40-Love

by Olivia Dade

  Speaking of which…

  She tugged the neckline a little lower as she neared the clubhouse, her heart skittering.

  Once more, Lucas was waiting for her. This time with his head up and alert, not pointed at his toes. Once more, as soon as he spotted her, he jogged her way, eating up massive amounts of ground with each long stride.

  No wonder he always looked so indolent. He only had to take a single step where a normal mortal might need three. His big body had exacted a price for that advantage, though, paid in pain and surgery and a disappointing end to a promising career.

  He didn’t appear worried about any of that right now.

  No, he was smiling at her. Not the facile grin of a flirt, but a beam that popped his dimples and warmed his eyes. When he got close, he immediately dipped his head for a gentle press of his lips against hers, brief and sweet.

  “Hey, älskling.” His arms slid around her, and he cuddled her neck with that big, warm palm of his as his fingers laced into her hair, and she almost melted on the spot. “What do you want to do tonight?”

  Älskling. Again.

  Determining the correct spelling of that Swedish word had taken some time earlier that day—umlauts were not her friend—but she’d finally managed to locate the translation.

  Darling. Honey. Or…beloved.

  He’d asked her a question, but she couldn’t seem to form coherent words. “Uh…”

  A touch of that flirty grin returned as he backed up a bare inch and looked down at her. “The tee says let’s play tennis, but the neckline of that tee…” He shook his head. “It says if I run toward a ball, I may experience another wardrobe malfunction.”

  The teasing unlocked her tongue. “No fear. I wore my most sturdy sports bra tonight. It’s basically a straitjacket for my breasts, only more uncomfortable and with less opportunity for escape.”

  He laughed. “Who said anything about fear? I’m half agony, half hope.” At her questioning look, he shrugged. “My coach was a Brit. She made us listen to Austen during long car trips. Sue me.”

  She had to ask. “So what’s the hope?”

  “Your breasts might be too powerful for containment.”

  She couldn’t help a snicker. “So you’re praying they’ll break out of sports-bra jail at any moment and make their daring escape, and you’ll be around to witness the whole thing?”

  “Can you elaborate a little? Add a few more details?” A faraway look had appeared in his eyes. “Maybe stage a dramatic reenactment of the event?”

  “Perv.” She flicked his arm, ignoring his little yelp. “It can’t be a reenactment if it hasn’t happened yet. Anyway, what about the agony?”

  “All those hooks, of course.” His smile faded a little. “And that undecided look on your face when you saw me just now. I figure you’re reconsidering our dinner tonight.”

  Note to self: Don’t play poker with Lucas. Unless it’s strip poker and you want to flash the goods.

  She wouldn’t lie to him. Even if she tried, it evidently wouldn’t work. So she told him the truth, flat out: “I have doubts. But I’m here, and I brought a change of clothing and a toothbrush in my bag.”

  He stopped breathing. “Really?”

  At her nod, that dimpled smile returned. Turned blinding with the sort of joy she hadn’t seen since a freak snowstorm caused an early dismissal from school the Friday before spring break. Rasheed Millman, a first-year teacher from the science department, had literally tackle-hugged her, and Frau Kauffman had almost mowed down several sophomores as she sprinted, cackling in Germanic glee, to the parking lot.

  All students believed they loved snow days more than teachers. All students were wrong.

  “I have big plans for tonight.” She nodded toward the chain-link fence. “Let’s hit the court and get this evening started.”

  He didn’t move toward the concrete expanse in the near distance. Instead, his forefinger followed the edge of her hairline and traced the outer rim of her ear, a taunting, shivery tease of a touch. “Sounds perfect. Unless your knee is hurting too much for a tennis lesson?”

  He didn’t sound impatient or disappointed by that possibility. Just matter-of-fact in a way that eased her instinctive defensiveness.

  “I’ve been babying it the last couple of days. As long as I don’t run too much, descend a bunch of stairs, or twist in an odd way, I’m not in any pain,” she told him honestly.

