Chapter 2 #2
But effort wasn’t the point. The point was proving I was still the best, still in command, and still the man who didn’t lose. Not on the court, not in the courtroom, not anywhere that mattered.
“You want to serve first?” Aaron asked.
“Sure.”
I won the first game easily, holding serve without dropping a point. Aaron fought harder in his service game, but I broke him anyway—a crisp backhand return down the line that he couldn’t reach. 2-0.
And then something shifted in my head.
As Aaron walked to the baseline, shoulders slumped slightly in frustration, my brain superimposed a different image over him: taller, broader, with dark hair and that insufferable smirk.
Beau.
I blinked, and Aaron was Aaron again. But the thought had taken root.
What if Beau were across the net?
The idea sent a jolt of adrenaline through me. I bounced the ball twice, tossed it high, and served with more power than necessary. Ace. Aaron didn’t even move.
“Jesus,” he muttered.
I didn’t respond. I was too busy imagining Beau on the other side—Beau with his reckless confidence, his complete lack of respect for the rules I’d spent my entire life following. Beau, who’d walked into my firm and my life like he owned both.
Another serve. Another ace.
This is for showing up uninvited, asshole.
30-0.
I hit a slice serve that kicked wide, forcing Aaron to stretch awkwardly. His return floated short, and I pounced, crushing a forehand that buzzed past him like a bullet.
This is for making me think about you for fifteen goddamn years.
40-0.
“You okay, man?” Aaron called. “You seem—intense.”
“Fine. I’m fine.”
I served again—flatter this time, directly at his body. He managed to get his racquet on it, but the return was weak, ballooning high and deep. I tracked it, positioned myself, and unleashed an overhead smash that would’ve shattered concrete.
This is for looking at me like you know something I don’t.
Game. 3-0.
Aaron looked rattled. Good. Let him understand what it felt like to be on the receiving end of someone who refused to lose.
We switched sides. As I walked to the baseline, I caught my reflection in the Plexiglas—flushed, breathing hard, eyes blazing with something that wasn’t entirely healthy.
Aaron served, and I attacked immediately, taking the ball early and driving it deep into his backhand corner.
He scrambled, barely got there, and floated another weak return.
I hit a drop shot—delicate, perfectly placed—and watched him sprint forward, racquet outstretched, only to see the ball die on the second bounce.
This is for being better than you should be.
15-0.
Another winner. My shots were surgical—precise, powerful, unrelenting. Every stroke calculated to exploit a weakness, to take away time, to make him feel slow, outmatched, and utterly inadequate.
Just like Beau had always made me feel.
My next serve hit the tape and dropped over for a lucky winner. Aaron threw his hands up in frustration. Then I heard Beau’s deep voice in my head.
Do you ever think about me, Mason?
I gritted my teeth and lined up my next serve. The court felt small, and every muscle in my body was coiled tight, ready to explode.
Of course I fucking thought about you.
Ace.
I was up 5-0 before Aaron managed to hold serve, and even then it was a struggle—I had three break points that I just barely missed. The set was a formality at this point. I was going to win 6-1, maybe 6-2 if I got sloppy, and there was nothing he could do about it.
Because I was always better.
That’s what I told myself as I prepared to serve for the set at 5-1. That’s what I repeated like a mantra as I bounced the ball once, twice, three times. I was in control. I was winning. I was proving that I was still the man who—
An image flashed through my mind: Beau at seventeen, helmet off, dark hair plastered to his forehead with sweat, chest heaving as he stared at me across that lacrosse field. Blood on my leg, victory in my hands, and something in his expression that I’d spent fifteen years trying not to analyze.
And behind it, another image: Beau today, leaning against his desk, eyes locked on mine, asking questions I didn’t want to answer.
Do you ever think about me?
God help me, yes.
I thought about him every time I won a case and late at night when the silence got too loud and my mind wandered to places I didn’t let it go during daylight hours.
Also, I remembered how he’d looked at seventeen—all fire, fury, and raw talent. And I thought about how he looked now—sharper, more dangerous, impossibly more attractive in ways I had no business noticing.
Beau Thatcher wasn’t just my old rival. He was the most beautiful man I’d ever seen, and he always had been.
The realization hit me like a serve to the gut.
I tossed the ball, swung through with perfect form, and watched it blur past Aaron for an ace.
Game. Set. Match.
“Damn,” Aaron said, walking to the net with his hand outstretched. “You destroyed me. Where did that come from?”
I shook his hand, barely feeling it. “Just needed to blow off some steam.”
“Well, mission accomplished. Same time next week?”
“Sure. Yeah. Sounds good.”
He left, still talking, but I wasn’t listening. I was standing alone on the court, racquet hanging loose in my hand, staring at the space where Aaron had been and seeing someone else entirely.
Someone I’d just realized I wanted in ways that went far beyond professional rivalry.
“How the hell am I going to work with him?” I whispered to the empty court.
The court had no answer.