by Olivia Dade
Maybe she understood his reasoning, or maybe she didn’t have the energy to argue. Either way, she took the conversational lead without protest.
As she spoke, she stroked the back of his hand with her thumb, the caress gentle. Soothing. “You went pro as a teenager and moved from the Stockholm area to Miami to train. Commentators considered you the biggest threat of your age cohort. Your serve and your backhand were your biggest weapons, although your forehand was consistent too. You won your first and only Grand Slam just before you turned twenty-one, defeating the top-ranked male player in the world in the finals. After that, you rose to number four in the world. Your highest ranking.”
Over half a decade later, he could still recall every moment of that win with crystalline clarity. His backhand streaking down the line, Alvillar’s forehand slamming into the net. The roar of the crowd. The disbelief that he’d done it. The glance at the umpire to confirm, and the smiling nod he’d received in return. Then a choked cry ripping from his throat as he fell to his knees on that blue court, buried his sweaty face in his sweaty hands, and sobbed in gratitude.
He’d climbed on some planters and jumped up to his box, where his coach, his physio, his hitting partner, and his family were waiting, and hugged them all while his father cried and the cheers and whistles from thousands of fans deafened him.
And then…and then…
“But you had to pull out of your next tournament after a bad fall, which left you with wrist and knee injuries. You had surgery.” Tess’s voice was soft. Barely audible. “When you returned to the Tour after a few months, you worked your way back up to the top ten.”
The rehab had been excruciating, the return to form slow but satisfying. He hadn’t won another major after that hiatus, but he’d taken a few tournament trophies home and kept working on his conditioning. Finaling in another Grand Slam was only a matter of time.
Until one day during practice, when he’d pounced on a drop shot from his hitting partner and hit a monster backhand. Only to feel something go terribly, terribly wrong.
“Then came the next surgery on my left wrist. And some repairs on the right too, as long as I was already out of commission.” Those procedures had required a longer recovery time. Afterward, he’d never been able to generate quite as much power on his backhand. Not even with two-handed strokes.
“You were ranked in the hundreds when you returned, but you worked your way back to the top thirty and reached the semifinals of a major. And then…” She trailed off, her thumb resting lightly on the T of his scar. “Your final surgery. At least the final one the public knows about.”
Sometimes, the specialist still suggested another procedure, but Lucas told him to pay for his kid’s college tuition some other way. He was done with wrist surgery, now and forever.
He filled in the rest of the story for Tess. “After that one, I couldn’t put any topspin on my backhands, or any power behind them, without causing myself pain. Without risking another surgery. So I started relying on a cross-court slice. A shot to keep me in a point, but not one that would win the point. All my opponents knew they could exploit it.”
His serve had still won him some free points. And his forehand had been passable, but even it had started to break down. Maybe for physical reasons, maybe mental. All the guys on the Tour had known if they rushed him, if they made it impossible for him to run around the ball to the forehand, they could keep hammering his backhand until they got him out of position and set up a winning shot.
His rank had dropped to the eighties. Then back into the hundreds.
Every time he’d played, commentators had lamented his promise. What could have been, if he hadn’t injured himself so many times. If only he didn’t have wrists of glass. Inevitably, they’d show footage of his lone Grand Slam win during interviews, and he’d watch himself on the monitor as he collapsed onto the coated asphalt, sobbing in thanks at his good fortune.
He’d grown so fucking sick of the same questions, the same pitying looks, he’d wanted to scream at them. To rage. Him, of all people.
But how many times could he reiterate how it felt not to have his backhand as a weapon anymore? How it felt to enter majors as a wild card, solely because of his previous win? How it felt to watch the other guys in his generation, men whom he’d left in his wake once upon a time, reach semi-finals and finals while he languished in the early rounds?
And how long could he keep pretending he still had any glimmer of a real career? A plausible shot at another title?
“I’m sorry, Lucas.” Tess lifted their entwined hands, rubbing her cheek against the backs of his knuckles. She dropped a soft kiss on his scar, and then let their hands fall into the water once more. “I know this must be hard to talk about.”
He took a deep breath and finished the story. “There was no point anymore. So I left.”
Late last year, he’d retired from professional tennis. Quietly, without some grandiose fucking announcement, because if he had to hear about his vanished potential again, he didn’t know what he might do, to himself and to everyone around him.
“You’ve asked me several times why I chose to work here, and the answer isn’t especially impressive. I accepted the first job offer with decent pay and benefits.” He shrugged. “The island isn’t far from where I used to live, and this position lets me make a living from tennis. The only thing I do well.”
But not well enough. Not anymore.
He gestured at the endless ocean and sand surrounding them. “It’s a private island. Not much media finds its way here, so I don’t have to answer pointless questions all the time.”
She raised that skeptical brow of hers. “Not even from tourists?”
“It happens. But I can usually distract them.”
One side of her generous mouth quirked. “With flirting.”
He’d picked a sharp one, all right. Good thing he found intelligence sexy in a woman. “Or by playing dumb and changing the subject.”
She exhaled slowly. “So that’s your story.”
“Yeah. That’s my story.”
