Table of Contents
Title Page
Books by Rachel Blaufeld
About Break Point
Author’s Note
Dedication
Part One
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 10.5
Chapter 11
Part Two
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Epilogue
Extended Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Copyright Notice
To See You
Love at Center Court Series
Vérité
Dolce
The Electric Tunnel Series
Electrified
Smoldered
Crossroads Series
Redemption Lane
Absolution Road
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The match is heated, but who holds the advantage?
A brand new STANDALONE from Rachel Blaufeld with a quick trip back to Hafton U., featuring a cameo from the guys in Vérité.
Juliette Smith, star tennis player, is starting over at a new university. Traumatized by hazing at her last school, all she wants is to attend classes, win tennis matches, and be left the hell alone. She should have known her coach, Drew King, would be a problem from the moment he flexed his sexy-as-hell forearms. What happens when you mix a pissed-off woman with a bunch of snooty teammates and a hot coach? A heated match, complete with team politics and a forbidden game of singles with the coach.
It’s reckless and hot until one of them taps out.
Unable to admit she may be better off as a double, Jules is convinced she needs to play the game of life alone. Then life throws her a lob and she runs smack into her past. Coach King is back, and he wants to take control of the game. But she’s not certain she wants his advice when it comes to the life she’s built. The power struggle is on, but this time off the court.
This story began as a novella, part of an anthology with all proceeds going to ProLiteracy. It wasn’t until I was about two-thirds of the way through writing it that my beta readers demanded more, so I did something I’ve never done before.
I left my readers hanging, ending my novella in a cliffy.
It was true—Drew and Jules’s story couldn’t be finished in a novella. They deserved a full book. In fact, Drew and Jules were so amazing, they needed two happily-ever-afters.
So that’s what I gave them.
If you read the anthology, I apologize for making you wait for the full story. But I had to wait in an effort to raise as many funds as possible for ProLiteracy. Thank you again for helping others.
If you’re lucky enough to be reading a release-week copy of this book, one dollar of every sale will be donated to a local women’s shelter. So, thanks are necessary one more time!
Important: This book includes two bonus chapters (Prologue and Chapter 10.5) in Part One, so if you read the novella, you don’t want to skip Part One here.
Last, but not least, this book goes back to Hafton University, the setting for Vérité and Dolce. It’s not necessary to read those books first, but if you want to read more sports romance, you can check them out here.
This book is for all the single mothers out there. You brave on your own what most of us can barely do with a partner.
Thank you for raising our future leaders, athletes, musicians, teachers, innovators, and authors, the next generation that will make our world a better place for everyone.
Jules
It was a breezy day in late March. Gray clouds folded over the sky, blocking the sun. The temperature was mild for this time of year in Ohio, and sweat dripped down my back as I beat the living hell out of the wall in front of me.
With the ball, of course.
I’d lost track of how many forehands I’d done. Probably two hundred. My shoulder ached, and my palm was a sweaty mess from gripping the racquet. Tossing the grip into my left hand, I wiped my right hand clean on my shorts before grabbing a loose ball off the ground. Like a robot, I began punishing my other shoulder with one-handed backhands.
“Excuse me, are you going to be using the wall much longer?”
Looking up, I saw a guy. Yuppie, mid-twenties, slim but muscular, brown hair underneath his Ivy League hat, and a worn gray T-shirt.
“I’m actually finished,” I replied, leaning over to snag a few stray balls and my racquet cover from the ground.
“I didn’t mean to make you leave.” His eyes bore down on me—chestnut brown, warm, and inviting.
Kindness radiated from him, which was something I hadn’t experienced much of recently. I didn’t know if I wanted to run from it or snatch it in my grasp and never let go.
“It’s cool. I actually have something I need to do.” I decided on the former. Running felt safer.
Plus, I do have something. Something I don’t want—at least, I don’t think I do. Who knows?
My mind was like that nursery rhyme . . . five little monkeys jumping on the bed, until one fell off and hit his head, or however it went. My ideas pinged and bounced about my brain until eventually they all fell flat like worn-out tennis balls.
“You’re pretty good.” The stranger cocked his head toward the wall, telling me he saw my earlier battle with the concrete slab.
I shrugged. My response wasn’t exactly inviting, but he pushed on.
“I just moved here from Boston. Do you live nearby? We could play one day.”
It was the first conversation I’d had with the opposite sex since the incident. I should have been more exhilarated or frightened, but instead I felt nothing. Standing here talking with this guy, I felt absolutely nothing.
“I’m working for the new tech company close to the university, app development. I haven’t met too many people,” he said, his matching Ivy League long-sleeved T-shirt stretching tightly over his chest. On paper, this guy must have been a catch.
