Toss. Swing. WALLOP!
That makes seventeen consecutive perfect serves in the last ten minutes.
I bite my tongue, holding back another slew of unsavory mutterings about Chris. What hurts more than the fact that he just upped-and-left me, and the rest of the team, is that he did it with absolutely no warning at all.
It doesn’t make any sense. We’re record-breaking doubles champions, for God’s sake! Ever since elementary school, we’ve been kicking ass and taking names. Together. Doubles partners on the road to going pro. Then one day, he just… quits the team? Stops being my best friend?
At first, I figured something was terribly wrong. I was worried sick. But the longer Chris ignored my calls, the madder I got until I ultimately decided to hate him. Hating him is easier than going insane trying to figure out why he left in the first place, right?
Well, it’s a lot harder than it sounds. The truth is, hating Chris has made me rethink every memory of the two of us together, even my favorite ones. Though he pretty much broke my heart, I’m not ready to completely erase Chris from my memory. Yet.
Not until I get to the bottom of things tonight. If the jerk ever shows up, that is.
My brain tumbles down another rabbit hole of questioning, doubtful thoughts. Just when I can’t remember why I was ever friends with Chris in the first place, the sonofabitch strides onto the court.
His wavy, jaw-length, dirty blond hair is pushed back behind a red-white-and-blue sweatband. He’s wearing a white short-sleeved athletic shirt that shows off his lean arm muscles, knee-length workout shorts, white cotton high socks that always leave a hilarious sock tan, and his lightning-blue tennis shoes that remind me he’s still such a boy.
Oh yeah, that’s why. Chris “Golden Boy” Marlowe has always had that California surfer dude swag, and he’s always had my heart.
The bastard.
My breath catches in my throat at the sight of him. He flashes me a beautiful white smile, and it melts me on the spot. Where am I again? And why was I mad?
Chris approaches the covered courtside area and drops his duffel bag on the metal bench with a casual confidence that has me tricked into thinking nothing’s wrong. For a moment, I desperately want to run to him and squeeze him tight. I want to know if he’s alright and where the hell he’s been. I want him to answer all the unanswered questions that have been burning a hole in my brain ever since he left.
But those last two words stop me before I can make a single move.
He left.
The anger comes flooding back like a tsunami. In an uncharacteristic show of self-control, I decide it’s best to hold myself back and let Chris make the first move. If I have to go full-blown Harley crazy, I will. Until then, I channel my remaining chaotic energy into one last practice serve.
Thank my lucky stars. It’s the perfect show-off shot.
Chris whistles as he walks up to the baseline with his hands on his hips. “Wow, nice shot Har.” I gulp when he says my nickname. The term of endearment feels so wrong coming from him now. “Your serves are looking even better than when I last saw you play.”
Ha. The last time he saw me play was over a month ago. Even before he quit the team, Chris stopped coming to my singles matches. But I still couldn’t help myself from searching the stands between points for his handsome face. In one of my more recent games, I got a little too excited at the sight of a moppy head of blond hair and lost the damn match point.
Chris ruins everything.
“Why did I agree to meet you here?” I mumble.
“I don’t know. Why did you?” He gives me a playful smirk that sets my heart to an irregular beat. Why is he acting like nothing happened? Does he not realize what he did? Something has to be up.
“What do you want, Chris?” I stare him down with an intensity that should probably light him on fire.
But instead, he shrugs his shoulders in his cute, boyish way that’s so familiar and attractive to me. “I want to play a match with my best friend. It’s been a while.”
It sure as hell has, and I want nothing more right now than to play a match with him. I wish I could ignore the eager excitement that has my fingers twitching around the handle of my tennis racket. But I can’t give in. Not yet. I need to know why he did this to me first. Then, I’ll decide if I want to give him a second chance.
“What makes you think I even want to play with you?” I ask. He’s keeping his distance from me, as he should, but it still feels weird to have this uncomfortable, awkward gap between us.