  “If that changes, let me know. We’ll stop right away.” His hand lowered to splay on her back, and he gently guided her toward the court. “As long as you’re not hurting, though, I’m glad we’re doing this. I’ve found…”

  He trailed off as they walked, his mouth drawing tight. When they arrived on the court, he stepped away from her to lower his huge bag. Bending over, he dug inside, emerging with an armful of towels, a can of balls, two water bottles, and two rackets.

  She accepted the racket he handed her. “You’ve found what?”

  Another long silence.

  Then he met her eyes and gave an apologetic wince. “Sorry. I don’t mean to be obstructive. I just haven’t talked about certain things for a while now.”

  Part of her wanted to let him off the hook and tell him to forget it, if that would erase those deep brackets on either side of his mouth. But if this morning had been an exception, if he couldn’t make himself reveal more of his past and his thoughts to her, she needed to know that. Now, before they became any more entangled.

  “Understood. That said…” Gesturing to the court around them, she smiled at him. “What better place for a little practice?”

  One corner of his mouth rose. “An excellent point.”

  “I thought so.”

  He snorted. Then, after dropping another quick, dizzying kiss on her mouth, he hopped over the net and shook a couple balls loose from the can.

  “I was just going to say…” A long pause as he gathered his words and forced them out. “Back when I was on the Tour, time on the court often clarified things for me. If I was worried, an hour with my hitting partner did me a world of good. Even though, toward the end, sustaining a rally hurt me physically as much as it helped me mentally.”

  She let out a slow breath. He hadn’t avoided her question or hid himself behind that shell he’d constructed. This was…

  This was good. It could be really, really good.

  Which was, in its own way, really, really bad.

  In a practiced gesture, he slid one of the balls into his pocket and palmed the other. Clearly, he was done with his story and ready to play.

  But she needed to clarify something first. “When we were arguing, you said your left wrist still hurt sometimes. Is that true?”

  As he bounced the ball against the blue concrete, he nodded.

  “Is that only when you go full-force? Or does it hurt all the time? With every backhand you hit?”

  The thought of that—his greatest joy and comfort twined with inescapable pain—tore a hole through her heart, and damned if she didn’t need to blink back tears.

  Bounce, bounce, bounce.

  He wasn’t looking at her. “Not every backhand.” A pause. “Some.”

  Screw her doubts. She wouldn’t make him suffer because of her dithering. “Would you rather do something else, then? We could go to dinner right away, if you wanted.”

  “I said I wanted to play a little tennis with you, and I do.” He didn’t sound impressed by her offer or concerned about his own pain. “And you said your knee is fine, so we’re both good to go.”

  She couldn’t stand the thought of him hurting. “But if you’re—”

  “This is one of the reasons I don’t talk to people about my injuries.” When he glanced up at her, a wry smile had split his face. “They tend to question my own judgment about what I can and can’t handle. About how I should treat my body.”

  She winced. Was that what she’d just done to him?

  Yeah. Yeah, she kinda had.

  “I’m sorry. I�
��ll try not to do it again.” God knew, she’d received enough unsolicited advice about her own body over the years. “That said, if I saw you obviously hurting, I’d say something. If that’s a deal-breaker for you, you should let me know.”

  He thought for a minute before answering, and then gave a little nod.

  “I would do the same, so it’s not a deal-breaker. Besides, I know I can push myself a bit too hard at times.” When she began to speak, he sent her a quelling look. “Although now isn’t one of those times, so you can close that sweet mouth of yours.”

  “I can.” She smirked. “But I probably won’t.”

  His eyes rolled to the darkening sky above. “Quelle surprise.”

  “So you want us to hit the ball back and forth?” Lifting her racket, she mimed hitting a forehand.

  He raised his own racket in a salute. “Yes. And while we do, we can play a game other than tennis. What do you think?”

  When she raised a brow, he glanced at it and huffed out an amused breath.

