Wildcard (Match Point #2)

Prologue

Oriente Hotel Bari

Bari, Italy

JACK KISSED INDY SOUNDLY, SENDING SHIVERS DOWN HER spine, her hips rocking against his as her calves bumped into the mattress. But something was distracting her.

“It’s not gonna disappear if you take your eyes off it,” he muttered into the skin of her neck, nipping at it lightly with his teeth.

“Feels like it will,” she whispered back, tilting her head to give him better access, her gaze still fixed over his shoulder. On the dresser just across the room sat the trophy she’d lifted to the sky just a few hours ago.

She’d come to Bari with nothing to lose after her disappointing showing at Roland-Garros. She’d played loose and relaxed and she’d absolutely steamrolled every opponent over the course of the week on her way to her very first tour-level championship.

And with that, clay court season was over and Wimbledon loomed ahead—the potential for a wildcard entry, not just for doubles with Jasmine, but for the ladies’ main draw.

It could be everything she ever dreamed.

Everything she ever wanted.

So, despite what Jack was doing with his hands and mouth and the firm press of his body, that trophy, tall, gold, and solid, would not be ignored. Not completely. Not even for the guy who’d made the trip from Paris to the southern Italian coast to cheer her on.

Their age gap hadn’t shrunk in the week since she’d spotted him on the sidelines after her first-round victory. But he showed her with every passionate kiss and lingering touch that he was done fighting their attraction.

He’d known she wanted him, almost from the first moment they met.

But he’d thought his brother had feelings for her, and to add to that, six years swam between them like a moat around a castle.

In the end, though, their connection had been too strong, even for someone as painfully good as Jack Harrison, to deny.

“Hey, champ, you in there?” Jack’s voice brought her back, his lips spelling out the words against her shoulder.

“Champ?” Indy hummed and smiled. “I like the sound of that.” In fact, she liked the sound of it so much she planned on winning again the next chance she got, on the grass courts at Wimbledon…

if they gave her that wildcard. Otherwise she’d have to go through the qualifying tournament, where anything could happen.

“I bet you do. Get used to it,” Jack said, pulling her back from that spiral without even knowing it.

“Just like I have to get used to sharing your attention with that trophy over there.” His whole face lit up in mischief as he shifted his weight forward, tilting her back onto the bed.

Laughter bubbled up through her throat as he leaned over her, bracing himself on his elbows and then smothering the sound with the press of his mouth.

As his tongue slid against hers, she gave herself over to it, reveling in the dreams of future victories and the celebrations that would follow.

She could spiral about the rest of it later.

Outer Banks Tennis Club

Ocean Hill, North Carolina

Jasmine shifted her weight back and forth from one foot to the other, trying to appear interested in what the man in front of her was saying.

He’d been talking about options for the future, mostly about the joys of college tennis and all the money she could earn with the deals coaches were floating, but her eye was drawn to the large TV over his shoulder instead.

As was tradition, her parents were throwing a party at Deuce, the club’s dining hall, during a Grand Slam final. The next best thing to being courtside was to rub elbows with the US’s tennis elite at home and make everyone feel like they weren’t missing anything back in Paris.

It felt almost surreal that she’d been there less than a week before and now, here she was, right back where she started.

If they had been sitting at Chatrier, everyone would have been silent during the points, heads whipping back and forth with the force of each groundstroke, nothing but the grunts and groans of the two men on the court echoing in the stadium.

But here, the conversation flowed easily, even if Jasmine was still distracted by the match.

“Do you understand what I’m trying to say, Jasmine?” the man asked, shifting to catch her eyes.

“Of course I do,” she said, meeting his gaze for a second. “But if you’ll excuse me, I’d like to watch this last game.”

Alex Russell led Henrique Romero of Brazil in the third set, just a few points away from victory. Any other year, Jasmine wouldn’t care at all that the best men’s player in the world was about to win the French Open, his fourth, but this time was different.

He’d spent the last few months training at OBX after coming back from a horrific knee injury. If he won, which all signs pointed to, that trophy would be displayed in the front atrium. It would bring an influx of talent, but it would also set a new standard of expectations.

The Outer Banks Tennis Club didn’t just create great athletes; it was also where they chose to spend their careers.

Her parents, the club’s founders, would be thrilled at all the publicity.

Maybe it would distract them from their current obsession: foisting her off on a college program.

Finding an unimpeded view of the screen, Jasmine focused on the court, a court she’d played on less than a week ago with her doubles partner, Indiana Gaffney.

They’d faced the best team in the world, and after an embarrassing first set, they’d fought back hard, made the final score respectable, and impressed a lot of people in the stands.

Including, hopefully, the committee that issued wildcard entries to Wimbledon.