“Oh, come on,” Chris says, rolling his eyes. “You know I love your sass, but it’s not the end of the world, Harley.”
My jaw drops. What’s more world-shattering than being discarded by your best friend? Clearly, he doesn’t see the severity of the situation. I switch gears, coming at him with a new angle that will hopefully slap some sense into him. “It may not be the end of the world,” I say, “but it’s basically the end of my tennis career.”
Chris chuckles. Chuckles! “You’re always so dramatic. I love it.” He flashes me a smirk.
Okay, sure, I’m going a little overboard on the drama. But that sexy grin and the way he thinks he can just waltz back into my life has Chris wedged so far under my skin I could explode! Why does he have such power over my emotions? And why haven’t I punched him yet? I can feel my control wavering beneath the surface.
Chris heads back to the covered bench, and this time I follow, working up something sassy to bark at him. Except, I’m totally tongue-tied. It’s like he’s moving in slow motion, a sexy model for a tennis commercial.
I watch in a daze as Chris stuffs a hand into his duffel bag and pulls out a fresh bottle of tennis balls. He cracks open the bottle like a refreshing cold beer, and when he hands me the small, fuzzy things, his hand grazes mine, and my heart skips a beat. I have to force my lungs to keep working correctly.
Why is my body responding to him like this? And why is he acting all… sexy-like? From the corner of my eye, I watch as Chris pulls his knee up into a quick stretch. His pants tighten around the curve of his perfect ass. I have to fight the urge to smack it. He stretches his neck, and I want so badly to plant a kiss on his bare skin, to press my body up against his and feel the way his hard muscles feel against my soft curves.
Chris notices me ogling and smirks. I gasp and straighten up, wondering what the hell has gotten into me. Chris has always been cute, but I’ve never let him see how much I want to jump on him before, and he never acted like he knew it before.
Get a grip, girl. It’s just because I haven’t seen him in so long. That’s all.
But as I stomp toward the other side of the court and all my repressed attraction toward Chris start to resurface, I know it’s not all. Maybe it’s the underlying worry that he could just up and leave once again that has me acting like a lust-craved loony. As if my one chance to have him in the way of my secret fantasies is now or never.
I shake the ridiculous thoughts from my head and ready myself to beat Chris’ ass (not slap it) when it occurs to me that I’ve completely forgotten about my stance against playing him. Damn!
“Wait a minute,” I say, whirling on my heels to glare him down. “You can’t just come back and, and…”
“And what? Win a game of tennis against a friend?” He grins, knowing I can never pass up a challenge, let alone one from him.
I grit my teeth. “Friends don’t quit the team with no warning. Friends don’t duck out on their doubles partner, leaving her to pair up with Duncan Wheeler, AKA, the idiot of the team!” I point my finger at him accusatorially.
He laughs, and it’s like bells ringing through the air. “Yeah, he’s not the greatest.”
“It’s not funny, Chris. The U.S.T.A. Transition Tournament qualifiers are in just a few weeks, and you knew this!” I fight to keep my voice level as the threat of crying rises in my throat. My hormones are all over the place. Maybe I’m just PMSing, I tell myself, but I know that’s not the case. T
he truth is, I’m crazy for Chris. I always have been. “I’m so pissed at you,” I say. Do not cry. Do not cry. Do not cry.
“I know, but you’re going to do great.” He grabs his racket and a sip of water from the fountain.
“That’s not the point, Chris.” How can he not care at all? Hot tears well in my eyes, threatening to spill over if I blink.
“What is your point, then?” He heads toward me. Shoot, he cannot see me cry. I take a deep breath and will my tears to suck back into my eyeballs. When I turn around, Chris is three feet in front of me.
“My point is you suck,” I say. Great argument.
Chris gives me a knowing smile. “I disagree, seeing as when I was your teammate, we made it to states three years in a row.”