Except my head was as cloudy as the sky. His forthrightness and honesty did nothing for me. Most young women would jump into this white knight’s arms, but I’d learned to be cautious.
“Um, I’m not sure,” was about all I could come up with in the moment.
“No pressure. I go in late on Tuesdays, so I usually come over here and hit. Maybe you’ll be back next week.”
“Maybe. I might be going back to school . . . college,” I offered without further explanation.
“Either way, the invitation stands.”
Mr. Ivy League opened his can of balls, slipped his Prince racquet out of its case, and began stretching. He twisted from side to side at the waist, working out the kinks in his lats, taking his racquet with him.
“See you,” I ca
lled out when I caught a glimpse of bare skin above his shorts. Sadly, I didn’t feel a tinge of desire, or anything really.
Walking back to my childhood home, I made a mental note to never hit at the park on Tuesdays. My high school coach had been begging me to come play, to hit a few balls or whatever. His offer was starting to appeal to me. Especially on Tuesdays.
As I walked back into my house, a voice called from inside, “Hurry up, Juliette. The new coach will be here soon, and this isn’t something we can pass up.”
“Okay, Mom. I hear you.”
“I don’t think you do,” she said as she walked down the steps, a cup of tea in her hand and a smile fixed on her face. Genevieve Smith cared about two things: my dead father, and getting me educated and out.
She’d isolated me from my peers most of my life with constant tennis lessons and tutors to ensure I did well in school, all in the hope of getting a scholarship. Then I’d squandered my first one. It was time to forget all that monkey business and move on. That’s what she’d said when she took away my phone and the small life I’d created before it all went to hell. This time around, she meant business.
“I hear you, Mom. Now I need to shower and hurry back down, so if you wouldn’t mind . . .”
With my hair still tied in a messy knot on top of my head, I scrubbed myself clean—showers had become perfunctory—and threw on a burgundy off-the-shoulder sweatshirt and black leggings. I dragged some mascara across my lashes, brushed through my hair, and tossed it back into a messy bun.
I was walking down the stairs when I caught sight of a broad-shouldered figure coming up the walkway. There was a knock at the door as soon as I hit the bottom step.
“Get it, Juliette,” my mom called from the kitchen.
Opening the door, I was met with the exact opposite of the guy I’d just met in the park. This one was wearing dark jeans and a polo, and had longish hair, tanned skin, and the bluest of blue eyes.
“Hi. You must be Juliette. I’m Coach King . . . Drew. I took over at Hafton last season. The tennis program,” he explained, mistaking my immediate crushing and infatuation for confusion.
The words clogged my throat, embarrassment flushed through my veins, and I was sure my cheeks were the color of my hair. It was the basest of attractions, purely physical, something I’d definitely never experienced.
After all, I was only twenty. That was normal, right?
I wasn’t meant to fall like this when I was so young. Who the heck knew? My mom had certainly never prepared me for these things, or helped me navigate them. Her cold, austere parenting style was only warmed by my father when he was alive.
“You were expecting me, right?” The coach cleared his throat and glanced at an oversized watch on his wrist.
Underneath his bad-boys looks was quite a gentleman, no doubt the polished product of a prep school. No match for my sheltered suburban-public-school-educated upbringing.
Kind of like California. As if that wasn’t mistake enough—signing up for that West Coast lifestyle—I was falling into some kind of blissful spell over my coach-to-be. We hadn’t even spoken more than a few words to each other, and my body was humming as a result of my indecent thoughts.
“Um, hi,” I said awkwardly, and added a lame little wave.
My mom picked this moment to come striding out of the kitchen, making an entrance.
“Genevieve Smith.” She held out her hand. “And you are?”
“Coach King.”
We were all still crowded around the threshold, the chilly air making its way inside, which was fine because I was hotter than a fire in hell. And I should know. I’d been to hell, and I was pretty certain I didn’t want to go back.
Until now.
“I thought the coach at Hafton was older?” Looking King up and down, my mom inquired about the older coach as if this was all about her. And like everything in my life, it was.
“You mean Ace, Coach Hall? He retired two years ago. I helped him out for a year, and then they gave me the gig full-time. Actually, I was the one who reached out to you. I saw some kick-ass tape of Juliette playing. Pardon my French.”
My mom rolled her eyes at his forthrightness.
I was fascinated with King’s white smile, his biceps, and his not-so-muted attitude. Although he could have been muttering, “Blah, blah, blah,” for all I knew, and I would have been spellbound. Something naughty and oh-so-right was simmering in him, just beneath the surface, clamoring to get out.
“May I come in?” he finally asked.
“Yes, yes. Come into the kitchen,” my mom suggested. She offered cold drinks and left the two of us sitting across from each other at our butcher-block table.
