His hand rubbed at the stubble on his chin, all he was able to grow before a patchy, terrible beard came in. “As long as it’s not practice.”
I thought of Henrik, remembering that his schedule was bringing him stateside in time for the hard-court season. I was sure he was scheduled for some time off too; maybe it wouldn’t be such a bad thing to have alittlebreak. He fit in this weird space between friends with benefits and boyfriend. Both of us were far too busy and non-committal to take it any further.
And he had the added bonus of being somebody my over-protective family could trust me with. Calvin had always pushed me to socialize more, but my mom had seen the darker, cutthroat side of tennis, left with anxiety and forced from the sport she loved. My dad, who’d had to watch her endure from the sidelines, hated the idea of me being close with the enemy, with a possible rival. But Henrik’s and my families were close, which apparently made him an acceptable partner.
“Fine,” I agreed. “I’ll give Henrik a call, see what his plans are. I’m sure he’s supposed to be in Manhattan.”
Calvin elbowed me in the ribs. “That’s the spirit.”
I held a finger up. “On one condition.”
“What?”
I pointed at Wilson. “I’m taking the dog.’
4
Inés
801—The Aces
“Does everyone have a shot?” Dylan Bailey’s Australian accent echoed around the vaulted ceiling of the kitchen.
She stood on a bar stool above us all, with an arm extended, a shot glass filled to the brim with clear liquid.
“Nico doesn’t,” Scottie yelled back, earning her a temporary scowl from her fiancé, the hulk of a man who stood protectively beside her.
“I don’t do shots,” he grumbled unhappily.
Dylan only tsked, clearly enjoying her platform of power. “It’s tequila or you down that beer.”
He raised his full bottle. “I’ll take the beer.”
“Beer is an option?” Oliver cried as he entered the vast kitchen where we were all gathered around the giant marble island in the middle, an impressively large collection of alcohol set out before us.
He slid towards Dylan with a look of concern as he weighed up what was safer: to let her continue standing at that height or try to encourage her to return to ground level and possibly face her wrath.
Instead, he hovered below her, like a protective mattress, ready to break her fall.
“Not for you, lover boy.” She smiled, pointing down at two more shot glasses awaiting victims. I suspected I was to be the other casualty.
Dylan crooked her head towards the glass, her eyes on mine. “Drink up, Costa!”
Like Oliver, I didn’t bother to argue. I was quite looking forward to a drink, to a few days away from the drama and pressure. After an intense year for all of us, we needed this.
We’d known each other for years, but after being thrust together by a mutual coach, we’d spent a cozy six weeks in a training camp in Greece that cemented our friendship. Scottie had been on a comeback from a ban, Nico recovering from a knee replacement, Dylan trying to find her road to victory, and me, trying to figure out how to play with two injured wrists.
Now, a year later, Scottie was the winner of her first singles Grand Slam, Nico retired with the love of his life, Dylan loved up with Oliver after her win in Melbourne. Was I the only one who had been better off two years ago?
We were all spending the long weekend together, Dylan and Oliver having rented the beach house for us while we took part in a charity tennis event for a local club.
“To best friends,” Dylan said, her eyes catching mine, friendly this time. “I might kick your asses on court—”
“You wish!” Scottie interrupted.
She continued without missing a beat. “—but I still love you. Cheers!”
We all raised our glasses, before swallowing down the tequila. Harsh and unforgiving, but it would get the job done.
