Chapter 24
INDY HAD NEVER PLAYED A MATCH LIKE THIS IN HER ENTIRE LIFE, one where each and every point felt like she and her opponent were standing on a knife’s edge, where being a split second too late or serving a millimeter wide would decide it.
“Game, Miss Randazzo,” the chair umpire called, and Jasmine pumped her fist to the crowd and they roared back in approval.
Indy’s serve had decided to show up in the second, proving too much for Jasmine, even with that new backhand of hers, Indy pulling the match even at a set all.
But now they were in the third, past the two-and-a-half-hour mark, and it would be over soon.
That was tennis. Eventually, someone breaks.
And Jasmine had the edge, having held her serve for a 5–4 lead, and Indy was losing steam. Serving was one thing, quick and dirty, the point over before it began, but once Jasmine could dictate the pace… that was when things got sticky.
That was what it would come down to.
Could Indy’s serve outlast her own lack of endurance?
She had not one fucking clue.
Indy signaled to the ball boy, and he brought her a towel to wipe her face. She was stalling, just a little, but she needed a second to compose herself.
She glanced over at the box where their supporters had crowded in. They had remained mostly silent through the entire match, even Jack, which she assumed was a mark of respect for everyone around him. They were from the same club, had the same coach; he knew they needed to battle this out alone.
Jasmine was ready opposite her, bouncing lightly on her feet like they hadn’t been out here for hours already. She barely looked winded.
Fuck.
Indy passed her towel back and traded it for two tennis balls. She blinked and then reached up to wipe the sweat from her forehead, trying to keep it out of her eyes, but it was a losing battle.
Time was ticking by and she was about to get a warning, so she discarded one of the balls and then moved to the baseline.
She tossed and then coiled down, trying to force her legs to push with the same power they had in the first two sets, but it just wasn’t there.
“Fault!” the line judge called. Her ball had sailed long.
Okay, second serve, just get it in and then… then she’d have to play.
But Jasmine pounced instantly. Be careful what you wish for, Indy, she thought as the screamer of a return flew by her.
How was Jasmine in this kind of shape? How was she still playing at this level?
In a year or so, Indy planned to have her opponents thinking the same thing, but for now, she was awestruck on the other side of it.
“Love–fifteen,” the chair umpire called.
Okay, another first serve, this one in, but Jasmine was on it again, a forehand crosscourt, and even though Indy got there in time, her backhand was short. Her opponent raced in and buried it for a winner.
“Love–thirty.”
The crowd started to murmur, sensing what was building, a buzz flowing through the stands that the match was finally turning… in Jasmine’s favor.
Indy tried to move, shifting back and forth from one foot to the other, but still she had no bounce, no spark.
Shit.
She needed this one. Desperately. Her best bet was right up the T as hard as she could manage, but Jasmine would know that, would be expecting it. And yet… it was her only option. Going out wide would just play into Jas’s strengths.
She made solid contact, the ball exactly where she wanted it, but Jasmine’s anticipation was too good—another forehand, another clean winner.
“Love–forty.”
Indy tried to catch her breath, but it wouldn’t regulate, not with defeat staring her in the face. Indy blew her flyaway hair off her forehead in frustration. It had gotten away from her so fast.
One more serve, this one out wide because why the hell not, but Jasmine’s backhand, somehow already instinctual after just a couple of matches, got it back.
Indy wasn’t going down without a fight, and she pushed her legs through and sent a low-lying forehand over the net, deep.
Jasmine scrambled and got it back, so Indy sent her the other way, but somehow she reached it again, fully stretched and then up and already running in the other direction.
Yes. She had her, she just had to hit the ball the opposite way and…
Thwack.
Indy buried it into the net.
Shit.
She stopped short, hands landing on her hips and shoulders sagging.
It was over.
Jasmine collapsed in a heap, legs and arms spread in relief.
“Game, set, and match, Miss Randazzo. 6–4, 4–6, 6–4.”
The next minutes were a blur, just a haze of shaking Jasmine’s hand, then the chair umpire’s, packing her things as quickly as she possibly could, and lifting her racket bag over her shoulder just as a reporter met Jasmine in the middle of the court for a post-match interview.
Indy made herself scarce, waving to a few spectators who applauded her as she left the court.
