Painting the Lines: A Hot Romantic Comedy (Ace of Hearts Book 1)

by Ashley R. King

  “Andrew, you and I both know the boy got himself here on his own merit,” Paul interrupted. “He would’ve been here one way or another, you just expedited the process.” Paul’s words gritted between his teeth. Julian had never seen his coach coiled so tight, like a cobra ready to strike.

  Warner lifted an eyebrow—it took a lot of effort, but he did it. “I see we beg to differ on that point.”

  Julian snarled at the logo again and then met Paul’s indignant glare. “That bastard branded me. That’s what this bullshit is.”

  Normally tennis players got to choose their sponsors and the logos were tasteful and didn’t make them look like a walking billboard. Most players had a sportswear brand and then a tiny sponsor patch on their sleeve. This was over the top; the patches were the largest size the ATP allowed and obviously done to make a point.

  Julian’s fingers curled around the embroidered patch, poised to rip it off.

  “Do it and I’ll forfeit the match.” Warner’s eyes were cold. To add further insult to injury, he all but sneered. “Besides, my hotel stamp will look good on you.” Without another word, he left, knowing that he didn’t leave Julian with a choice.

  Paul didn’t waste any time stepping forward. “What I said to him was true. But you know this is a rich man’s game and sometimes you just gotta play. You got yourself here, no matter what he says. Now go get dressed and forget about those gaudy-ass logos on your shirt. Let your tennis speak for itself.”

  One by one, players started filtering out of the locker room, eventually leaving just Julian and Dominic, along with their teams. Julian felt his body tense, nerves from earlier having returned. With trembling hands, he tied his headband around his head, while Paul shot him looks that wordlessly asked, “You okay, kid?” Julian gave him a nod as he sat back listening to his music, jiggling his knee, and willing himself to keep his shit together.

  He surreptitiously sized up Dominic from across the room. The guy was the real deal. His shoes had his name on them, and he sported a killer state-of-the-art racket. Like that wasn’t enough to mess with his brain, Dominic’s tall frame had muscles on top of muscles.

  Thankfully, Paul nudged Julian’s shoulder, rescuing him from his own stupid thoughts. “It’s almost time.”

  Vibrations shook the stadium, a familiar bassline echoing into the locker room. As was the custom at the US Open, the first-night match opened with fanfare and a concert.

  “Smoke! Meklau! You’re up!” a security guard called into the room. Dominic started gathering his bags like the professional tennis player he was, while Julian remained sitting, head bowed, foot bouncing.

  “Hey, Julian, time to get up,” Paul said as he tapped his leg, stopping the movement.

  Julian nodded wordlessly, feeling the bile rise up in his throat as his shaky hands gathered his stuff.

  Paul clapped him on the shoulder and looked him in the eyes. “Just remember this is a game where heart is everything. And you’ve got all the heart in the world, Julian Smoke. Now go show these bastards how to play some tennis.”

  Julian fist-bumped his coach with all the smile he could muster and followed the event director down the revered hall where pictures of US Open legends watched him pass. Chills rose on his arms, and he paused a second to live in the moment. But then he kept moving, drawing closer to the court entrance. Security guards and members of the press awaited, the click-click-click of cameras a symphony echoing down the hall.

  He cast a quick glance over his shoulder and watched Dominic. The man was cool, calm, and completely unaffected by any of this. Julian tried to push down his anxiety and attempted to mimic his opponent. He stood up straight and slapped on his game face, even though he felt like he was going to puke or shit himself—it really was a toss-up between the two.

  He reached up to make sure his headband was tight enough and found his hair slick against his skin. Damn. He was already sweating buckets and hadn’t even noticed.

  In an attempt to calm himself, he looked ahead only to find Charles Avery, former tennis player and coach turned analyst, waiting for him in front of ESPN’s camera. Was he going to have to talk in front of the camera? Paul hadn’t prepared him for this, other than a grouchy, “Just don’t say anything stupid.”

