14. Dumb Balls
14 DUMB BALLS
Daphne
Bang! Bang! Bang!
I popped up. Where was I? In three weeks, I’d lived in three countries—the UK, then France, the UK, France, and finally back home in the States. Opening my eyes, I realized I was in my childhood bedroom and the person doing the annoying banging was one of my sisters.
“Daph! Get up! We’re going to the gym.”
Lanie’s voice was little comfort. I was jet-lagged, mortified that my divorce filings were all over the news, and exhausted. I did not want to wear tight clothes and parade around the elite athletic club my sister was undoubtedly mentioning.
“Lanie, have mercy on me.”
“Nope. Your next life starts today, and it starts with an amazing piece of ass named Paolo barking orders at you in the sexiest growl imaginable.”
I groaned. I did love a good growl, and it had been so long since I’d feasted my eyes on a man worth thirsting over. Hell, just the thought of someone touching me to adjust my swing sounded positively lovely.
“Fine,” I said. “Let me change.”
I put on tennis whites and a pair of new trainers I bought in Paris. While my assets were currently frozen, my mother’s credit card would do. Our divorce went from non-existent to downright contentious overnight. Like good attorneys, Chandler and I clawed each other’s eyes out. He wanted the London townhome I’d inherited from my aunt and most of my poorly-timed inheritance.
I found my sisters waiting at the steps. Dora smiled as if relieved to see me alive. Lanie looked picture-perfect, taking a selfie as I approached.
“Lanie, can you take a picture another time?” I asked.
“Fine, fine,” Lanie said. “But my agent really wants me to up the ante before this audition. It’s a huge show. Social media presence is everything!”
We piled in our waiting car—Lanie and I in the middle, and Dora in the way-back seat. Some things never changed. We went to the North Shore Tennis and Athletic Club where our mother served on the board. It was a members-only gem of old Chicago society old-money types. No matter the type of cash in their pocket, one did not simply become a member. They were invited .
We filed to the courts, where a very handsome man in a tight polo greeted us. This was Paolo. And, as promised, he was lovely. As he bent over to pick up a ball, we all watched, not focused on a word he was saying but his tight little ass.
Paolo demonstrated a serve with Dora, who barely tapped the ball. Not to be outdone, Lanie stepped up and launched the ball hard with a beautiful overhand.
“Try to beat me!” Lanie knew I couldn’t.
“Now, you try.” Paolo approached from behind to position me and line up the shot. Instead of hitting the ball across the way to Dora, I pounded it into the ass of a poor stranger stretching on the adjacent court.
I wanted to die.
“Ouch! Jesus!” The man cried out.
A man in a suit approached. Someone had a security detail, and I’d hit them? What the fuck ?
The man pulled back and turned. As soon as even the side of his face was revealed, I knew who I’d hit.
“Cal!” I called. “Shit! I’m so sorry.”
Cal’s scowl went to a smile as he walked up. “Jesus, Daph, that was… something.”
“It was a really bad serve. Blame the jetlag,” I said. “I’m so, so sorry. Are you okay?”
“I’m good,” Cal chuckled. “Startled. But it’s probably good for me.”
“Your detail isn’t impressed.”
“In that skirt? I doubt that is true.”
I flushed bright red.
“Fuck. Why did I say that? I… I was making a joke. An inappropriate joke. I just got beaned in the ass by a pretty girl and?—”
“It’s okay,” I said, mostly flattered.
Cal trotted to his game.
“Dumb balls,” Dora giggled. “What were you doing?”
“I honestly don’t know,” I said.
“Well, at least it was just Cal.”
“Yeah, it was just Cal,” I murmured.
Had he been flirting with me? A man thought I was pretty . Not beautiful. Not lovely. Not wifely. Just pretty . Even if part of that was humor, there was enough truth to it, right?