They were the last match of the night and the locker room was blessedly empty, and so she allowed herself one moment, just one, of enraged frustration.
Her shriek echoed impressively off the tile walls, and then she collapsed onto the bench that ran between the long line of lockers, dropping her bag and letting her breath escape in one long, exhausted whoosh.
She’d lost.
Jasmine had won.
But she’d played well. Really well. She’d made Jasmine work for it. And the nerves? Completely gone.
This was what she wanted and what would happen more often than not in the future. Every tournament only had one winner, and this was only the beginning. She didn’t have to get used to it, exactly, and she’d never enjoy losing, but she did need to learn how to handle it.
Her first two tournaments—the match against Penny in Wimbledon notwithstanding—she’d brought home championships. And she had made it to the quarterfinals here.
Not too bad.
Not too bad at all.
The locker room door swung open and Indy nearly groaned. Just when her mood had begun to improve…
“Oh, are you still my agent?” she asked. Caroline was perfectly put together as usual in a sleek white pencil skirt and white lace top and somehow did not look like she’d just sat through more than two hours of oppressive heat.
“Of course I’m still your agent.”
“What’s up, Caroline?” Indy grumbled.
She took a large envelope from her tan briefcase and unsealed it, pulling out a packet of paper and handing it to Indy. “This was just sent to me from Athleta.”
“Athleta?” Indy said, flipping through the pages. It was mostly legalese and so she looked back up at Caroline.
“A complete outfitting deal for the rest of this season. And next year, you will get a chance to design your own tournament line.”
“How is this possible?” Indy asked in sheer disbelief.
“You’re the tall blond bombshell exploding onto the scene, already in the tour’s inner circle, with a gorgeous man to walk every gala red carpet with.”
“I’m not—”
“You are,” Caroline insisted. “The sponsors don’t know what to expect from you on the court, but they know who you are off it, and that’s enough to at least get us started.”
Indy opened her mouth to argue, then paused. What did she care why she was being signed to a major sponsor? She didn’t. She would just prove herself a worthy investment. Make the next deal even more lucrative.
“Okay, do you have a pen?” Indy asked, still flipping through the pages, not seeing the words at all but wanting something to do with her hands. This was it. She was going to be sponsored by Athleta.
“As it happens,” Caroline said, holding one out to her.
Indy scrawled her name and it was done.
“You’ve made an excellent decision. They’ll be in touch after the tournament in regard to any commitments, and I’d expect a rather large shipment of gear by the time you arrive home.
” Caroline took the papers back from her, slipping them into the envelope and then into her briefcase.
“I will see you later, as it seems you have another visitor.”
Indy peered around Caroline and her mood brightened.
“What are you doing back here?” Indy asked as Jack leaned down to kiss her cheek. “Forget it, I don’t care.” He was one of the only people she wanted to see after a loss.
As Caroline left, Indy wound her arms around his broad shoulders and used them as leverage to leap into his arms. He caught her under her thighs and, as was their habit, backed her into the wall.
She groaned as he lifted his mouth to hers and nipped at her lower lip.
She tightened her legs around him, and he echoed the noise she’d just made.
She felt the reverberations through his chest and into her own body.
“Wait, wait,” he said, breaking the kiss and sucking a breath of air into his lungs. “I’m sorry about the loss. You were impressive out there. A little more training time and—”
“I know, I know,” she said, “but right now I’d just really like to forget what happened.”
He moved off the wall and guided her feet back to the floor.
“As much as I’d like to take advantage of that feeling, I wanted to talk to you about something.
I didn’t get a chance to tell you before now because the papers weren’t signed, and I don’t make it a practice to talk about business until it was done, but it’s official now, so… ”
Indy’s mind was still spinning from the way he’d just pulled away. “Wait, who signed what?”
“Jasmine. I signed her on as a client.”
Indy let the words turn over in her head. Jack had signed Jasmine. He was her agent. “That’s… that’s great. Congratulations,” she managed to say, still a little in shock.
Her gut twisted a little bit at the idea that maybe part of him hadn’t been rooting for her today, that it was in his best interest not to, because it was in Jasmine’s best interest for Indy to lose.
“I just need you to know,” he said, reaching up to stroke his thumb gently along her jawline, sending a shiver through her, “that no matter what, I’m always pulling for you, okay?”
Sweet relief spread through her and warmed her chest.