“Julian!” I smack his hand away. “Explain yourself!”
“Well, see, what happened was…”
I glare at him and he clears his throat, sitting forward.
“Fine. I ran into Jonas about six months into college. He was looking rough, and not just because he was drunk off his ass. There was just this air of sadness to him.” Julian frowns as he thinks about Jonas, and it makes me frown. “Anyway, we got to talking, and before I knew it, he was crying, telling me about what your father said to him, how he had to leave you alone or give up football. I won’t lie, Frankie, it really made me angry at your parents for doing that to you.”
I nod. “Me too.”
“Jonas tried to go after you. He was ready to abandon his dreams for you.” He looks at me, almost like he’s afraid to keep going. He grimaces. “But I talked him out of it.”
“I—”
“For you!” he interrupts. “I did it for you. I knew you’d go anywhere with him, knew you’d give up your dreams of being an artist. You were just finally starting to feel free, and I didn’t want you to give up your freedom. I wanted you to…well, blossom. To become you.” Julian covers his face with his hands. “Shit. That feels good to get off my chest.”
When I don’t say anything, he peeks at me through his fingers, the worry clear in his eyes.
“Are you mad?”
“No. If anything, I’m a little mad I don’t make you horny.”
“What the fuck?” he sputters, barely getting the words out before bursting into laughter. “What the hell, Frankie?”
“Look”—I lift a shoulder—“I’m just saying, it’s a shame we never banged. I feel like I owe you after you did me that favor.”
He lifts his brows. “You’re really not mad?”
“I’m really not. In fact, I said almost the exact same thing to Jonas last night. Don’t get me wrong, I was furious at him for leaving me, for hurting me, but the more I look back on it, the more grateful I am. In a roundabout way that wasn’t about me at all, he helped me.”
“Well shit, now I do have a boner.”
I roll my eyes. “Move back to your side before I punch you.”
“Fine, but I want to hear more about last night. Please tell me that beard of his feels as good as it looks.”
“What am I supposed to do, Julian?” I ask once he’s settled across from me.
“Um, ride the beard again. How is that even a question?”
“You know damn well that’s not what I’m talking about.”
“Yeah, yeah.” He pouts, crossing his arms over his chest. “You always find a way to ruin all the fun girl talk with your stupid feelings.”
I pick up the menu, perusing it. “You’re paying for your own breakfast now.”
“I most certainly am not.”
“That’s where you’re wrong. I don’t have my wallet.”
“Well you better get your hussy ass back to the kitchen and get to work on some sad hand jobs to earn some money. It’s your turn to pay.”
“Sad hand jobs? Really, Julian?” I groan. “I am about to strangle you, and that is not how I want to start my day.”
“I have a bold suggestion for you,” he says, ignoring my empty threats. “How about you talk to Jonas like a grown-ass adult?”
“He’s already leaving—there’s no need to talk to him. It’s not like I can ask him to put his football career on hold for me so we can chitchat about our feelings.”
“When is he leaving?”
“He has to be in Colorado by tomorrow morning.”
“So talk to him now.”
“I am not showing up at his house after storming out this morning. That is so not in the cards. I also need to avoid my apartment for at least another few hours so my parents will quit staking it out.”
He cringes. “Things were that bad last night?”
“Awful. I’ll talk to them eventually, but I need time…kind of like I need time with Jonas.”
“But you don’t have time.”
“I know this, Julian.” I sigh, folding my menu and glaring at him. “I know I don’t. I love him and I don’t have time to tell him. I don’t have time to show him, but just let me handle this, okay?”
He eyes me, not saying anything but saying everything all at once.
He doesn’t trust me to talk to Jonas.
And to be fair, I don’t either.
I’ve become really good at avoiding all things Jonas over the years. I buried my love for him before, so maybe I can do it again.
“I will handle it, all right?”
“Right. Fine. Whatever.”
“Whatever,” I mimic.
I pick my menu back up, propping it up on the table, blocking my best friend from my line of sight.
He does the same.
We don’t speak for several minutes, each only pretending to examine the menu because we’ve been here dozens of times and always get the same thing.
“Tell you what, since I’m in a giving mood this morning, I’ll split the hand jobs with you. You hit the waitstaff and I’ll get the guys in the back. Deal, Frankenstein?”
I can’t help it—a giggle bursts out of me because my best friend is a moron, and the icy war is over.
“Deal, Igor.”
* * *
“Good gravy, I’m coming!”
I pull myself off the couch for the first time in what feels like days. It’s only been a few hours, but Netflix has judged me at least three times.
“What?” I growl, throwing the door open.
I’m met with a sight I didn’t expect: Brad, the delivery guy from Slice.
“W-What are you doing here, Brad?”
“I, uh, had a delivery for here.”
“But I didn’t order anything. Are you sure?”
“I’ve delivered to this address many times.” He grins but humors me and checks the receipt in his hand. “I’m certain this is you.”
“Well, I still didn’t order anything.”
“I mean, it’s already been paid for, so you might as well take the free pie, Miss Callahan.”