Yeah, we were the best doubles team in the history of Tempt University. On our way to greatness and on my way to becoming a pro. I’ve never had anything so good. A teammate that knows what I’m thinking without ever having to speak out loud. Maintaining my scholarship, leading a team that was winning like no one at Tempt U. had ever seen before. Chris and I gained so much attention in our first three years on the team it felt like we were celebrities.
But all that momentum went sputtering out like an old pickup truck the day he stepped foot off this court.
I blink away my tears. Chris furrows his brows at me, and I pray to God he can’t see me breaking down. Before he can ask me what’s wrong, I straighten my spine and act as tough as possible. If Chris doesn’t need me, then I sure as hell don’t need him.
“The fact that you walked back onto this court thinking you can get a game out of me, thinking you can desert your best friend and not talk to her for weeks and then act like nothing happened, just proves you’re an idiot.” Chris opens his mouth like he’s about to say something, but I cut him off. “You never deserved your spot on the team.” Or in my heart.
I drop the balls and head for my duffel bag, shocked at the anger and vile words that spill out of me. I don’t want to be mean to him. I want to be his partner again. I want things to go back to the way they were. But I’m a big girl, and I know that can’t happen. I shove the racket in my duffel bag, zipping it shut.
“Harley, wait.”
Chris’s worried tone stops me mid-stride, halfway to the gate.
“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” Chris says from behind me. I can hear the shock and hurt in his voice. He sounds so sincere I almost feel bad for acting this way.
Almost.
I turn around to face him, giving him my best glare, just to make sure he knows I’m mad in case my words fail me.
“You didn’t hurt me. You disappointed me,” I say. God, I sound like my mother. What a stupid, stupid line. Thank goodness I glared at him.
“Harley,” Chris says. I give a huff and drag my eyes over his handsome face to meet his gaze. Chris is, was my best friend. He knows I can’t resist his golden puppy dog eyes. Especially not now, having been deprived of gazing in them for what feels like an eternity.
“Please play with me,” he pleads. The hurt in his voice has me questioning if Chris even understands what’s going on between us. Could this all be just a big misunderstanding? The thought sparks a tiny pilot light of hope deep inside me. Maybe Chris didn’t intend to hurt me. Perhaps he’s just a big idiot.
I let out a deep breath I didn’t realize I was holding because, either way, it’s clear what has to happen now.
I have to play a game with Chris.
Well, shit.
“What’s in it for me?” I ask, trying to keep the upper hand here, and I notice a flicker of hurt in his eyes. I never needed an incentive to play with Chris before. Just being together was always enough, more than enough. For a moment, I wonder if I’ve gone too far.
But just as quickly as that flicker of doubt crosses his eyes, it’s replaced with a devilish grin. “If you win, I’ll play in the Transition Tournament with you,” he says.
I gasp. So many thoughts go through my head in an instant that I have to take a step back. The possibility of playing in the Transition Tournament with Chris by my side lights my imagination on fire and sets my entire body alight with a tingling feeling.
In my head, I’m right back on the court with him, facing our opponents as the unbeatable team that they’ve come to know us as, setting each other up for our signature winning shots and taking home a glorious trophy.
“Harley?” Chris’s voice snaps me back to reality, and I realize his promise is too good to be true. If we did play doubles together again, we wouldn’t play the same way. Not after he cut that chord between us. No matter how much I’d like to think we’re invincible, Chris ruined it. We’re done.
“That’s not good enough for me,” I say, heading back for the fence door. But Chris rushes to block my exit.
“Not good enough? Isn’t that why you’re mad at me? Because I quit being your teammate?” He looks incredulous, and it feels good to see that he’s finally feeling some hurt.
“I don’t need you as my partner to qualify, Chris. I’m pissed at you because you left me to carry the whole damn team by myself, and I still have no idea why.”
“Harley,” he starts, and I can see him searching for the right words to say next. “I quit because there are other things in my life that I want.”
I purse my lips at his lame excuse. “Like what?”
Chris takes a step forward. He’s inches from me now, looking into my eyes with an expression I’ve never seen on him before. Pain? Love? It’s like he desperately wants to speak, but something is holding him back.
