Unreturnable (Singles to Doubles #1)

1. Kate

Chapter One

Kate

Shit, I was late. My sandals slipped against the pavement as I hurried toward the Clubhouse, the summer rain chasing me in uneven sheets.

I hated being late. It wasn’t about the minutes on the clock; it was the way it pressed against my ribs, that creeping reminder I wasn’t where I should be.

Gwen wouldn’t care; she never did. But for me, being off-schedule always lit an uncomfortable tingle at the back of my neck, as though I’d already let someone down and I wasn’t where I should be.

I wasn’t even in London for most of the year.

Cardiff was where I called home, where I worked, and where I lived alone.

But for this one week every summer, I came up to stay with Gwen and lose myself in Wimbledon during the closing week.

It was a tradition that had survived most things. Marriage, divorce…well, everything.

She was still off smoothing things over for one of her high-maintenance players.

I think there had been mention of sponsors, schedules, something very official, I was sure.

I hadn’t really been listening when she told me this morning.

I’d just nodded, waiting for the coffee to hit my bloodstream, my brain still working on closing the twenty-five tabs it still had open.

So this afternoon, I’d drifted through Wimbledon on my own, weaving between the crowds, ducking into matches on the outside courts. It felt good to disappear for a while. To sink into the rhythm of rackets and cheers instead of my usual circling thoughts.

Work.

The silence of my flat.

The divorce I still couldn’t quite say out loud without wincing.

For a few hours, I could just…be. Now, though, I craved somewhere quieter. I needed a drink, a seat, a bit of gossip with Gwen before she dragged me to dinner in Mayfair. That was the plan, anyway.

Wimbledon had always been my happy place.

I didn’t need a player pass or a VIP wristband, just space to roam, to people-watch and quietly score outfits, to build elaborate backstories for players I’d never meet.

Spinning entire lives out of a single expression or the angle of a toss.

Occupational hazard of being a psychologist, I supposed.

And maybe also of someone who wanted, just for a little while, to forget her own story.

I’d even bought a new dress. A crisp, white shirt dress with sharp buttons and a nipped-in waist. A far cry from my usual uniform of black trousers and black blouses. It made me feel polished. Perhaps for one evening, I could look as if I belonged here.

The Clubhouse always felt like walking into someone else’s life, but after years of tagging along with Gwen, people barely looked twice when I wandered in. That and the pass around my neck surely helped.

Gwen and I had both grown up on damp Welsh courts with second-hand rackets and overambitious dads.

She’d chased the dream, won the scholarship, and built her career with the LTA.

While I’d chased the dream my parents had for me.

The doctorate, the career, the ‘stable’ husband who had the staying power of a spray tan.

It had been just over a year since it all blew up.

My mother had fretted more about the neighbours and the wasted cost of wedding photos she could no longer shove in people’s faces, than the fact her daughter’s marriage had imploded.

Gwen had shown up with wine, sharp words, and a voodoo curse. Just in case we needed it.

I’d rebuilt slowly. New house. Promotion. A body I’d worked hard for—not out of vanity, but out of spite. My breakdown could’ve easily gone either way, but thankfully, I chose the version with endorphins.

When I spotted Gwen, finally, sitting with colleagues, luck was on my side. Judging by the lack of a client, her last appointment was running late.

I was mid-chat with John, her boss, about his daughter’s uni application I’d helped with last year, when Gwen’s attention flicked past me.

“Ah, just who I need,” she said, already rising from her seat. “Give me ten minutes, then I’m all yours. Gotta go meet the Aussie.”

That was typical of Gwen. Her ten minutes would inevitably turn into twenty-five minutes. Minimum. With John excusing himself to catch someone before they left, I figured I might as well grab a drink and let her finish her business.

On the way to the bar, I passed the table where she’d parked her very important player. I made the mistake of glancing over.

And bloody hell.

He looked familiar, but not in a Centre Court kind of way. Longish, dark hair curled at the nape of his neck, a bit of scruff balanced with a full moustache—a bold choice, but somehow it worked—and tanned, lean forearms that could probably lift me without breaking a sweat.

Heat pooled low in my stomach. The Clubhouse was always full of players, but I’d usually kept my head down, more interested in discreet people-watching than ogling.

Plus, I’d always been married when I came previously.

Some were unknown, others more prestigious, depending on the day.

I’d watched plenty this week, but not him. Who was he?

I swallowed. Hard.

Keep walking, Kate. That’s not what you’re here for.

“Whiskey, please,” I requested the bartender, easing a hip against the bar. “Double, neat.”

He didn’t even bat an eyelid. Just poured with a knowing smirk, like he’d already clocked my wandering eye.