  As Julian moved closer, Charles turned and gave him an easy grin, the camera following his every move. “Now, Smoke, this is your first time on this big of a stage. You’ve been out of the game for a long time. What are you feeling?” Charles held the microphone so that Julian could answer.

  His heart raced. He had to look like a deer in headlights, but the longer he took to respond, the stranger he seemed, so he attempted to speak. “Ner—” His voice cracked like a pubescent boy. He cleared his throat and his face felt like it was ablaze. “Nerves,” he said again, this time sounding somewhat like the thirty-year-old man he was.

  Charles didn’t even bat an eye. “You’re already sweating, man. You’ve been getting pumped up in the locker room?”

  Julian’s face burned hotter. “Yeah, yeah, that’s what it is.”

  Not the fact that he was scared out of his mind.

  Charles nodded knowingly and then wished him luck. Charles Freaking Avery wished him luck. He was living a dream, a sweaty but amazing dream.

  The fans’ cheers rumbled beneath his feet as he and Dominic stood at the mouth of the tunnel—the stadium and all its packed glory in full view.

  Holy. Shit. Center Court was mostly dark, save for a few roaming spotlights that bathed the crowds and court in blue. A white spotlight was aimed at the players’ entrance.

  Then he heard it, the announcer’s deep voice. “Welcome to Nighttime Primetime in the first match of the US Open. From the United States of America, Julian Smoke!”

  The stadium erupted in cheers and chants, a bass-heavy song playing to highlight his entry, and he froze, totally and completely in awe.

  “Go ahead, Mr. Smoke,” one of the ushers at the mouth of the tunnel prodded, but Julian didn’t want to go anywhere.

  This was beyond incredible, and he reached for his dad’s chain. He kissed the golden racket, then tucked it back inside his shirt, memories of the man who taught him to love the sport playing through his mind on a highlight reel. “It’s all for you, Dad,” he whispered to himself as he made his legs carry him forward onto hallowed ground.

  The lights were blinding against the night sky, the roof open to let in the breeze. The crowd was rowdy and loud, the energy unlike anything he’d ever experience again. He knew that with a striking certainty. The atmosphere was electric; it was a living, breathing thing, pulsing around him.

  And he fed off it.

  Julian lifted a hand in a wave like he’d seen other players do, and the crowd grew louder, wilder. The sound sunk deep into his bones, adrenaline pumping and tangling with his nerves.

  He stopped at the first player’s seat setup—two director’s chairs with blue backs and white outlines, his hands shaking as he dropped his bag from his shoulder, pulling out energy gels and sports water. A tap on the shoulder broke him from his pre-match ritual, and he looked up to see his opponent with an amused expression on his face. Julian hadn’t even heard his arrival on court announced, that’s how in his head he was.

  “Hey, man. That’s not your seat,” Dominic said, leaning in to be heard over the crowd.

  “Oh shit. Sorry, sorry,” Julian stammered as he hastily gathered his stuff and carried it to the second chair.

  He should’ve been embarrassed and could probably imagine what the commentators were saying about him as they called the match, but he didn’t care. He was here. At the US Open.

  He turned toward his end of the court, toward his box. There was his mom, all teary-eyed and beaming, along with Paul, but no brilliant red hair in sight. Deep down he thought she’d show up because, well, she’d gotten him this far, whether she realized it or not.

  Paul caught his attention and mouthed, “Paint the lines.”

  Julian’s
mind went into competitor mode, shutting down everything else as he moved to the net for photographs with Dominic, followed by the coin toss. Julian ended up winning the toss and elected to serve first.

  He and Dominic moved to their respective sides of the court, warming up for a minute before the match actually began. He stepped up to the line to serve and took a deep breath. And as his first serve went across the net, it came back just as fast and hit the line.

  Damn, this was for real.

  It shouldn’t have taken him by surprise, but somehow it did, the sheer power Meklau demonstrated overwhelming him. Julian’s mind whirled, and he struggled to gain his composure. To make matters worse, to really screw with his head, his serve was broken twice as he lost the first set 6–2.

