Page 32 of Hard to Love

“I’m well aware of the figure,” I say. It’s a rather large one. “And that’s why he’ll take the bet because he’s Ian and only wants to look good for himself. He’ll think he’s safe and when he finishes the game in one more set it’ll only be a further insult to you.”

“Exactly. When he wins the next set.” She snorts but there’s a flicker there in her eyes. There’s anger as a result of my words.

“Then when you kick his ass, you’ll look like a hero.”

“You realize I’d have to win three straight sets, right?” She rubs a towel over her face almost as if she’s dismissing me.

“I’m aware.”

“Against Ian Greshenko.”

“And?”

“You don’t see this as obscene?” she asks, her voice rising in pitch.

“Not in the least.”

“Do you not see how I’m playing out there?”

“Then play better.” I add a little fuel to her fire.

“Says the man who’s sitting on the sidelines.”

“Says the man telling you that you can beat him.”

Stevie snorts, braces her hand on the back of the chair in front of her, and lets her head hang down as she chuckles. Kellen steps back, clearly wanting out of this conversation. I’m assuming it’s to avoid the fallout if I’m wrong . . . but at the same time, he should be pushing her just the same.

I’ll need to have a talk with him. He’s the one who’s contributing to her doubt right now by being too careful with her. Her dad wouldn’t have handled her with kid gloves. Hell, everyone who follows tennis knows that. Instead he made her tough, feisty, strong. She needs that. To be pushed. Questioned. Challenged.

And Kellen needs to foster that.

“You’re crazy,” she murmurs.

“Don’t you believe in yourself anymore, Stevie? Because I do.”

“I believe in the old Stevie.”

“Well you better start believing in the fucking new one right this minute,” I shout at her.

“This one, right here, hasn’t trained hard enough to trust her.” Her voice is all but a whisper when she speaks and lifts her eyes to meet mine. And fucking hell, that haunted look is in her eyes again, and I look away to avoid it. I pace from one side of the room and back, running a hand through my hair and sighing in frustration as I do.

“Fine. Do what you want. No skin off my back. But the old Stevie you still believe in would never lie down and die for a prick like Greshenko. Never.”

And with that, I waltz out of the locker room and back to my seats in her box next to the court, hoping the ember I just sparked turns into fire.

Hoping that it burns so bright it consumes her so she forgets everything else and just plays the game her way.

The one I think she loves more than anything in the world.

Let’s hope I’m right.

The crowd roars as Stevie hits a backhand that flies to just inside the fault line—less than an inch out of reach of Ian’s racket.

She pumps her fist and shouts, clearly feeding off their energy.

She did just what I told her to do.

She walked out of that locker room and taunted Ian. She pulled the crowd into the bet, getting them to cheer for him to agree to it, so that he had no choice but to say yes on national television or look like he didn’t want to support Net Gen . . . and then somehow, someway, Stevie turned it on.