by Avery Wilde
Screw her and her tempting curves. She didn’t know anything about me. I was grateful for my life. I was able to travel the world, do something I actually liked to do and something I was good at. It gave me the opportunity to do whatever the hell I wanted to do, and with my accountant’s help, I was going to have a ton of money long after my career was over with. I fucking loved tennis. The sport had been in my blood since the moment I was born, the movement of a racket swing coming naturally, like breathing. My parents had enrolled me in lessons, and before I knew it, I was competing. And winning. I couldn’t imagine anything else giving me the rush the grueling tennis matches gave me. And yet, I was screwing it up like my lovely but infuriating kidnapper had said.
I must’ve sat in that chair for at least half an hour, dozing, and going over the worst moments of my life. I was being pathetic. I snorted and picked up the now cold mug, holding it in my hands carefully.
Lifting the mug to my lips, I forced a sip of the tepid, dark liquid, the bitterness of the black coffee sliding down my throat like sludge. Yeah, my hate-hate relationship for the stuff was still there. But I drank it for her anyway. I drained it in a few gulps, then winced. I placed the mug on the table and stood, the room momentarily slipping sideways before righting itself.
My head was hurting again, telling me that I needed to get out of there. I needed the hair of the dog, and a bed, in that order. Whether it was occupied or not, well, that was up in the air. I needed to forget this day ever existed, forget the missed calls on my cell, the conversations that had driven me to drink. I needed a do-over, without some of the pieces and parts that had ruined it right from the beginning.
I took a step toward the front door, but I looked back at the staircase that presumably led up to her bedroom. My footing was becoming stronger. I could do this. I didn’t know where the hell I was, but activating the special security app on my phone would have a private car finding me within minutes. It had been a feature Jim wouldn’t let me do without, warning me that every celebrity had one. Apparently they got kidnapped, too.
Thinking of my kidnapper, my footing faltered, and I let go of the door handle. Indecision in my bones. I really should thank her, I thought, and apologize for the way I’d acted ever since I’d crashed into her. She’d only been trying to help, and I had blasted her for it. I sighed.
I started toward the staircase, heaved myself up to the next floor and stopped in front of the closed door, taking a deep breath. I wasn’t very good at apologizing, but I could at least say goodbye. Maybe I could get Jim to send her some flowers or something, like some of those smelly soaps that women liked.
I raised my hand to knock, but the door flew open and she ran into my chest, a cloud of her perfume assaulting my senses. Her hands landed on my chest again, and I was transported back to that morning on the road, when I had first admired her features. The need to kiss her was still there, and I knew if I attempted, I probably would succeed… or she would push me down the stairs.
She backed up before I could take the chance, her eyes flashing as she poked me in the chest. “You! I can’t believe this. You would throw it all away for that?”
“What are you talking about?” I asked, confused.
She stepped aside, and I saw my mother on the small television that was on top of a wooden chest of drawers tucked away in the corner of the bedroom. She had been a few of the missed calls from earlier. We’d never had a good relationship. But she wasn’t the only one in the pictures that they were showing. I was there, too, my hands in the air as we argued on the sidewalk, oblivious to the crowd we were drawing. I looked pissed off, which of course I had been. She’d dropped another bombshell that she was in love with her current fling, a rich businessman. Another twenty-something pool boy, no doubt, practically my age, and who probably looked like he should be her son and not her lover. I’d told her she was crazy. Robbing the cradle like that, and she had reamed me a new one. I hadn’t talked with her since.
“I can’t believe you got drunk today of all days for that. Everyone fights with their mom,” she was muttering, shaking her head in disappointment as the pictures flashed across the screen.
“It’s not that,” I said dully, my head feeling like a vice grip was being tightened on the top of it. “That’s not why I got smashed today.”
5
Ginny
I didn’t know whether to believe him or not. He had pissed me off so much. Refusing to let me to help him, refusing my coffee to the point where I was going to deck him or break down and cry. I’d retreated to the bedroom to think for a moment when the news flashed across the screen on what I presumed was some French gossip channel. Well, actually, it had been the pictures that caught my eye, because I could barely understand a word they were saying. From the bits and pieces that I could pick out, I deduced that his mother was getting married again, and I knew she had already been through a few. The pictures had spoken a thousand words, and I had put two and two together. He was mad (and drunk) because his mom was getting married again, and it was upstaging his career.
“Shit,” I heard him mutter, raking a hand through his hair roughly. “Why the hell did they have to show that?”
“I know why you are doing this,” I challenged, armed with this new information. “You’re afraid she’s going to get all the media attention now.”
He looked at me and laughed, a hard glare in his eyes. “You’re fucking kidding me, right?”
I shrugged, not liking that look in his eyes. “It makes sense. You don’t like the spotlight being diverted away from you.”
“Nothing in my life is making sense,” he stated, walking out of the bedroom and down the stairs. I followed him, determined to get the truth out of him one way or another. He wasn’t going to leave me hanging after everything I’d done for him. “Why did you do it then?”
He turned and I saw a myriad of emotions on his face. “You’re way off base. You know nothing about it.”