The bare outlines of it, anyway. Again, if she wanted to know, if their relationship went somewhere, he’d tell her the rest someday. The details. But right now, neither of them had time for it, and he didn’t have the wherewithal.
Still, he’d told her more than he’d told anyone in the past six months. Maybe longer.
It felt…exposed.
But Tess was still holding his hand tight in hers and watching him with such softness in those hazel eyes. Not pity, but sympathy. Affection.
“Thank you for telling me.” Her voice was as sweet as a strawberry lemonade cupcake, as certain as the sunrise. “Sometime soon, we’ll have to discuss how you could possibly think tennis is the only thing you do well, because that’s just stunningly inaccurate. Not now, though. Your lessons must be starting soon.”
Then she leaned over, gently cupped his cheek with her free hand, and kissed him.
Such warmth. Her lips courted his with a sweet nuzzle, and even that light pressure jolted him like a clap of thunder. Her fruity scent, something like apricots or peaches, filled his lungs, and he was dizzy with the promise of her.
She pulled back for a moment. “Is this okay?”
In answer, he let go of her hand and slid both arms around her. She filled them. She filled him, when he’d been empty for what seemed like years.
When he lowered his mouth to hers, he supported her neck with one hand. The other he slid around to her back, smoothing it up her spine while he teased her lips open with his tongue.
God, she was minty and sweet, and she pressed close to him with a low murmur in her throat as the tip of her tongue touched his. Her fingers traced the line of his collarbone, the swell of his shoulder, and every spot she touched bloomed with heat.
The kiss grew hotter. Wetter. And when he worked his way beneath that floating hem and found her bare back, stroking the soft flesh there, she clutched at his arm and gasped
into his mouth.
Her nails dug into his skin, and it felt like a benediction. A victory, the likes of which he hadn’t known for years.
He tore his mouth from hers, keeping eye contact as he slid his hand around to her front, still under her cover-up. His thumb stroked the side of her breast in a sweeping arc as he waited for permission. For a sign he wasn’t taking more than she was offering.
She rested both palms on his chest, but not in refusal. In exploration. They slid up and over his shoulders, down his arms. Then she covered his hand with hers and moved it over her breast. Positioned it so he was cupping the heavy, warm weight of her, her tight nipple pressing into his palm through the swimsuit.
Suddenly, not enough oxygen was making its way into his lungs.
“Tess…” He licked his lips. “Älskling, I can’t—”
Voices. In the distance, but too close to continue.
He dipped his head for one last taste of her, for one last feel of her plush lips parting for him. Open. Vulnerable. Exquisitely soft. And then he slid his hand out from under her cover-up and straightened it around her suit.
But he couldn’t stop entirely without making sure she understood what he wanted from her. Not just sex and bodies and careless pleasure, easily dismissed. More than that.
How much more, he didn’t yet know. But he couldn’t wait to find out.
So he brushed his lips across her temple, where fine threads of her dark hair had dried in the sun. Then across her eyelids, that fragile skin traced by tiny blue veins. Then her cheeks, velvety and hot. Finally, he rubbed his nose lightly against hers and hoped she grasped what he was attempting to communicate.
She rested quiescent beneath his attention, her fingers curled once more against his chest as her mouth curved in a soft, private smile.
“We have company.” He whispered the words into her ear, his nose nuzzling the plump lobe. “And you’re right. I need to get prepared for my early lesson. I should go.”
When he began to pull away, though, she laid a hand on his arm. “Wait.”
That single word was satisfyingly breathy, and he smiled at her and obeyed.
“Lucas…” Her thumb swept over his cheekbone and dipped into his dimple. Then she caught his eye, her gaze steady. “I’m sorry I was thoughtless and harsh when we argued. I have no good excuse, and I swear I’ll do better from now on.”
Sincerity shone from every word, and he owed her the same respect. The same honesty.
“I owe you an apology too. I was unkind.” He took her hand. Kissed her fingers. “And we both have our reasons, but you’re right. Neither one of us has an excuse. I’ll act differently in the future, I promise.”
Dammit. He really had to go.
Relinquishing her touch caused a literal, physical ache in his chest, but he somehow managed to pull away. To stand by her side and look down at that floppy hat, the swirling blue dress, the pale curves of her legs and feet shining beneath the water. To memorize the near-perfection of her in this moment.
She tipped her head back, and her round, sweet face came into view below the hat’s brim. Perfection achieved.
“See you tonight?” she asked.
“For our lesson?” This close, he could spot an adorable freckle dotting her right cheekbone. He wanted to taste it. “Or dinner?”
He’d take anything and everything she was willing to give him. Especially since they had so little time before she left the island and him behind.
“Both.” Then, to his pleasant shock, she raised her hand and gave his butt a light pinch. “Now get going before I lose control and ravish you in full view of other guests.”
Her grin was wide and confident, her eyes assessing as they scanned him from the top of his tousled hair to the insistent bulge pushing against the cool, damp material of his trunks.
“You never told me that was an option.” He frowned down at her. “I feel misled.”
Another, harder pinch. “Go, Karlsson. I need to get to work too.”
Several tourists came into view around a stand of palms, and he reluctantly moved a step away from her and turned his back to them, the water lapping around his knees.