That was what she had to focus on, not the other stuff, like Indy already notching a tour-level win at Bari, leaving the future of their doubles partnership up in the air.

Not the confusing mess that was her relationship with her best friend, Teddy Harrison, either.

And definitely not that the man she’d tried so hard to ignore for the last few minutes was an NIL expert her parents had invited to the party specifically to talk to her about spending the next few years playing NCAA tennis and using her name—their name—to capitalize while she was there.

Apparently they didn’t care how many times she’d shown she had no interest in college tennis; they would never give up on the idea that she wasn’t good enough for the pro tour, even now, after she and Indy had played so well together in France.

There was a good shot they’d get a wildcard to the Wimbledon doubles tournament.

As if the NCAA could ever take the place of the Championships in her dreams.

On the television screen, a shot zoomed in on Alex Russell, tall, blond, British, and looking like he’d barely broken a sweat under the blistering Paris sun.

The TV was on mute so as not to disturb the conversations going on around her, but the closed-captioning was on, and she read as it scrolled across the bottom of the screen: The man who everyone counted out just a few months ago will serve for the championship and prove all of us wrong.

“Come on, Alex,” Jasmine muttered under her breath. People were counting her out, too, and one day, when she was standing on a court like that, just a game away from a major championship, those same people were going to eat their words.

Court Philippe-Chatrier

Paris, France

Penny reached down, her fingers skimming the top of the walking boot encasing her foot.

The strength of the sun combined with the body heat of nearly fifteen thousand people beat upon the court and stands where she sat.

A rivulet of sweat slipped from the back of her knee, making her skin itch where the plastic rubbed against it.

Though she stayed seated—her ankle still protested against carrying any weight at all—the crowd around her was on its feet.

The spectators were absolutely raucous to be witnessing her boyfriend securing another Grand Slam title.

She let out a giggle at the thought. Her boyfriend.

What a ridiculous word. Alex Russell was a lot of things, but a boy certainly wasn’t one of them.

He was a man, a good one.

The kind that owned up to his mistakes.

The kind that stood by her, no matter what.

“S’il vous pla?t, mesdames et messieurs.

Merci.” The chair umpire’s voice boomed through the speakers, his words implicitly demanding and receiving silence or as close to silence as possible before such an important point.

Everyone settled back into their seats, the cheers morphing into a buzz, electrifying the moment, the last one in Paris until next year.

Alex stood at the end of the court, as far away from the player’s box as he could be, clearly trying to use the shadow cast by the court’s walls for some relief.

He was just a point away from another championship and proving to the world that he was back at the top of his game.

Penny scratched at her irritated skin again, twisting her mouth into a frown.

Maybe in a month that would be her, standing on the grass courts at Wimbledon, back from an injury and celebrating a championship at a Grand Slam.

It would be the first in her career, compared with what had become routine for Alex.

“Come on, Alex,” she whispered, knowing that even if he couldn’t hear her, he’d feel her support across the court.

Her fingers caught on the chain of her necklace, a large old-fashioned penny dangling from the end.

Alex’s good luck charm and his gift to her before the tournament.

It had worked for her; despite the Achilles tear, she’d come out on top.

Now clutching it in her fist, she took a deep breath as he went out to serve the final point.

Alex bounced the ball beneath his racket onto the clay.

It was a complete mess after three sets of hard-fought tennis, especially down at the baseline.

Henrique Romero was opposite Alex, bent over at the waist, shifting back and forth, ready to receive the serve.

As the crowd hushed in anticipation, a single voice, a deep British accent, came from somewhere in the stands: “Allez, Russell!”

A few anxious people shushed him, but Alex didn’t even glance up, totally locked in.

He coiled his body down, building power through his legs before tossing the ball high and, with a lightning-fast stroke, attacking the bit of green fluff.

He sent a low-lying laser beam across the court, skidding off the white T on the other side of the net and then past the outstretched racket of his opponent.

The crowd erupted and Penny lost sight of him as everyone leapt to their feet, screaming, totally drowning out the umpire’s call of “Jeu, set, et match, Russell.”

She pushed herself to stand on her one good ankle and spotted him as he was shaking Romero’s hand at the net, then he looked up into the stands, his eyes finding her immediately.

She blew him a kiss, but he smiled and shook his head.

He jogged over to the stands and climbed in, passing rows and rows of people who patted him on the back before he reached her.

Covered in sweat and clay, he leaned over the low wall separating the player’s box from the main stands and slid one hand into her hair, the other pulling her against him, staining her white eyelet dress as they embraced.

“I love you,” he murmured before capturing her mouth with his.

As she kissed him back, the crowd roaring even louder than before, her mind conjured Centre Court at Wimbledon, different white dress stained with grass instead of clay, her ankle pain-free as she climbed up to him.

And maybe then she could answer his declaration with one of her own.