“Fine.” I take the box he’s holding out in front of him. “Let me grab you a five.”
“I’ve been tipped already, miss.”
My brows shoot up. “What?”
He waves the receipt. “All taken care of. Have a great a night, Miss Callahan.”
I’m stricken. What the hell is happening? I didn’t order a pizza. As good as it sounds, I’m too upset to eat right now. I barely even touched my favorite strawberry pancakes at Ethel’s this morning.
Brad is halfway down the hall before I compose myself enough to speak.
“Who sent it?”
He shoots me a mischievous grin. “That’s confidential.”
I blink back at him, and he spins on his heel, hustling out the door without giving me an answer.
What in the world…
I take a glance around, half wondering if I’ve been put on some sort of weird reality prank show or if I’m just going insane.
But nobody is here filming.
I must be going insane.
I back inside my apartment, closing my door, staring at it like it might explode.
Nothing happens.
“Well, let’s see what I got,” I say, making my way back to my couch.
I flip open the lid, and the first thing I notice is the mouthwatering pizza.
Even though I wasn’t hungry before, I’m starved now.
I grab a slice as I throw open the box the rest of the way.
“Come to mama.” I’ve shoved nearly half a slice into my mouth when something catches my eye.
Scrawled on the lid of the box in handwriting I know all too well is a note.
I’m sorry.
Not for the pizza, but for everything else.
Everything except loving you.
He loves me?
Jonas…loves me?
I spring to my feet, racing toward the door,
hoping and praying I can catch Brad before he leaves because I have to make sure I’m not going crazy and this is really happening.
Swinging open the door, I immediately crash into a brick wall…or Jonas. They feel like the same thing at this point.
He grabs me by the shoulders, righting me.
His simple touch does me in, my knees trying to buckle. Shock courses through me, and so many emotions fly around inside me.
The most notable sensation is relief, because Jonas is here, which means he’s not ready to give up on us.
Neither am I.
“What are you doing here? You should be on a flight.”
“I have exactly one hour. Leroy’s waiting for me in the parking lot.” He rocks back on his heels, giving me a hopeful look. “Can we talk?”
“Make it quick.”
He stumbles back. “Frank, I—”
“I lied. We can’t talk.”
“We…we can’t?”
“No, because I don’t want to spend our last hour together talking. I want to spend it kissing. I want to spend it in your arms.”
He moves with a speed I’ve never seen before, his hands crashing through my hair as he pulls me into him, lifting me by my ass and shoving me against the nearest wall. His mouth slams down on mine with such force it almost hurts.
“Fuck, Frank.” He exhales against my lips. “You had me scared for a minute.”
He presses his mouth to mine again, kissing me long and hard, stealing the breath straight from my lungs.
“I love you,” I confess, pulling away, breathing like I just ran a marathon. “I love you too. I’ve always loved you, even when I was mad at you.”
“I’m so sorry.” Kiss. “For everything.” Kiss. “I want to take it all back and do it all over again all at the same time.”
“I know, I know.”
I kiss him again, loving the feel of his beard scraping against my chin.
I don’t know how long we stay there tangled in one another, but I know I never want it to end.
“Your knee,” I say during one of our short breaks. “Isn’t this killing your knee?”
“No. Your kisses healed me.”
Laughing, I shove at him, wiggling free and planting my legs back on the floor.
He has one arm slung above me, and he’s staring down at me with hunger in his gaze as his fingers play along my skin where my shirt has ridden up. I love the feel of his hands on me. I’m going to miss it.
The reality of him leaving any minute hits me, and I work to blink back tears, my lips quivering.
I crash into his chest, and he lets me cry it out.
“Hey,” he says softly after several minutes. “No more crying, Frank. I gotta leave in five minutes. I don’t want you to cry.”
“How can I not cry? You’re going to be all the way in Colorado, and I’ll be here in North Carolina. I can’t leave. My dad is sick. It doesn’t matter how angry I am at him…I can’t leave, and you know that. What are we going to do, Jonas? How are we going to make this work?”
“I don’t know, but I know we can.” He pulls my chin up toward his face, so much determination in his eyes. “We can do this.”
“How? Where do we start?”
“It’s just like a game of football, baby. You be the home team and I’ll be the visitor. We’ll take turns on each other’s turf. It’s not gonna be perfect. It’ll be messy as hell, but we’re gonna give each game our all, leaving it all out on the field. It’s all we can do.”
“What if we lose?” I ask.
“Then at least we’ll have played the game.”
Another tear falls, and he’s quick to wipe it away.
He brings his lips to mine again, and I know it’s the last time our mouths will touch today.
“I have to go,” he whispers, pulling away.
“I know.” I nod. “I know. We’ll be good. We’ll be fine.”
“We will,” he promises, backing away. “We can make this work. We’ll play the game.”
“Give it our all,” I agree as he twists the knob on the door.
“Will you write to me? In our notebook? I mean, we can still text and call and all that other fancy crap they have these days, but can we still use that too?”