“So tell me. I’m pretty good at listening,” I said, giving him a half smile as I reached the second-to-last step.
He turned and our eyes were level. “It’s kind of my thing,” I told him. I listened to all kinds of stories as a bartender. It was interesting what you could find out about people if you just let them talk. Oh, and liquored them up in the process. Bartending was like therapy on steroids and a hell of a lot cheaper for most. I doubted many of them remembered my advice the next morning, hung-over and probably regretting some stupid act they did, but I liked to think I got across to some, maybe even subconsciously, and helped them out a little bit.
He gave me a hard look and then rubbed a hand over his face wearily. “I don’t even know your name.”
I stuck out my hand, my anger ebbing away. I felt a little bit sorry for him. He was going through something, that was painfully obvious, and doing it under the pressure and scrutiny of being a famous athlete. “I’m Ginny, from Florida.”
He reached out and grasped my hand. His warm touch sent shooting darts of electricity up my arm. Oh my. “Damon Holden, but you already know that.”
I pulled my hand away immediately, flustered by his touch. “I’m sorry if I’ve been mean.”
He arched a brow and I looked away. His gaze was too intense. “Yeah, well, I’m sorry, too,” he said as I found a particular tile in the floor to admire. “It hasn’t been my best day.”
I looked up, clearing my throat. “I am glad to listen, you know. Anything you say won’t be sold to the tabloids. I would never do that.” I was far more intrigued by the man himself. He chuckled and I smiled, some of the tension clearing from the room. “Besides, you have to get to the stadium and play today.” Sober, I wanted to add, but I refrained, considering we had just made nice. “I checked, and you’re last on. There are a lot of people who came to see you play and win.”
A grin that was way too sexy to be directed at me crossed his face, and he took a step closer. I could see some grey mixed in his baby-blue eyes, like threate
ning storm clouds on a blue summer’s day. No one was going to believe this back home. Not in a million years.
“People like you?”
All the air left my body as I fought to find the words for a nonchalant answer, trying and failing miserably.
“W-what?”
“You heard me,” he said softly, his voice low and seductive. He was inches away from me. “Tell me, Ginny from Florida. Did you come all this way to just see me play?”
I didn’t know if he honestly wanted to know the answer or if he wanted me to stroke his ego. An image of me stroking something else flashed in my mind. Oh god.
I could feel the blood rushing into my ears, swirling around my head, making me feel dizzy. My gaze focused on his nicely shaped mouth, his lips, surrounded with rough sexy stubble, that would be great for kissing. Well, I hoped they would be great for kissing. What would it feel like? Would I melt into the floor? He would taste good, I was sure of it.
Nothing else mattered in that moment except the thought that Damon Holden was close enough to kiss me! But I couldn’t let him do it. I couldn’t go down that road. I wasn’t supposed to go down that road. It was ridiculous, silly, and he was downright out of my league. I was a bar owner, for god’s sake, not some groupie who had pro tennis players fawning all over her!
Stepping back and up a step, I wrung my hands together nervously, forcing myself to get a grip. “No. But you really need to get your act together,” I forced out. “There are still a lot of people who want to see you play.”
Damon straightened; a light went out in his eyes, and a hard mask dropped back over his cooled expression. “Well, then they won’t be disappointed if I screw it all up. After all, it’s what I do best.”
I wanted to protest, wanted to change my mind and tell him I didn’t mean what I said. I wanted tell him that I was one of those people who held their breath with each swing of his racket, cheering when he won and shedding tears when he didn’t. Who cared if a TV and thousands of miles stood between us? I was one of those people he would be letting down.
“Damon? Talk to me,” I tried again, seriously wanting to help him. If he felt like that, then he truly needed a friend. Someone to listen to him.
Damon opened his mouth to say something but instead shook his head, giving me a false grin. Presumably the one he used to hide what was really going on.
“I appreciate everything you did today, Ginny. You were quick on your feet and probably saved me from a huge headache with the authorities. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. But let me help you more; there’s obviously something on your mind. Something that made you do this. Want me to drive you somewhere?” I pleaded as he walked toward the door. I knew that the moment he walked out this bizarre day would be over, and everything would go back to normal. He would go back to being an untouchable tennis star on TV, and I would go back to being, well, a nobody. But in the comfort of this apartment, all the way on the other side of the world and far removed from my normal life, I was something else, and I didn’t want the moment to end.
He shook his head.
“Goodbye, Ginny,” he said as he opened the door and disappeared through it. I stood there, watching him walk down the cobblestones. He shoved his hands into his pockets, his gait still unsteady. He reached the wooden gate, pressed the buzzer, and the door clicked open.
He was gone.
Where he was going, I had no idea, but I hoped that he had a plan for the match. The match. His hangover. Turning back into the apartment, I grabbed a bottle off the counter and flew out of the door, running down the same path he’d just taken, then looking left and right along the street. He was nearing the corner of the block, and I raced to catch up to him. He looked up as I reached his side, surprised that I was there, and before he could say anything, I pressed the bottle into his hand. “For your headache,” I said sheepishly. “You’re going to need them.”
