no.”
“Well, actually, Heather wants him to go to a meeting, and he agreed to go if I could beat him at tennis, so . . .”
Sarah’s looking at me as though I’m speaking a foreign language.
“It’s crazy, right?” I ask ruefully.
“The crazy train has left the station, my friend,” Sarah says with a nod. “Is he creepy?”
“Dr. Malone? No, why?”
“Well, you’re hot,” she says matter-of-factly. “And the tennis thing could be just an excuse to get you to spend time with him out of the hospital.”
“I’m pretty sure he’s just into tennis, and he wants to play against a former player.” I remember the phone call I overheardon my first day, with a woman named Breanna. “Besides, I’m pretty sure he’s in a relationship.”
“Because no man in a relationship has ever made a pass at his assistant,” Sarah says dryly. “Be careful, Ally. What did you say his name was?”
“Drew Malone.”
Sarah’s video feed wobbles again. I’m pretty sure she’s Googling him.
And a few seconds later her expression changes. “Neurosurgeon, right?”
“Yep.”
“Shit, Ally, I assumed he’d be some old guy, but the man’s a total smoke show.”
“He’s not bad, I guess.”
“Sure,” Sarah says. “Okay. Yeah, I’d play tennis with him. Hell, I’d fly out tomorrow and play with you guys if it wouldn’t give Claudio a heart attack.”
“Dr. Malone would probably love that,” I say with a laugh. “Playing with you, I mean, not Claudio’s heart attack.” I’m sure most tennis fans would jump at the chance to play the third-ranked female tennis player in the world.
There’s a pinch of envy in my chest that I try to ignore.
“And you’re playing tennis with him,” Sarah says quietly. “Have you been playing at all?”
“Nope. It’ll be the first time. I don’t even have a racket, but he says he has a spare.”
Sarah frowns. “Let me call Tim,” she offers, referring to her agent. “He can arrange to have one delivered.”
“You don’t have to—” I protest.
“I might as well, Wilson will send it for free,” she insists. “And we can have Nike send you a couple dresses. They’re really cute this year.” Since she broke into the top ten, Sarah’s gottensome lucrative sponsorship deals, including with Wilson and Nike.
“Thanks, Sarah, but I’ll be fine. And we’re playing tomorrow, so there’s no way the stuff will arrive by then.”