“Like mail it back and forth?”
“Yeah. I mean, I know it’s a bit silly, but it just seems too important of a tradition to let go.”
“I’ll write to you. I’ll start tonight.”
He nods, giving me a sad smile, looking at me like the last thing he wants to do is leave.
I feel the same way.
“I really have to go now,” he says reluctantly.
“I know.” I sniffle, wiping away an errant tear. “Go. I’ll be fine.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m sure. Promise.”
“I’ll call you as soon as I land.”
I swallow the lump in my throat, bobbing my head up and down.
“Bye Frank,” he whispers.
The door clicks shut behind him, the sound thunderous as I choke back a sob.
We’re doing this. We’re playing the game. We can make it work this time. We’re not kids anymore. We’re not living under someone else’s rules.
We can do this.
I didn’t say I love you.
The thought slams into me, and I have to say it. I need to tell him.
I pull open the door, ready to race down the hall after him, but I stop short of running smack into Jonas for a second time.
“I love you!” I blurt.
He laughs, hauling me into his arms again. “I know you do, Frank. I know.”
I bury my face in his neck, inhaling the scent that’s purely him, committing it to memory.
“Meet me at the 50-yard line?” he whispers.
“I’m already there waiting for you.”
About Teagan
I'm a Missouri-raised gal, but currently live in North Carolina with my US Marine husband and 9-year-old dog. I spend my days begging him for a cat, and I survive off coffee, pizza, and sarcasm. When I'm not writing, you can find me binge-watching various TV shows, especially Supernatural and One Tree Hill. I like cold weather, buy more paperbacks than I'll ever read, and I never say no to brownies.
Writing is my passion, and this is just the beginning of my journey.
Check out Teagan’s Amazon page for a full list of her books.
Love Game
Emma Scott
for Gayle Williams
co-appreciator of temperamental, sexy, tortured tennis players,
co-founder of the unofficial Nick Kyrgios Fan Club
Love you, lady
Xo
Love game (n)(tennis): a game in which the loser has scored no points
Tennis Scoring
Zero: Love
1 pt: 15
2 pts: 30
3 pts: 40
4 pts: Game
All: Tied score except when Deuce (The game was tied, 30-all)
Deuce: A score of 40-40
Set: Six games. In men’s tennis, each match is made up of three or five sets, depending on the tournament. To win a set, a player must win at least six games.
Chapter One
Kai
Darrin Cahill: Welcome back to the final match of the Brisbane International Tennis Tournament, where Sikai Solomon, our hot-headed, show-boating Australian, is battling against his number one rival, Bradley Finn, of the United States.
John McEnroe: You’re right about that rivalry. Brad typically gets under Kai’s skin more than any other player. But right now, Kai has the crowd in the palm of his hand, talking and joking with spectators, and in general putting on the usual Kai Solomon Show.
Cahill: Indeed. Kai’s unusual style of play has been on full display throughout this tournament. But no smashed rackets. Yet.
McEnroe: As a former racket-smasher myself, I understand the frustration and pressure, but I’d like to see Kai take his career seriously. He’s got tale
nt beyond measure, but he doesn’t bother training, doesn’t have a coach…
Cahill: And his short fuse comes with a price tag.
McEnroe: Most Fined Player on Tour doesn’t have the same ring to it as Grand Slam Winner.
Cahill: Right you are, John. But on the other hand, no one puts on a more entertaining show in tennis, as evidenced by this sold-out crowd here in Brisbane. And now the break is over, and we return to the action where Kai is up one set to none in this best-of-three match. Let’s see if he can keep his cool and pull out a win here. If he does, it’ll be a great portent of things to come at the Australian Open in two weeks’ time.
One set down, one to go, I thought and flashed a winning smile at a bunch of kids—tennis hopefuls—in the stands. The commentators like to paint me as a volatile arse who didn’t give a shit about anything. But I loved the kids. I loved how purely they loved the game. Maybe it’s because I had been like that. Once.
The kids waved enthusiastically, all smiles and excited faces, and my chest swelled.
Do it for them.
Victory felt close. As if I could reach out and grab it. The kids loved me, and I’d been giving the rest of the crowd—my crowd—a good show. We had a love-hate relationship. They loved my no-look shots and ’tweeners. My so-called ‘meltdowns’? Not so much.
But today was a good day. Brad Finn might’ve had the world fooled into thinking he was a gentleman of tennis, but I knew his true colors. Beating his arse for the championship at Brisbane was going to be the perfect end to this tournament.
Because ‘meltdowns’ aside, when I wanted to win, I won. And today I wanted to win.
As we passed each other on the changeover, I scratched the side of my nose with my middle finger, too fast for anyone to notice or think twice. That bastard put on his usual (fake) humble smile.
“Okay, half-breed,” he muttered with a chuckle.
He’d uttered the words between his teeth, right under the umpire’s chair. I was the only Samoan-Australian on the Tour, a fact Brad liked to remind me of, often. I had an Australian mum but my father was Samoan.
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