His jaw worked and for a moment I thought he was going to respond, but instead he just nodded and walked off, leaving me behind. I watched him go with a heavy sigh, not believing that I had just spent the better part of my day arguing with the hottest tennis player in the world. At most I’d hoped to take a picture of him on court during the Open, but I had touched him, called him by his first name, nearly kissed him. It was crazy.
Reaching over, I pinched my arm, wincing as the pain shot through it. Nope, I still wasn’t dreaming. This had all really happened.
I started walking back to my apartment, looking down at my watch in the process. I could still make some of the tennis matches, maybe even see Damon in action if I hurried, and if he turned up. I didn’t know exactly what time he would be on court since it all depended on the length of the matches scheduled before his, but something told me that it wasn’t going to be the last time I saw him, on the court or otherwise.
“Snap out of it,” I muttered to myself as I walked inside the apartment and shut the door. The best I could hope for was that he would turn up, win his match, and all would be right in the world once more.
Then I noticed the empty mug, drained of its contents, and I smiled.
6
Damon
“You do know that this is what you do for a fucking living right? I mean it’s not a pastime. Because if it is, then I quit.”
I rolled my eyes and reached down to tie my trainers tighter. Derek was pissed, and he continued to rage on at me about being extremely late for warmups and for not taking stuff seriously. He really was trying to pile on the guilt, but I just shrugged it all away.
Turns out Ginny had been right, though. I did have a match that day. After leaving her apartment, through bleary eyes I read the boatload of angry text messages from both Derek and Jim as they tried to figure out where the hell I was.
Before I could think better of it I called for a private car to pick me up and take me to the stadium to face the music.
While Derek raked me over the coals about my tardiness, I waited for the current match to finish.
“You do know threatening me with quitting isn’t going to work, right?”
Derek ran a hand over his buzz cut, his face turning a deep shade of red with anger and impatience. I smiled up at him, and he just shook his head and paced back and forth in the locker room. I’d already changed and drunk a gallon of Gatorade, enough to fill a small bathtub, to rid my body of the alcohol the best I could. Derek had just about had a shit fit over the alcohol on my breath, which had me wishing I’d drunk more of that dreadful coffee Ginny was offering, just so he would get off my back.
“Shit, Damon, this is a big deal for us. We have endorsements lined up and ready to sign if you get past the first few rounds. You know that, right?”
I stood and shook out my legs one at a time, attempting to stay limber. I wasn’t feeling too badly if I was being honest. My head was groggy, of course, but once I made it out on court the adrenaline would start pumping and clear it all away. “According to Jim, they are all about to dump me.”
“After the stunt you pulled today, who knows?”
I smirked, thinking of the morning’s events and the woman I’d spent it with. Ginny the redhead from Florida. God, she was cute. The moment I stumbled into her apartment I knew I was ready to have sex with her. But she’d wanted nothing more than to get me sober. It was refreshing, really. A woman who didn’t just fall to her knees in front of me.
Her eyes, though… They’d definitely thought about doing just that. The way she blushed and turned the embarrassment into something else, channeling it into a fierce, no-nonsense persona. I could only imagine what she would be like in bed if she brought that kind of fire to the bedroom. Shit, I was getting turned on just thinking about her. If I wasn’t careful, I would need to excuse myself and rub one out while thinking about that body and those creamy tits that were blessed with kissable freckles. But sex was usually an absolute no-no prior to a match; the adrenaline coupled with a high-strung body was one of my best ways to play. If I was too
relaxed, I would get lazy.
But for her, I would have made an exception.
“So I went off the grid a few hours. Sue me.”
“This is the fucking French Open!” Derek shot back, throwing his hands up in the air. I loved Derek. He had the greatest reaction to everything. Constantly blowing shit out of proportion. I was here, wasn’t I? Ready and eager to get on with it.
Derek and I had met playing doubles on the junior circuit when we were in our late teens before an elbow injury a few years later took him out of competition for good. He knew my moves better than anyone else, and before his injury, he had punished and infuriated me by anticipating each one on the court. So, when the shit hit the fan for him, I hired him on as my coach after I’d been forced to drop my old one. Like Jim, my agent, he was family. I was the godfather to Derek’s two little girls, and he was one of the beneficiaries of my will. After all, there was no one else I cared to set up for life other than him, though he would never know unless I happened to die in a traffic accident or something equally stupid.
“If I hadn’t turned up, then you would have every right to scold me like a five-year-old. But seriously, Derek, as much as I love you, please shut the fuck up now. You’re not helping my headache.”
“Pull the other one. You love getting angry at me before a match. I’m merely facilitating that anger. You better bring your A-game though—”
“I’ll be fine, I swear.”
He sighed loudly, sketched a dismissive wave in the air, then pushed open the door to the hallway that led to the waiting area for the players. “You better be,” he muttered. I trailed behind him for a bit, then caught up to him, my stride longer than his. We walked a way down the hall before he halted me, concern on his face. “You know you can tell me anything, right?”