  “I think you’re overestimating my ability to multitask,” she told him.

  That wink of his. It made her want to smack him and screw him. “Truth or dare on the tennis court, Tess. A few rallies, a few secrets, a few risks. What do you say?”

  She flipped her hair over her shoulder and tilted her chin high. “I say bring it on, Lucas. Bring. It. On.”

  Thirteen

  Lucas began bouncing the ball in readiness to take a shot, and Tess shifted her stance, setting her feet shoulder-width apart. For a moment, she was tempted to sway in place like she’d seen his opponents do when he served to them in those YouTube videos, but…no. Unlike them, she wouldn’t look ready for her return. She’d look like she’d been drinking too much.

  Instead, she braced the racket in front of her. “Who’s going to start?”

  “I will.” One more bounce, and then the ball was flying over the net toward her. “Truth or dare, Tess?”

  As always, the ball landed near her, and she hit it over the net and into the back corner of his court by sheer accident. “A gentleman would let me go first.”

  “I can be gentle. If and when that’s what you want.” Irritatingly, he reached the ball without seeming to hurry in any appreciable way. “As far as your going first—”

  Another easy shot for her to reach. “Oh, Jesus. I set myself up for a coming first joke, didn’t I?”

  “You really did. Although I consider it less a joke and more a promise.” With two giant strides, he reached the spot where she’d barely managed to get the ball over the net. “Assuming you decide to spend the night with me. If not, no problem. I’d be happy if we just—”

  He cut himself off as she lined up her return shot.

  “Just what?”

  Wait. Were his cheeks becoming a little pink? “Went out to dinner and talked. Held hands, maybe.”

  Oh, my goodness. They were. He was blushing.

  His mention of hand-holding had embarrassed him. Him. The same man who could cheerfully, shamelessly discuss for hours how her boobs might flee the harsh confines of her sports bra and roam free, crushing small towns in their wake.

  For him, she supposed, a suggestion of holding hands might be more intimate—more revealing of who and what he really was—than any amount of sexual banter. And now he’d turned shy, his cheeks flushed and his gaze landing anywhere but on her.

  The Sweet Swede had arrived for a visit.

  “Holding hands should definitely be doable.” She smiled at him as they kept hitting the ball back and forth. “Depending on how our game of Truth or Dare goes. If you make me run around the court naked, you should anticipate a lonely evening ahead with only your own hand for holding. And I mean that in every possible way.”

  His rumble of laughter crossed the court. “I promise I won’t make you run.”

  “I notice you made no promises about nakedness.” Lord, Florida was an armpit in the summer. Tess was starting to sweat already. “An accidental oversight, I’m sure.”

  He only grinned in response. “I repeat: Truth or dare, Tess?”

  Another of Lucas’s perfectly placed shots. He didn’t even look like he needed to pay attention. Maybe she should try to hit a little harder?

  The next time he sent the ball her way, she put more power behind her swing, and the ball promptly sailed into the net.

  Good enough. That would buy her a moment to rest. “Truth.”

  His question came immediately. “Why are you working so hard during your vacation?”

  Leaning on her racket, she raised the hem of her tee to wipe her forehead. When she lowered it again, Lucas had frozen in place, and his eyes appeared glued to an area just north of her belly.

  “My principal announced she was retiring at the end of this upcoming school year, and you already know I want her job. If Gary Enders gets it instead, the consequences will be disastrous for our school.” It was wrong of her to tease him, and she knew it. But she still lifted her shirt a second time and dabbed at her upper lip, pretending not to hear the faint groan from the other side of the net. “So I need to spend all my time for the foreseeable future proving myself. Working overtime, suggesting initiatives, spearheading committees.”

  She frowned. “Also attending carnivals, where I’ll get dunked by the entire girls’ softball team. They’re vicious, they hold a grudge, and their pitches are pinpoint-accurate.”

  He’d tilted his head, his brow creased.