  By the second set, Julian felt a shift in the crowd as they started getting behind him. He felt the pulse in the stands and knew this was his chance, that he needed to get this set. At 6-5 Meklau served to him, and Julian nailed a shot right on the line.

  Meklau had trouble getting to it and, once he finally did, he hit a high lob over the net. From some deep reserve, Julian channeled Pete Sampras as he jumped up and smashed the hell out of the ball, letting out a roar.

  That move? Yeah, that move was huge. Not only had he taken the second set, but he also stole the momentum of the match, something that could make or break a tennis player.

  His mind raced, his body thrumming with electricity, the adrenaline pounding in his ears. If he could just hold his own serve, he could take the match in two tie breaks. Two tie breaks. He could manage that, not necessarily easily, but he could manage it.

  No matter what happened out on the court, he desperately wanted to avoid five sets. A five-setter would crush him, especially since he wasn’t accustomed to playing that long.

  Shaking it out, he tightened his grip on the racket, letting it ground him to the here and now. He leaned forward at the hips, moving back and forth on the baseline, determined to finish the drill.

  After winning the third set, Julian felt more confident than ever, especially when he saw a chink in Meklau’s armor in what would hopefully be their fourth and final set. His opponent was starting to doubt himself, the most dangerous thing a tennis player can do. How many times had Paul reiterated to him that tennis was more mental than physical?

  His heart began to thunder as he realized that victory was close, so close he could taste it. And damn if it didn’t taste good.

  With everything he had, Julian hit his eighth ace, effectively closing out the match with his first US Open victory.

  The feeling was more than he was prepared for as he fell to his knees, completely wrought with emotion. Unbidden tears fell from his eyes, one after another, his heart both happy and sad at the same time.

  He kissed his father’s necklace, held it fisted in his hand as he raised his eyes heavenward. We did it, Dad.

  He could’ve stayed on his knees in tears for who knows how long, but if his father had taught him one thing, it was to be a good sport, and in tennis, you didn’t celebrate too long before shaking your opponent’s hand.

  Afterward was another story, of course.

  So Julian pulled himself together, piece by piece, as he lifted his body and walked to the net where Meklau waited. His opponent gave him a hug and a pat on the back, along with a muffled, “Good game, good game,” and then he was off to pack his bag.

  After Julian did a quick wave to the stadium and applauded the fans for their support by doing a clap against his racket, he quickly realized that this was only one match. Now he needed to focus on the next opponent, just like his dad would’ve told him if he were still there.

  Julian brushed his hands through his wet hair, having had plenty of time to think in the shower. He’d won. He’d beaten the number four player in the world. It was enough to make his legs shake. But even with that win, even knowing that he’d made his father proud, that he was well on his road to redemption, he couldn’t help but wonder about the missing redhead.

  “Hey, Paul?” Julian called as he stuffed his sweaty clothes back into his tennis bag.

  Paul had been jubilant, and that excited twinkle was still in his eye, but it became shaded, almost like he knew what he was about to ask. It was enough to make Julian wince.

  “Have you heard from Amalie? Do you know if she’s here somewhere?”

  Paul cocked an eyebrow. “Why would she be?”

  Julian shrugged. “I don’t know, I just thought maybe—”

  Paul removed his battered RF hat and rubbed what hair he had left, sending it this way and that as he cut Julian off. “Why would she come when you accused her of being in cahoots with her father?”

  Julian stood up straight and lifted his chin. “It was no accusation. I saw them. Hell, Andrew told me the truth, even though I didn’t want to hear it,” he shot back.

  Paul gave him a scalding look. “Andrew Warner lies, son. Amalie had no idea that her daddy got you into the US Open.”

  “What about Andrew paying for our room? What about seeing them talking that morning?”

  “Andrew is a master manipulator, and he got what he wanted, like usual. You walked out before even hearing Amalie’s side. She was set up just like you were.”

  Guilt slithered through him as everything started piecing together. Any response he might have had disappeared.

