Clean Point

38 Nico

38

I Like You – Harry Strange

A thunderous applause broke out as Scottie and I sealed doubles victory at the round of 16, Scottie’s return bouncing twice, our opponents unable to reach the ball in time. We had played beautifully, reading each other’s moves to dominate and take the match in straight sets.

She turned, beaming at me with pure joy, her hand forming a fist as she yelled out with joy. I stood no chance against the wide grin that broke out on my own lips at the sight of her.

My entire body ached with the need to run to her, close the distance, and pull her tightly into my body. I wanted to kiss her, taste victory on her lips. Instead, I planted my legs and promised myself ‘later.’

Our relationship was not for anyone else but us. They could believe what they wanted, read into every photograph and smile. They could use that to sell their clothing and brand, but they wouldn’t turn what I really had with her into a spectacle.

We met our opponents at the net, shaking their hands before walking back to the bench to collect our belongings.

‘You did good out there, Sinclair,’ I complimented, nudging my shoulder into hers, desperate for any physical contact, even if it was a friendly gesture.

‘I know.’ She turned to me, meeting my gaze before shrugging. ‘You were alright.’

I narrowed my eyes at her, pursing my lips. ‘Just alright?’

The playfully evil glint in her eyes told me she was just messing with me, flirting even. But that didn’t mean my ego could take the dig.

‘I mean, there were a few that went past you I would’ve been able to return.’ She pushed her racket inside her bag, before slinging it over her shoulders, a water bottle held in her free hand.

‘Oh, yeah?’ My eyebrows pushed up, shouldering my own bag and standing alongside her.

She shrugged again as she took a sip of her water. ‘I mean, if you can’t handle a critique, I could keep it to myself and let Jon tell you instead.’ Then she turned, beginning to walk off court as if this conversation was over. But it was far from over.

I caught up easily, increasing the pace of my long strides to match her speed. ‘Do we want to talk about your second serve?’

She stopped dead in her tracks, a hand on the strap of her bag, keeping it on her shoulder, and she peered up at me with suspicion and confusion. ‘What about my second serve?’

I smothered a grin at how easy it was to get under her skin.

‘Hey, if you can’t handle critique …’ I turned, leaving her frozen on the spot, and pretended not to notice the sexy scowl on her face. Scottie Sinclair was definitely still hot when she was mad. The only thing that made her hotter was a tennis racket in her hand.

There wasn’t much distance between us before she yelled, ‘I can take it.’

I immediately whipped around to her, eyes wide as she realized her innuendo. There was almost nothing I could do to fight the smile breaking out before I looked around, trying to see if the crowd had noticed us. But when barely anyone in the players’ room had stopped to look, I turned back, finding her by my side, a slightly nervous look on her face.

I pressed my lips together. ‘Well, apparently you can’t handle your second serve.’

Frustration rushed back onto her face, her mouth opening with whatever retort she had prepared when somebody cut her off.

‘Hey – good to see you out there again,’ Oliver Anderson, one of my competitors in the singles, said with a friendly smile. ‘It’s been a while.’

The last time we’d been on court together was the US Open quarter-final almost a year ago. It was the last grand slam I’d managed to get through with my knee. I won the match against Oliver, but not without the game going late into a tie break.

I grinned confidently at him. ‘Just getting warmed up.’

Scottie interrupted, her arms crossed. ‘Oliver, tell him there was nothing wrong with my second serve.’

He looked uneasily between us, one eyebrow arched. ‘I don’t want to get in between a lovers spat.’

I shook my head, refusing to acknowledge his comment. It was becoming more frequent as the press attention grew. After our positive performance on court today, I knew it would only get worse.

‘It’s about the lack of spin,’ I answered, keeping my attention on Oliver.

Scottie just about exploded. ‘A lack of spin?’

‘Don’t worry about it.’ I smiled. ‘I’m sure Jon’s already constructing a last-minute training session about it.’

She mumbled something mostly incoherent, but I picked up the odd word. That in itself was enough for me to know I definitely didn’t want to hear what she had to say. Her gaze met mine, a fiery anger still burning. ‘I’m going for a shower. Don’t think this is over.’

