Shit.
I was supposed to see her today after training.
It all came rushing back. Not the girl from last night, buther. The cool, calm physio with the voice that could slice through steel. The way her hands had felt on my thigh. The way she’d looked at me like she could see straight through every layer of bullshit I’d ever built.
And worse, the way I’d spent half the night wishing the girl under me had been her instead.
I wanted her hair in my fists. Her mouth on mine. I wanted her legs locked around my waist while she gasped my name, stripping away that professional mask until there was nothing left but heat.
Fantastic. Hangover and a hard-on. Perfect start to the day.
I practically dove into the shower, turning it to freezing, hoping to drown the images before I embarrassed myself again.
By the time I got to the courts, I was only ten minutes late. I really was making all kinds of progress this week. Practically a model athlete. Ted didn’t look as impressed as he should have been.
“I suppose I should be honored,” he said as dry as the baseline in July. “This is early by your standards.”
“New personal best, Coach,” I said, grabbing a ball can. “What can I say? I’m thriving.”
He stared at me for a beat, likely deciding whether strangling me would void his pension fund.
I’d known Ted for years. He’d been close to my uncle Eddie, the only reason I ever picked up a racket in the first place. Eddie took me out to hit balls when I was thirteen, back when I was two wrong turns away from disaster. Maybe he saw something worth saving, or maybe he just didn’t want to watch me vanish the way my old man did.
As it turned out, tennis came easy. It felt good to slam anger into something that didn’t bleed. And truthfully, I’m glad I had him at a time where none of the people who were supposed to take care of me could put their own needs aside and look after their kids.
Eddie and his wife, Sarah, did what they could. My mom…well. She wasn’t always a wreck, but when my dad bailed when I was five, she spiraled hard. Vodka for breakfast, guilt for dinner. Eddie stepped in when he could, dragged me and my older brother to the park, to the courts. My brother, Travis, got out the second he was old enough, somehow got the grades, went to college and had a big finance career in New York. I stayed behind because somebody had to.
Sometimes Mom was great, she really tried. But there was always another relapse waiting, and I was always the one there when it happened. Tennis became the only thing that made sense. My release. My escape.
And now here I was, still swinging, still running, still one bad decision away from losing it all.
“How’s the hamstring?” Ted asked.
“Tight,” I said, bouncing a ball off my strings. “But I’m fine. Got another session today.”
He nodded. “Make sure you actually listen to whatever she tells you. You can’t afford to crash out again because you ignored advice.”
Yeah. If only he knew. I’d listen to anything that came out of her mouth. Hell, I’d put a few things…
Jesus Christ, Reed. Focus.
9:10 am
I practically jogged down the hall from practice, sweat still running in slow, humiliating rivers down my back. My shirt clung to me, my hair was damp, and I smelled like exactly what I was: a man who’d sprinted off court without cooling down or stretching properly. Perfect. Exactly the look you want when you’re about to see the most beautiful woman on earth. My leg throbbed just enough to piss me off but not enough to matter. I hadn’t even had time to shower.
Ted had gone off on his usual Sunday sermon about focus and discipline, and by the time he’d finished, I had only a few minutes to get from the courts to the physio rooms.
It was game day tomorrow and if I won, I was through to the semis, the biggest stage of my life.
But all I could think about was the cappuccino burning my hand.
I’d stopped at the café on the way here like some rookie boyfriend, no clue if she even drank coffee. Maybe she was an herbal tea type. Maybe she’d think it was desperate but, fuck it. It felt right. It was a small gesture that wasn’t about charm or lines or the same tired routine I’d used on every other girl. Because she wasn’t every other girl.
And clearly whatever I’d been doing wasn’t working on her, or maybe it was too much. MaybeIwas too much.
So fine. New plan; coffee and sincerity.
Either way, I was showing up sweaty, flustered, and holding a cappuccino I wasn’t even sure she’d want.