“You’ll pay for that pinch,” he told her.
She clapped her hand onto her hat, making sure it wouldn’t fall off as she dropped back her head and—
Did she wink at him? Really?
Her teasing grin grew even more wicked. “I certainly hope so.”
Twelve
“They called him the Sweet Swede, Belle.” Tess brushed yet more sand from her tablet, which she’d been using to unearth yet more information about Lucas. Clips from his matches; articles lauding his talent and lamenting his physical deterioration; accounts from fans who’d met their favorite, doomed tennis star. “He was famous for being soft-spoken with reporters. Well-liked in the locker room. A bit goofy at times on the court, but mostly quiet and hardworking. Not someone to scream at an umpire or posture or…”
Belle sat up and dipped her chin until she could see Tess over the top of her oversized sunglasses. “Or what?”
“Or act like a player. Off the court, anyway.”
Despite Karolina. The woman who’d shown up at the overlook, clearly anticipating and accustomed to a certain amount of intimacy with the island’s tennis pro.
Dammit. Was Tess fooling herself?
“Here’s the thing. For all his talk of sun and relaxation and lounging in the sand with various willing women, he doesn’t lounge. He works from early in the morning until late at night.” Tess hadn’t put the pieces together until she’d seen him at dawn for the second time in a week. “When he doesn’t hide behind that beach-bum-Casanova façade, he’s quite thoughtful. Sweet, like they said.”
Belle gave a neutral nod. “And the women?”
“I definitely think he gets around.” Tess shifted on the lounger, the towel bunching beneath her. “Although, to be fair, I imagine he’s less the chaser and more the chasee. I’m sure women are all over him because of how he looks and because he was famous.”
“He’s certainly chasing after you.” Belle set her book on the little wooden table between the loungers, lips pursed. “I don’t know whether to congratulate him for his excellent taste or start worrying.”
“Because if he’s chasing me, he might be chasing other women too?”
Belle let out a slow breath. “All this is beginning to sound less like a potential fling and more like the start of a potential relationship. I just don’t want you to get hurt.”
A roundabout, kind way of saying yes.
“When it comes to woman-chasing, I’m hoping he made an exception for me because I’m so freaking awesome.” Oh, Lord, was she letting herself believe what she wanted to, regardless of the evidence? “I know I could be wrong about him. But he seems sincere, Belle. And you know I have a top-of-the-line bullshit detector after what happened with Jeremy.”
Belle took off her sunglasses entirely, meeting Tess’s gaze with concern pleating her brow. “I don’t mean to be unsupportive. Whatever you decide to do, I’ll be here for you. It’s just…”
Tess waited.
“If he hurts you, I’ll feel responsible, since I basically threw you in his path.” Belle reached for Tess’s hand. Squeezed. “Please be careful. Even smart women make mistakes sometimes.”
That sounded…personal. More so than seemed reasonable under the circumstances.
“Honey? Did something happen with Brian?”
Belle was silent for a long moment. “Yes and no. But give me a little time before we talk about it.” Another pause, and then her fingers slipped away from Tess’s. “Maybe you shouldn’t listen to me when it comes to Lucas. I’m feeling kind of anti-men at the moment.”
She’d crossed one leg over the other, and her top foot was jiggling. Definitely agitated.
“Are you sure you don’t want to talk?” At her friend’s immediate nod, Tess persisted. “I’m happy to be your sounding board or your soft should
er, if that’s what you need. Or your angel of vengeance, I suppose.”
At that, Belle snorted. “You? An angel? Please.”
“A vengeful one, like I said. The standards are a bit more lax.” Tess grinned. “So is that what you need? A flappy-winged bringer of doom?”
Belle raised her paperback in front of her face once more. “Weren’t you supposed to be working?”
A clear attempt at distraction, but she was right. Tess’s morning was almost gone, passed in a blur of Lucas and exactly zero new work-related ideas.
She tucked the tablet into her beach tote and got out her notebook. “Yes, ma’am. I’ll get back to work.”
Maybe, instead of fooling around with a twenty-something former tennis pro, she should do the same that night too.
Despite the doubts nipping at her confidence—Was she being played? Shouldn’t she spend this time working instead? Given the circumstances, where could any relationship with Lucas actually go, anyway?—Tess made her way to the clubhouse that night in her sexiest oversized tee.
Which seemed like a contradiction in terms, she knew.
But she wasn’t sure how she wanted this evening to end yet, so hedging her bets and pretending she might be there for a lesson instead of lovemaking made sense. Besides, if he really did intend to pursue a relationship with her, he should know she prioritized comfort over all else in her non-professional clothing. If he wanted a woman who’d squeeze herself into Spanx and put on spike heels for a normal night out, he needed to keep on looking.
Somewhere in her late thirties, her supply of fucks had become extremely limited. Some might even say nonexistent, except when it came to her work and her friends.
And, it appeared, Lucas. Because she did indeed give a fuck about how he saw her. Whether he wanted her. So she might have pulled on a comfy tee, but she’d made certain the garnet color flattered her skin and the vee neckline dipped low. Given how much he enjoyed her boobs, he’d appreciate the amount of cleavage it displayed.