“Tell me about yourself,” he said.
I want to swim in your eyes. I haven’t had a pulse since I left California . . . until now . . . with you seated in front of me.
I felt all of those soul-infused words deep in my belly and slowly rising in my throat. Before they came bubbling out, I tamped them down.
Instead, I said, “Sophomore status when it comes to sports. Tennis player, twenty, failure.”
“Hey.”
The deepness of his voice set off a ripple of lust through me. When his hand settled over mine, I stared at his calloused fingers and insanely sexy forearms. I wanted to run my fingertips along the veins and stroke his calluses with my thumb.
“You’re going to have a second chance, and I’m going to make it happen.”
I nodded, my gaze glued to his hand on mine. When he swiftly pulled back, probably realizing the inappropriateness of his action, I felt barren, empty, dejected. Between the chilly assault in California and my mother’s cold attitude, I was drawn to King’s warmth and kindness like it was a fireplace on a snowy day.
I tried using Jedi mind tricks to make him put his hand back, but he didn’t. He spent the next half hour asking me about how much I’d been playing, and discussing tennis strategy with me. Never once did he bring up the incident at my old school.
“You need to get registered for classes, and I’ll text you when I think would be a good time for you to watch a practice.”
“I don’t text. No cell phone.”
“Then I’ll call you,” he said, standing to leave.
Yes, please.
Jules
“Good job, ladies. Keep it up,” Coach King called to the girls I’d been watching hit bright yellow tennis balls against the pale blue sky.
His deep voice carried up the bleachers and rumbled down the meadow behind me. A hot/cold shiver fizzled over me, tickling my spine and other places—from his voice alone.
With every stroke of their racquets, I felt my wrist catch, mimicking the girls’ movements, mentally stroking a backhand or a forehand. With every lick of encouragement of his voice, my pulse beat quicker, wishing his words were directed toward me.
And not just on the court.
I hoped this wasn’t going to be a problem. Obviously, it was wishful thinking. I certainly didn’t need any more problems, but Coach King was proving to be one very big one.
His voice drifted into the air. “Hilary, watch the overswing on your backhand.”
Another chill swept over me; I was instantly jealous of another girl’s name rolling off his tongue. Coach King, all six feet of him with his messy, wavy blond hair (golden blond, sun-kissed blond, perfect blond), blue eyes like the Mediterranean, and forearms to die for. I knew because when he’d visited me several weeks back, I couldn’t stop staring at the veins and muscles running along them. He’d subconsciously flexed, and I had to make sure I wasn’t drooling.
Then there’d been the light smattering of golden-blond hairs on his skin. Each time they caught the sunlight streaming through the kitchen window, I couldn’t help but stare. He’d been sitting in my kitchen, explaining the merits of the school’s tennis program, what they had done since he took over the job as head coach, and what my role would be.
“The school’s delighted to be o
btaining you,” the acceptance letter had said. Like a piece of property.
“Still overswinging, Hilary,” he called out, jolting me out of my memories.
Hilary could have been any one of the girls. At the time, I certainly had no clue, nor did I care who she was. She just wasn’t me.
The team was quite the homogeneous group—too thin, blond hair scraped back tight in a ponytail, skimpy white shorts painted on long tanned legs.
My thoughts wandered, going to a much darker place, worse than daydreaming about Coach King. Torrents of memories of what similar girls had done at my last school rippled through me, stealing my breath, leaving me in a panic.
I remained still, my arms wrapped around my knees, my jean shorts digging into the space where thigh met crotch as my red hair was whipped around my face by a passing breeze. I breathed in and out, counting backward from a hundred. Taking deep breaths and closing my eyes, I allowed positive energy to burn through me and eat away at the bad.
Giggles wafted from the benches below, near the fountain, and then drifted off as the other girls made their way out of the sports complex. Reality returned. It was present day, not back then when I was helpless.
Today I was in control.
Only after the others left—not that it mattered, I was invisible to them—did the coach nod in my direction and motion for me to come down.
That simple gesture felt like something more. Like I meant more to him than was appropriate for a coach and his student. His head tilted to the side for a beat too long, his gaze rested on me more thoughtfully than it had on the others, and he squinted at me in a way I liked very, very much.
“Think you can keep up with them?” He jerked his head back toward the gymnasium, a smirk twisting his mouth.
I zoned in on his lips and became a sailboat slicing through the sea, jumping into the blue ocean that was his eyes as I made my way down the stairs.
That’s your coach, Juliette. Let it be.
“I play singles, so I’m pretty sure I’ll hold my own with or without them,” I said from the bottom step, allowing my natural confidence to make an appearance. Hello, ego, my good friend.
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