Chapter 2
WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING HERE?” PENNY KICKED AT the sole of Alex’s sneaker and his eyes flew open.
He pulled the headphones off, the notes even clearer now as a heavy bass beat echoed against the court.
“Sorry, what was that, love?” he asked with a wink, his eyes lighting up in recognition and then slipping over her form quickly, his tongue darting out against his bottom lip. And shit, she could practically feel his mouth against hers, stealing her breath and her sanity.
The air crackled between them as the low timbre of his voice sent shivers down her spine and her mind reeling back nearly four months, to the Nike event at the Australian Open she hadn’t wanted to attend in the first place.
She was midway through the most important tournament of her life and not in the mood for a party, but Jack insisted it was a chance to mingle with her potential sponsors and get her face out there.
Plus, it was all for a good cause as proceeds were going to the fight against pediatric cancer.
Jack had pulled that last part out of his hat after she flat-out refused to go.
Twenty minutes in she’d been ready to go back to the hotel. She’d lost Jack in the crowd and was steadily making her way to the exit when she ran headlong into a chest and narrowly avoided the drink that sloshed out of its accompanying hand.
Penny blinked herself back to the present and looked at the same chest now as Alex stood, running a hand through his sandy hair, his jawline covered with stubble, just enough to give him an edge. His eyes shined down at her.
“What the hell are you doing here?” she repeated through clenched teeth, crossing her arms. Her throat started to close because she suspected she knew the answer already.
He was wearing a white T-shirt streaked with red clay stains, and dark shorts that hugged around his thighs in a way she definitely wasn’t thinking about.
“Dom didn’t tell you?”
Suspicions confirmed.
He was technically an old friend of Dom’s. When Alex started on tour, Dom was finishing up his long career. They’d met up on the court more than once, and Dom’s final match—in the second round at the US Open—was against the much younger man, who was on his way to his very first championship.
“I’m your new hitting partner or you’re my new hitting partner, whichever you prefer.” An easy smile spread across his face.
Penny’s eyes narrowed. That was the same smile he’d bestowed upon her that night in Australia. He’d smiled and asked her to dance.
“You’re training again?” she asked, raising an eyebrow. “No, forget it. I don’t care. This is not happening.”
“And why’s that?” His eyes sparkled, actually sparkled, like he was some damned cartoon prince in a Disney movie.
“I don’t play against has-beens.”
The smile wavered and then disappeared completely. “A has-been?”
“Everyone knows the LTA dropped your sponsorships and your agent left you, but besides that…” She trailed off, her eyes lingering on his knee, an angry-looking scar surrounding the top of the joint.
He was recovering from knee surgery and hadn’t played in a tournament since Australia, but she couldn’t bring herself to use that against him.
It was every player’s worst fear, an injury that pulled them out of competition, maybe forever.
He’d supposedly been lying low in London, rehabbing his knee and what was left of his reputation.
“Besides what?” he asked, forcing the issue. His expression darkened as he stepped closer, his chest nearly brushing against hers.
“Your knee… they said… everyone said that your knee was…”
Completely fucked.
“You should know better than to listen to everyone.”
Penny swallowed. The implication was obvious. The tour had buzzed incessantly about how they’d left the Nike party together in Australia, but no one knew the truth. The stories ranged from outrageous to obscene, but the reality was even more embarrassing.
He’d asked her to dance, and staring into those eyes and that grin, it had been easy to say yes.
They’d danced; their bodies pressed together, the bass of the music pounding through them, his hands trailing paths of fire over her skin, and she knew he was feeling what she was, an intense physical connection, burning hot on the dance floor, that would become an all-encompassing inferno somewhere more private.
His mouth had pressed against her ear, pleading with her to leave with him.
Taking a risk for the first time in her life off the tennis court, she agreed, and it had been one of the most incredible nights of her life.
She snuck out the next morning, half out of embarrassment—she didn’t do one-night stands—and half because she had a training session.