  Paul let loose a beleaguered sigh that heaved his entire frame. “It’s time for you to stop living in the past. You’re bogged down there, and it’s clouding your judgment. That girl is part of the reason you’re here, and it’s because she truly believed in you. It’s not because she asked her father for help. Amalie hasn’t talked to him since she moved out, at least not until that morning in New York.”

  Julian shook his head, everything Paul had said fully registering. “Wait. How do you know all this?”

  Paul lifted a shoulder. “Amalie told me.”

  Julian shook his head again. “But why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

  “Because Amalie asked me not to. She said you’d believe whatever you wanted to believe and that the truth wouldn’t matter if you already had your mind made up.”

  Punch to the damn gut. But she was right, and suddenly he understood why, his mind reeling with more clarity than he’d had in days. Years, even. He hadn’t trusted her. He hadn’t trusted her because he’d yet to learn to trust himself. He’d gotten so used to betrayal that it was the first thing he expected out of people, even people he loved. Because why not? He was capable of hurting those he loved. He’d hurt his dad so much with the greatest betrayal of all. He didn’t deserve anyone’s loyalty, or at least that’s how he’d felt until about sixty seconds ago. Now he saw that belief for the damaging lie it was.

  “Paul, I’ve been an ass, haven’t I?” Julian plopped down onto the bench, his head in his hands.

  Paul clapped him on his shoulder. “Don’t worry. Just like this tournament, you and Amalie ain’t over. I just needed you to understand why she wasn’t here, so that maybe you could concentrate on tennis. You have one of the easiest draws left in the tournament. You’ve got an unbelievable chance to do something special here if you keep your focus.”

  What Paul said was true. Julian had an incredible opportunity. The higher ranked a player, the less ranked opponents they had to play until the semifinals. The draw just opened, and with the level of game Julian was currently playing, it should be a breeze.

  “Gotcha, Coach,” he answered with a nod.

  Paul shifted his feet. “You have a strong chance to get to the final, hell, to win the whole thing. This isn’t the same as all those years ago, got it?”

  Julian hooked his bag over his shoulder. “Got it.”

  He knew it wasn’t the same, not by a long shot. He was actually enjoying the sport, not the money this time. Even as he thought about those things, Amalie kept moving to the forefront of his mind like a flashing neon light, her absence a gaping hole in his chest. How was he supposed to get her
back when he never felt like he had her in the first place?

  And just like that, he knew what he had to do.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Julian

  Julian waltzed up to the front desk at the Warner Hotel, the very same place Andrew had put him and Paul up for the duration of the US Open. The clerks had to know how to contact their boss.

  “Excuse me,” Julian asked as he leaned forward on the ornate counter. Everything about this place was sleek lines and screamed money. It made his skin crawl.

  The older woman behind the check-in desk squinted, adjusted her glasses, and then offered him a genuine smile. “I know you!”

  “Ah, geez,” Paul muttered at his side.

  Julian braced himself. He wasn’t really sure what to expect. In tennis, only big players were recognized unless they were a Cinderella story…

  Well, hell.

  As Julian’s mind struggled to formulate a response, the woman continued. “You’re the Employee of the Month!”

  His brows inched closer together as he leaned over the desk, certain he’d misheard her. Trying to channel his Southern boy manners, he cocked a grin. “I’m sorry, ma’am, I thought you said, ‘Employee of the Month’?”

  “I did! See?” The woman was downright giddy as she spun around and pointed to a picture behind her.

  Inside a gilded frame, more decadent than anything he’d ever owned in his life, was a photo. Of him. It was a press junket photo he’d taken for the US Open. Below it was a fancy plaque that read Employee of the Month.

  Paul dissolved into a fit of laughter as the realization struck. Julian, on the other hand, felt fumes burning his nose.

  He ignored both Paul and the woman’s confused expression as he tapped one, two, three beats on the counter. “Could you please get Andrew Warner down here? Tell him—”

  “His Employee of the Month is here,” Paul interrupted, still chuckling.

  The woman looked to Julian for confirmation and he just nodded.