I take a half step closer to him, and my heart beats faster than a helicopter. I want Chris to touch me. God, I want him to kiss me. I have all along. But being teammates and best friends, having such a great thing going, I never wanted to chance that it would ruin our partnership. It was too good to screw up. I couldn’t do that to him then, or the team, and there’s sure as hell no chance of it happening now.
Apparently, Chris feels the same way. Instead of kissing me, he steps back and clears his throat. “If you don’t want me to play with you, then what do you want?”
I want to go back to the way things were. I want you to talk to me and be my best friend again. “I want your racket.”
What the heck? That was not even close to what I was going to say.
“My racket?” Chris holds it up, inspecting the smooth green curves in the fluorescent lighting that illuminates the courts. It really is a beautiful racket. I decide my subconscious knew what it was talking about. Chris’s uncle is the owner of GAMEFFECTS, a company that manufactures sports gear, and they’re continually working on new racket prototypes. Chris gets them fresh off the manufacturing floor to test out before they ever go to market. There’s no way I could ever afford a new one, let alone one that’s been out for ten years.
I guess a new GAMEFFECTS racket is something I could play for.
“Yeah,” I say. “Your racket.”
Chris nods his head slowly. “Okay,” he says, coming to terms with my seemingly random choice of incentive. “Fine. You get my racket if you win.” He smiles again, his previous excitement to be playing with me returning once more.
“Great, it’s a deal.” I shake his hand to seal it, ignoring the way his warm, rough palm feels in mine. Or how he lingers when I’m done shaking like he doesn’t want to let go either. “Let’s play.”
I drop my bag right there by the door and pull my racket out again. It feels old now, and suddenly I really want Chris’s. With my pent-up aggression and the slightest motivation for a prize, Chris is going to get one hell of a match out of me. He has no chance. I head for the opposite side of the net, a new pep to my step.
“Not so fast,” he calls.
“What now?”
“I didn’t tell you what I get when I win,” he says, a mischievous glint lighting up his face.
“If you win,” I correct. “Hmm, I don’t know. Maybe… a new best friend?”
His eyes
go wide with shock, but just as quickly, his features turn hard, fierce. “No, Harley.” Chris gives me his determined look, the look he always flashes me before we head into battle on the court. The look that means he’s playing to win, to kill.
“When I win, you’re going on a date with me.”
Chapter Two
Chris
“Your serve.” I toss Harley the tennis balls she left behind when she so dramatically tried to walk out on me. I know I can’t give her any options but to play. Especially now that I just dropped the whole “I want to date you” bomb on her. And with her being pissed as hell at me, she’ll play, alright.
Where others are intimidated or turned off by Harley’s intensity, I’m turned on by it. I fucking love the way she focuses her energy on the ball. The way she takes it all out on that poor sucker with the force of a hurricane—
WHOOSH!
“Fifteen love.” She turns on her heel and walks to the other side of the baseline.
Fuck, I didn’t even see the damn serve. A goofy grin slides into place on my face because that’s the Harley I know. I can’t hide how thrilled I am to be playing with her again. Even if it’s against her. Even if she’s so mad that I can feel the heat radiating off her from the other side of the net. She’s gorgeous and passionate, and I love how worked up she gets.
I quickly set myself up for her next serve. She tosses it in the air and lets it bounce not once, not twice, but three times. Harley never takes this long to serve. My spine tingles with the realization that she’s distraught, and it’s all my fault.
WHAM! She slams the ball in a perfect shot to my service box, and I return it straight down the line. She smacks it with a killer cross-court shorthand that I never had a chance of touching.
“Thirty love,” Harley calls out, glaring at me before switching sides.
Fuck. She’s mad. She knows my cross-court weakness and is using it against me. Harley only ever plays this good when she’s pissed as hell. I scrub my hand over my face. I shouldn’t have left without warning, she’s right, but I couldn’t keep playing.
Tempt University: Year One: A College Romance Collection Page 4