  “Why would the softball—” He shook his head. “You know what? Never mind. Forget about teenage softball-playing mafiosos, and tell me about an initiative you plan to suggest.”

  She bit her lip, picturing the list she’d created in her notebook. “I want to break down our suspension statistics and analyze how they differ by race. I have a feeling our students of color get hit with suspensions, rather than verbal warnings or detention, much more frequently, much more rapidly, and with much less cause than our white kids. So I want to look at the data to confirm my suspicions. If I’m right, that needs to be addressed school-wide, pronto, because it’s not right, and I won’t allow it to keep happening.”

  “That’s an important topic. I’m glad you’re tackling it.” He sounded sincere, and he was looking at her with such warmth in those olive-green eyes. Such patient concentration. “It’ll be a lot of extra work for you, I imagine.”

  “Definitely.” She started ticking off other priorities. “Then there’s this initiative I want to propose that involves the school nurse. We have free and reduced-price meals, of course, but kids still come to her with headaches and stomachaches because they’re hungry, and I’d like to give her enough money to stock food for—”

  “Wait a minute.” He held up a hand. “Your initiatives are great. And at some point, I want to listen to every single one of your ideas in detail. But maybe not right this second.”

  She offered him a sheepish smile. “Sorry. I get a little carried away sometimes.”

  “For good reason.” There wasn’t an ounce of impatience in his voice. Just calmness and interest. “I still want to know why you’re working on those initiatives now, instead of when you return home.”

  “That’s easy. Because there’s no time for anything but triage once the school year starts. Big ideas are best incubated during the summer.” She waggled a chiding finger at him. “Also, don’t think I didn’t notice what just happened here. You got two questions answered, maybe three. Get ready for payback, Karlsson.”

  Tucking his racket beneath his arm, he strode to the net and leaned into it with both hands. “To quote a true visionary: Bring it on, Dunn.”

  “Truth or dare?” She didn’t care which he chose. Either option sounded as delicious as those strawberry-lemonade cupcakes.

  He paused to think. “Truth.”

  “Hmmm.” After a moment of consideration, she decided to start serious and shift to sexy later, as desired. “How many long-term relationships have you had?”

  “Uh…�
�� His brow pinched, and all hints of mirth disappeared. “Are we including familial relationships? Or friendships?”

  After laying her racket carefully on the court, she propped her fists on her hips. “Nope.”

  “Would a month count as long-term? If you and your partner were only in the same place for a week during that month, because of your conflicting schedules?”

  Her eyebrow did the talking for her.

  His shoulders drooped in response. “I joined the ATP Tour as a teenager, Tess. And here’s the thing: When you’re a professional tennis player, you’re on the road almost continually. If you tend to make it far in tournaments, you may not get home for weeks or even months at a time.”

  “Why not date a fellow player, then?”

  She tried not to picture it. Two athletes, young and toned and capable, arms around one another as they celebrated their victories and shared secrets only other tennis pros would understand.

  “If I’d dated a WTA player, we’d still have had trouble connecting. A lot of tournaments are at venues too small for men and women to play at the same time. And when you’re not competing, you’re practicing. Or, in my case, recovering from injuries and doing constant, intensive physical therapy.” In a seemingly absent gesture, he looked down and rotated his wrists, as if testing whether they still hurt. “There was no time to nurture anything more serious than a casual arrangement, and it got lonely sometimes. I got lonely sometimes, even though I had my team around me almost constantly.”

  His voice was low. Vulnerable, in a way she wanted to honor.

  “I’m sorry, Lucas.” She came to the net and laid her hand on his. “That sounds like a hard, unforgiving life.”

  He acknowledged that with a slight jerk of his head. “Don’t get me wrong. I loved tennis. Loved my team. Loved seeing so much of the world. But I didn’t feel good about starting anything serious with anyone when I had so little time and energy to give to a relationship. So the answer to your question is zero. I’ve had zero serious romantic relationships. To this point.”