Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
Tegan
I stand outside the cafeteria, my hand on the door, taking deep breaths.
This isfine. This is absolutely fine. Those assholes who gave you the wrong keycardare not going to get the better of you.
I lift my chin high, take one more deep breath,and then open the cafeteria door. I make my way in, shoulders back, walking confidently.
If there's anything I have learned in this sport, it's that you can’t show weakness.Weakness off the tennis court is just as lethal as weakness on it. Tennis players watch each other. They pay attention to each other's bodies, to the way they serve, to the way they lunge. Alwayslooking for something they can use to their advantage. And right now, I will be made ofsteel, and I will not let them know that they've won.
I get in line, grab some fruit and a bowlof oatmeal. Maybe they haven't won. I mean, after all, what does it matter that I accidentally climbedinto bed with Roman Jostad? So what? As far as I know,it’s not against any kind of bylaws to get frisky with your rival’s coach.
It’s not like anything even really happened. Yes, we technically made it to second base and almost third. He definitely groped my boob. And it was definitely really hot.But seeing as how neither one of us knew who the other was in the dark, it was also extremely inappropriate.
I grab a Powerade out of the cooler and sit down.
I haven't been seated for ten seconds before a body lands in the seat across the table from mine.Alexandria Cruz presses her elbows into the table and leans across it to me. She's wearing a devious smile.
I just watch her, carefully schooling my expression.I have an excellent poker face. I will never let her see that she got one over on me.
Because that’s what happened, right? How else could the guy I made out with in the ice room last night have gotten the key card to Roman Jostad’s room if not by getting it from the player he’s been coaching? Alexandria is one hundred percent responsible.
“Did you have a good night?” she asks, her ponytail swinging from one side to the other as she speaks animatedly. She might as well pat herself on the back, get herself a trophy, jack herself off.She is so proud of herself.
“I had an excellent night,” I say, smiling back at her while I twist open the cap of my Powerade. I look away from her long enough to take a few gulps and then slam the bottle back onto the table, ignoring the blue liquid that sloshes over the side.
“Oh, I bet,” she says, putting her chin in her hands. “I can't wait to hear all about it.” Her eyes go wide with feigned innocence. “Did you want to tell me, or should I ask Coach?”
For the first time this morning, fear really starts to settle under my skin. It's true that I didn’t break any tournament rules. But I did almost stick my hand down someone’s shorts by accident and Roman could certainly tell Alexandria what happened in that room.
It’s bad enough that she knows I was in there in the first place. She doesn’t also need to know that I tried to jerk off her coach. Would he tell her? The humiliation of that might be something I can’t come back from.
“I don’t know what you mean,” I tell her, copying her fake innocence. If she’s going to look like a clown, then I’m going to imitate her so she can see how stupid she looks.
“Oh, don’t you?” she asks.
And then I wonder, what would she do if I told her exactly what happened? What if I lied and told her I fucked his brains out?
Before Roman agreed to be Alexandria's coach, she was bottom of every bracket. When we were in school, she was passably good. The competition was minimal. But when she got out into the big leagues, she was nothing.And then Daddy paid out the ass for veteran all-star Roman Jostad, and now look at her. I have no doubt that it’ll be me and her in the finals.
“I went to bed early,” I lie.
There is no version of last night that ends with me going to bed early, or even at a reasonable time. I've never been very good at being disciplined where these things are concerned.I don't always eat the way I should, and I don't always refrain from alcohol like I should, and I definitely do not get enough sleep like I should.
And that’s how I found myself making out with a complete rando in the ice room of our hotel last night.A guy who got a phone call as he was fingering me, slipped me the key to his room, and told me to meet him there in twenty minutes, since the phone call was deeply personal.
In my head, I imagined it was his sick mom or something.But instead, I can only assume that it was Alexandria calling to tell him it was time to ditch me and give me the key to her coach's room.
And that is also how I found myself in bed with Roman Jostad at three in the morning.
Muted laughter reaches me from the other side of the room, and I glance over at a table of people I don't recognize. There’s one girl who I'm pretty sure I played yesterday though.Sometimes it's hard to see them from across the court, and I'm not very good with faces. I do my research just like everyone else, but I'm not really interested in looking at photos of people.
I do recognize one face. The guy who had his fingers inside me last night.
I look away, back at Alexandria. She looks like she's won the tournament already. She's glowing.
What did she think was going to happen, exactly? That I would be so embarrassed that I would to drop out?Imagine being so certain that you're going to lose that you have to manipulate your competition. It's pathetic, really. But that's Alexandria. Jealous since the day we met in high school.
“How much did you have to pay him?” I ask her.
When her eyebrows furrow in confusion, I point at the guy, who's still looking over at us. I can see the interest in his blue eyes.If Alexandria hadn't called, he would have pumped into me right there in that ice room, no question. He was hard. I know he wanted to fuck me.
“Your boy over there,” I clarify. “You know, the one who pretends to be friends with you because he wants your money?”
Her smile falls at that, and I wonder if she's into him. I could rub salt in the wound. Tell her how hard he was against my hip while he was sticking his tongue in my mouth last night.
Instead, I say, “It must really suck to have to pay for friends.”
This girl, she's never had a poker face in her life.I've seen the desperation in her eyes when she's about to lose a match. I've seen the way her hands jitter. The way she moves slower when she knows she's no real competition.
“Anyway,” I say, pulling my tray back toward me as if I'm done eating, even though I haven't touched anything. “I have kind of a big day ahead of me, but maybe you could draw a map of where a clit is for your friend in all your free time?”
Her mouth drops open, and I pick up my tray and walk away from her, stopping to dump my uneaten food in the trash.It doesn't matter. I'm not sitting in this room with her and her little posse of pathetic gold diggers.
I throw open the door and barge into the hallway that I just came in from and slam right into Roman Jostad.