Chapter 1
Rori
NEW YEARS EVE
As I walk into the room, I hear echoes of champagne glasses clinking.
Adjusting the straps of my tight sparkly dress so they lie straight, I glance around and take in the sights. Live band playing, fancy hotel decorations everywhere, people dressed to the nines. Everyone’s ready to celebrate the new year in style.
It’s not really my cup of tea. Last year, I spent New Year’s Eve with my coach and dad down in Florida—wearing my PJs. This year, I’m missing a New Year’s party with all my friends from our training facility in Florida, Pinnacle Tennis Club, despite my best friend Maggie’s protests.
But so much has changed in the last few months, and going from being ranked #327 to #18 in the world opens a lot of doors, though not always the ones you want to walk through.
I’d ultimately decided to come tonight because it’s the right thing to do for my career, even if it’s not the most fun way for a twenty-year-old to spend this night.
Story of my life. Sacrifice has gotten me this far in tennis, and I’m well aware the same will be true when it comes to my sponsorship opportunities.
“Rori! Roreeeee!” I hear as I step in, my high heels clicking on the hardwood floor of the hotel’s event space. Looking up, I see my agent, Nina, who is co-hosting this party. She’s part of the top sports agency in the world and reached out once I broke into the top 50 a few months ago.
“Rori, so great of you to come to New York for this. There are some amazing brand partners here today,” Nina says, lightly taking my arm as she guides me toward the crowd of people. “Let me start introducing you to some good people to know.”
I wave off a server’s offer of champagne and grab a glass of water as I follow her. We’re getting closer to the major Australian swing that kicks off our season, and I’m deep in preparations. No time for anything that’s going to set my performance back, even for one night.
This upcoming leg of the tour will culminate in the Australian Open, one of the four major tournaments in our season, called the Grand Slams. The other Slams include the French Open, Wimbledon, and the U.S.
Open. Winning a regular tournament is nice, but winning one of the Slams makes a player’s career.
The furthest I’ve gone so far is the quarterfinals of Wimbledon and the U.S. Open, both in the last few months.
Nina starts introducing me around, and I put on my game face, big smile and all.
As she chatters away, I look around and see several other athletes—all well known, all repped by Nina’s agency.
I don’t tend to get starstruck, having spent the majority of the last ten years in the sports academy world in Florida.
Still, taking in the eye candy of top soccer, football, and basketball stars is more interesting than trying to keep up with sponsor conversations.
I recognize one famous basketball player from the Memphis team as his eyes reach mine from across the room.
He then looks me over, eyes sweeping down my frame.
Yeah, I look hot when I actually try. Confidence in my appearance isn’t something I struggle with, and I work hard for this body.
He winks at me, but I turn away, trying to stay engaged with Nina’s conversation.
“Rori, this is one person that you absolutely must meet,” Nina says, reclaiming my attention. “Nick Rogers. He owns the up-and-coming sportswear brand, Triumph. They’re interested in having you be a brand ambassador for their new women’s line.”
“Yes, we’ve been watching your rise,” Nick says. “You’ve had such a strong run starting in July. I was there at the U.S. Open quarterfinals, you almost had that one! We’re so glad you were able to come back from your knee injury. Your story is exactly what Triumph is all about.”
“Thank you,” I reply simply, not wanting to prolong the topic.
Remembering the knee injury that knocked me off my feet at age eighteen, right as I first broke into the top 100, isn’t my favorite thing to do.
I lost hundreds of spots in the rankings as I missed matches during my recovery from surgery.
But when I returned to play in the second half of last season, I’d pushed all the way back and more.
“Well, we’ll certainly set up some time to talk further,” Nina offers, and Nick nods his head. I give him my best “happy to be here” smile.
We break apart, and someone calls for Nina, giving me a chance to escape for a bit. I walk up to the wood-paneled bar and sit down on a stool, grabbing my phone from my purse. Not surprisingly, there are a bunch of texts from Maggie.
MAGGIE: Girl, I can’t believe you missed this party!
MAGGIE: Both Eli and his roommate are asking about you. They’re so hot, I’m jelly.
MAGGIE: Peter’s looking good. Like, for real.
Have I mentioned that Maggie, one half of a top American mixed doubles team, is a little boy crazy? Her texts make me smile.
Don’t get me wrong, I get my fill of fun nights with guys when I have the chance.