The next night on the news came reports of a motorcycle accident. An Australian supermodel with an insanely high blood alcohol level had been treated for minor injuries and the man people once thought could become the greatest tennis player of all time had torn his knee to shreds.
Penny brushed off everyone’s questions, even Jack’s.
Alex had given her a ride back to the hotel, she said, nothing more, and she was pretty sure Jack had believed her, even if no one else did.
Rumors and gossip didn’t matter. It stung a little that Alex was with someone else the next night, but what really struck her to the core was that it just as easily could have been her in that accident.
She could’ve lost everything, and at the time, the risk hadn’t even crossed her mind.
That was the thought she’d taken with her onto the court for her quarterfinal match, and that was what distracted her enough to go out in straight sets against a player not fit to carry her racket bag.
Then Nike had pulled back their interest, and her reputation on the court—the only reputation that really mattered—took its very first ding.
She’d been working her way back ever since.
“Grab your racket.” Alex’s voice broke through her thoughts.
“What?” she asked, blinking up at him.
He walked to the bench just off the court and tossed his headphones and phone into the racket bag sitting atop the bench before pulling out a brand-new racket, still covered in the clear protective plastic.
The distinctive red W was easily visible against the tightly wound white strings.
A Wilson racket, what he’d been playing with since he was a junior, not that Penny would ever admit she knew that.
“Grab. Your. Racket,” he said again.
“Why?” But she knew why, and the thought of facing off against him was both exhilarating and terrifying.
“I’ll show you exactly how much of a has-been I’m not. Let’s go. You and me, right now.”
“No.”
“Scared?”
Penny glared at him. He was pushing her buttons, yet her pride won out over the logical part of her mind that told her this was a bad idea.
“Warm up and you serve first.”
The confrontation had her blood pumping.
Alex ran in place, swinging his arms around, stretching them over his head and behind his back before going through his serving motion, whipping it through the air.
Penny slowly went through her measured stretches starting with her ankles and wrists, then working her way inward.
She kept her eyes focused on the clay, allowing each muscle to loosen up before moving on.
Finally, she looked up at him. He was waiting at the opposite end of the court, racket in hand, bouncing a ball.
Penny pushed up onto her toes as she waited for what had once been the world’s best serve to catapult at her but then fell to her heels as a looping volley traveled over the net.
She straightened and caught the ball on her racket. “Has your game really regressed to this level? If it has, I’m not going to waste my time,” she called out, offended he was going easy on her.
“All right, then. Fifteen–love.”
Shaking her head that he counted that ridiculous serve as a point, she again bounced on the balls of her feet, preparing to receive a real serve.
He stood up straight and ran a hand over the back of his neck. “You sure about this? I figured we’d save it until you improved defensively, like Dom wants.”
Penny’s eyes narrowed. “Just hit the damn ball.”
“Your funeral,” he muttered, but loud enough for her to hear, before his body coiled and exploded through the ball.
She got her racket on it and blocked it back, but the combined speed of the ball and the tight strings of her racket sent it sailing long.
“Thirty–love.”
That was the best serve she’d ever seen.
She’d played against men who could hit as hard, but this was in another category altogether.
A wicked spin combined with the velocity, even with the clay slowing it down a little, made it sheer luck she got her racket on it.
Apparently, reports of his knee injury were grossly exaggerated.
No one could blast a serve like that on a blown-out knee.
Crossing to the other side of her court, she prepared again, taking a step back this time to compensate for the velocity.
His face was stone, no emotion—all business.
Alex fired another serve out wide, sending her lunging. This time her return landed in play. Her feet caught up underneath her and she changed direction, knowing he would counter crosscourt.
She hit the ball in stride, launching it back across the court.
For a split second, she watched the gorgeous backhand fly to the opposite corner for a winner.
Then her momentum sent her sprawling into the clay.
She rolled over, tucking her shoulder and landing on her back, knocking the breath from her lungs.
Penny lay there a moment, gasping at first and then breathing slowly in through her nose and out through her mouth.
Everything felt okay, so she rolled onto her side and stood up, brushing the clay from her hands.