She narrowed her gaze one last time at me, before her face softened, turning to Oliver as she said a goodbye to him. My attention caught on the sway of her white pleated skirt as she walked away, the bare skin of her thigh calling to me.

I wondered if she’d let me tattoo my name there.

‘Did you see who your opponent is for the quarterfinals?’ Oliver asked, bringing my attention back to him. I blatantly ignored the raised eyebrow and cocky smile combo he was sporting.

‘No, I haven’t had a chance to check. Who is it?’

His smile grew. ‘Me.’

A laugh escaped me, the competitive side kicking in. Every time Oliver and I met on the court, we both knew we were in for one hell of a match. At thirty, he was younger than me, fast and tactical, a defensive baseliner that would always try to force errors from my play. Try being the key word.

‘Should I expect payback after our last match?’ I asked. It had been brutal from the start, running until almost 3 a.m. It had taken all my strength to get through it, leaving me exhausted and unprepared for the quarter final a day after.

He nodded, before joking, ‘I’m excited to see what that new knee can do.’

A tinge of pain struck through my leg at his words, the memory of the days after the US Open playing over, the joint swollen and painful. Even after today, I was desperately needing an ice pack and rest, the reminder from Jon and Ethan not to overdo it still at the front of my mind. I had to look after myself for Scottie. I couldn’t let her down.

‘How’s Ava doing?’ I asked, changing the subject to Oliver’s wife.

Something flashed in his face, a shadow falling over his confidence. He swallowed, looking off at the crowd around us before answering. ‘She’s alright, I think.’

‘You think? She’s your wife.’

He shook his head. ‘Not anymore. She left.’

My shock overwhelmed me for a moment as I tried to fit this piece of information with the couple I knew well. We were, of course, competitors, but Oliver was a friend off-court, too. When I’d been recovering, he’d visited a few times, made sure I knew I needed to get better so he could get his revenge after our last battle.

‘What happened?’

He shrugged casually, but now that I knew, I could see sadness was clear on his face. Dark circles under his eyes, his face a little slimmer than it had been. ‘Turned out we wanted different things. It’s just life sometimes.’

His words played on my mind. What did Scottie want? After this? The touring could keep us apart for weeks, maybe months. And what would it mean for the future?

‘Fuck. I’m sorry,’ I finally managed, a hand reaching out to his shoulder, fingers pressing firmly into his T-shirt.

Oliver’s head swayed a little, jaw clenched as his gaze moved unfocused. ‘It’s fine. I mean, it’s not, but it is what it is.’

‘Is that why she’s not competing here this year?’ I asked, trying to make sense of the situation. They had been together a long time, both of them managing the juggle between their careers and relationship – at least, that’s how it had seemed. After burning out in his early twenties, he took a relaxed attitude to competing in the sport, only playing when it suited him. But when he did compete, I knew I was in for some real fun.

He let out a heavy breath. ‘Honestly, I don’t know. It’s hard to keep in contact with her, different time zones with the tour.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that. Honestly, it sucks.’

He raised an eyebrow, the hint of a smirk appearing. ‘Fancy throwing the match tomorrow out of pity?’

I laughed. ‘I’m not that sorry.’

‘Worth a shot.’ He shrugged.

‘I’d wish you good luck …’ I trailed off, head tilting in answer.

This time it was his turn to laugh as he raised his hand, letting his palm rest on the centre of his chest. ‘Just go easy on me, I’m a man with a broken heart.’

‘And I’ve only got one good knee,’ I retorted. We both started to go our own ways, knowing we’d see each other again soon, only that interaction wouldn’t be nearly as friendly.

His smile was wide but didn’t quite reach his eyes. ‘Sounds like it’s a fair match.’ And then, with a soft nod of his head, we parted, tucking our friendship away, somewhere down deep.

You play a lot of friends in this sport, but that didn’t matter when they were standing on the opposite side of the court. Not when that person was between you and the rush of victory, a step closer to the title we all go to bed dreaming about.