If I’d stayed home, I probably would’ve hooked up with Eli, a local trainer with thick, black hair, a ridiculous body, and an awesome sense of humor.
Once I left for Australia, my days—and nights—would be strictly business.
So this would have been a night to have a little “stress relief” before tennis takes over.
And then there’s always Peter, Maggie’s mixed double partner. We all spent our high school years at the same Florida sports academy, and let’s just say…Peter and I grew up together in more ways than one. All platonic now though. Except when it’s not, for a random night.
Before I get a chance to respond to Maggie, I hear Nina’s voice calling for me, and I walk back to her. Three more introductions later, and I’m getting a bit stir crazy having to hold onto my fake smile and continue making small talk.
As the latest conversation closes, I make an excuse to Nina about needing the ladies' room, then head to the restroom for a moment to relax.
Leaning over the sink, I look up at the mirror.
My silver sequin dress is holding its own and shows off my toned arm muscles to their fullest. I can’t deny that I love displaying my hard-earned physique, even if I prefer it in more relaxed settings with fellow twenty-somethings.
Coming off the injury, I’m even more proud of what I’ve done to become the athlete that I am.
Spotting some fly-aways, I brush my fingers through my reddish-brown curls, which I inherited from my mom. A brief ache in my chest emerges with that thought. If Mom could only see me now, at a fancy New York City party, she wouldn’t believe how far her little tomboy has come.
We lost her when I was eight. My own memories of her forever frozen in the lens of a child.
Shaking those thoughts off, I take a moment to spruce up my eye makeup. My green eyes come from my dad’s Irish heritage, and even with limited makeup skills, I’ve learned how to make them pop. I throw on a fresh layer of my strawberry lip gloss and, boom, touch ups are done.
Used to compartmentalizing my feelings about Mom, I stuff down my emotions and leave the bathroom, ready to get through another round of intros from Nina.
“Gloria Reilly.”
I look up and see an unexpected face. Landon Battle. Wow. He knows my name?
“Gloria, that’s your full name, right? Hi, I’m Landon.”
I stand there, stunned. I may be used to being around pro athletes, but I’m shocked that I’m on his radar.
Landon’s the definition of an American celebrity athlete.
I don’t follow football that closely, but he’s been impossible to miss over the last few years.
I remember hearing his name non-stop during the college championship game three years ago—he was considered the country’s top collegiate defensive player and made a bunch of big plays.
If my memory is right, he was one of the first players drafted that year when he landed in the pros with Orlando’s team.
Fast forward to now, he’s currently in a zillion commercials and has become a household name. Mainstream talk shows, sports media, and gossip pages—they all love Landon.
Most noteworthy at the moment? He's even more attractive three feet in front of me than when I’ve seen him on a screen.
Like in the mythology books that I used to love as a kid, a Greek god come to life.
Curly light brown hair, chiseled jawline, hazel eyes, and six foot four with muscles everywhere.
My brain is on overload, but I push through it.
“Yes, that’s right. How did you know that?” I ask. “Everyone calls me Rori.”
“I know. The next American hope in tennis,” he says, with respect in his voice.
Normally, I’d roll my eyes at that dubious title, but all I feel right now is surprise. “You follow women’s tennis?”
He grins back. “I might have googled you earlier, when you came into the party and I recognized you from an ESPN segment.”
What? “That still doesn’t explain how you figured out my full name.”
“Yes, well…” He pauses and then whispers, still smiling, “I read the Google results carefully. I thought I might need to stand out a bit when I introduced myself.”
“Ha,” I huff, but my mind is churning. Landon Battle feels like he needs to stand out with me?
“So, do you live in New York? Or just here for the party?” he asks.
“No, I live down in Tampa when I’m not on the road for tournaments.” I can feel myself relax into the conversation a bit. “I’m surprised Google didn’t tell you that.”
He laughs. “I guess my stalking skills are limited.”
“Like you need to stalk anyone,” I joke lightly, memories of all the pictures of Landon with women that circulate on gossip pages filling my mind. “You seem to do alright for yourself, from what I see online.”
He takes a moment to reply, looking slightly surprised at my comeback. Maybe he was expecting me to flirt back, not tease him? Then he recovers quickly.
“You sound like my sister Grace,” he says with a chuckle. “But don’t believe everything you read.”