Page 24 of Hard to Love

And then another.

I work tirelessly, ball after ball, shot after shot, backhand after backhand, with Kellen’s name an endless curse on my lips and what I swear is alcohol sweating out of my pores.

It doesn’t help that Vivi, Jordan, and I may have had a hotel room party where we drank a bit too much to celebrate the fact that Carson sent Finn back to wherever he’s from for the night.

A small and unexpected reprieve that I took happily.

But now I’m paying for it. Big time.

Winded, nauseous, and clueless over how long we’ve been at it since there is no sun above to guestimate time, I lean over and brace my hands on my knees to catch my breath.

“Game on, Stevester. Let’s go.”

The words hit me like a ton of bricks.

Words that have been heard time and again on television during Grand Slam finals. Ones spoken to me by my father, but only ever by my father.

Except for right now.

And hearing them stops me dead in my tracks.

I know it shouldn’t bug me that Kellen is using them as a means to motivate, but . . . they were his words. Only his. Something no one possibly understands.

And hearing them right now only serves to shine a spotlight on the glaringly obvious hole that I now have to live with forever.

One I’m not even quite sure I’ve seen to the depths of yet.

The words cripple me when I don’t want to be crippled.

“We’re done,” I pant out and walk over to the bench. I don’t wait to see his reaction as I put my racket into its case and zip it up. I don’t turn to face him as his footsteps come closer. All I can focus on is the anger vibrating through me and trying to contain it.

“You okay?” he asks, but I don’t trust myself to speak so I just nod. “Your body is probably rebelling, correct? You haven’t been treating it right so it’s probably telling you to fuck off and die about now.”

“Something like that,” I murmur, suddenly needing to get out of this place and get some fresh air.

“You’re looking decent, but we’re going to have to catch up some. A month off is a long time to take off when—”

“It hasn’t been a month,” I snap at him. He’s freaking crazy. There’s no way—

“You’re right. It’s been five weeks,” a voice says from the stands at my back. “Maybe even longer than that.”

I turn to see Finn Sanderson standing there and immediately, my back stiffens in protest at his presence while other parts of me that I don’t want to react, heat up.

He’s the distraction I need and the perfect adversary to help take my mind off what Kellen just said and how I feel about it.

“And how would you know?” I place my hands on my hips and glare at him. “Keeping tabs on me before you knew me? Should I worry that you’re secretly obsessed with me and that I need to fear for my safety?”

“No, you should worry about how your backhand is late and your serve isn’t up to par, because you’ve been busy dicking around for the past five-plus weeks doing anything and everything to not prepare for the US Open.”

“Dicking around? Interesting choice of words,” I say and take a step closer to him, needing someone to feed off my need to forget.

His smirk is a flash, but it’s there, and then gone just as quickly. “You’ll learn I don’t mince words.”

“Good to know,” I murmur, keenly aware that Kellen is still at my back, no doubt curious about this exchange. This is none of his business.

Then again, it seems my business is everyone’s business these days.

And as if right on cue, Finn shifts his attention to Kellen. “How’d she do?”