Chapter 33
Chapter Thirty-Three
NAOMI
It was out of sheer dumb luck that Sam and I made it to the semi-finals of the mixed doubles.
Given that we’d trained together for weeks and seemed to have found a good rhythm with it, it hadn’t occurred to me that this wouldn’t translate when we were on the same team.
Parts of his game were messy, and even though we’d been working on him coming up to the net more, in both matches, he seemed determined to hug the baseline, leaving me to pick up the slack.
Our only saving grace was that our serves were impenetrable.
But what we put on court yesterday was not going to fly tonight.
We were already going to have the crowd against us, as we were playing Americans, Grace and Ryder Quinn. We didn’t need to give them no reason to root for us at all.
“This is going to be very interesting,” Sam said quietly as we walked out on court.
Due to the noise, he was basically whispering into my ear, and I felt a shiver run down my spine.
The last thing I needed was to be even moderately distracted by him, and I was already losing that battle just from the look of him.
He was matching my style. I hadn’t seen him in all black before; his usual court preferences leaned towards pastels.
But tonight, he was wearing an almost too-tight vest, shorts that bordered on too short, and a black baseball hat that I watched him switch around to be backwards facing just before we walked to court—an action that brought about an overwhelming wave of lust.
“We just have to focus on what we can control and hope we can capitalise on any mistakes they might make,” I said, although I had no idea how much he’d heard, given the cacophony of sound we were being blanketed in.
“Gosh, you and Wyatt sound the same sometimes. I mean, I get it. Siblings. But that is literally the last thing he said to me tonight.”
A huff of a laugh escaped me. “Yeah, me too. You also need to breathe more. This is a competition, yes, but you can also like being on court. This can be fun. Being tense is not going to do you any favours.”
We dropped our bags, and Sam made a show of taking a deep breath before he pulled a racquet out.
“Happy?” he asked as he shook out his shoulders for good measure.
“Ecstatic.”
We lost the toss, and I had to serve first. While I checked the balls and selected the two I wanted, Sam stood close.
I think he was saying something about how I should start with a serve down the T as they wouldn’t be expecting it, but I wasn’t fully paying attention.
He felt too close. He wasn’t taking up any more space than usual, but he still felt larger than life.
I’d gotten used to him being around over the last few weeks.
He seemed to slot easily into our lives, and Wyatt had reached another level of excitement for his job now that he had fresh blood, which was nice to see.
But because he was in quite a turbulent stage of his life, I’d kept a certain level of distance from him as he tried to rebalance.
That hadn’t made living with him any easier.
I’d made my way to Flushing Meadows with Isaac earlier, who’d flown in especially.
He’d had a couple of days free, and a flight from London to New York was a substantially easier one than from Melbourne for our first in-person catch-up in well over a year.
He’d also immediately clocked that I was harbouring some kind of feelings for Sam.
I told him it probably didn’t matter, and I was going to have to get over it because Sam definitely wasn’t flirting back with any kind of consistency.
Even now, he was only this close because he was strategising, not because he wanted to be.
I nodded to make it seem like I’d heard what he’d said, and he moved to crouch at the net.
I allowed myself one final look at him. The way the fabric of his top rippled against his back muscles and how his legs looked coiled in anticipation, all of him poised to spring into motion the moment he needed to. At least he looked more relaxed now.
Then I looked across the net.
Grace was standing at the back, out wide, and Ryder was up at the net. Sam was right about one thing. They weren’t anticipating a serve straight down the middle.
The first game was over in less than a minute, and as we walked around the net to the other side of the court, any residual lust swimming in my veins had been doused by the need to win.
“Do you want pasta or a burger after this?” Wyatt asked as Sam and I sat on bikes to keep our legs ticking over before the final in about an hour.
We had half an eye on the second semi-final out of mild curiosity.
It didn’t really matter to us who won, as both pairs presented similar challenges, and we were prepared enough to play either.
“I want as much fettuccine as we can find,” I answered. Even if we lost, I didn’t want chips.
“I’ll have what she’s having,” Sam confirmed.
He’d lost the vest, but kept the hat, and now I was being confronted by planes of unevenly tanned skin, covered in muscles designed to generate as much power as possible.
The arms in isolation had been a lot, but it was nothing compared to seeing the whole expanse of his upper body flexing and shifting as he tried to keep his body loose and ready to play.
Now that we were in this liminal space where we’d secured the win but couldn’t fully relax because we had to play again soon, the locked-in energy I’d found during the match had turned itself back down to a simmer, and desire decided to be centre stage again.
It was no less annoying this time around than it had been before we played.
“Cool. When the ceremony is done, Leesh and I will head out, gather the troops, order some dinner and meet you back at the house. I’m gonna love you and leave you.”
Wyatt wandered out of the gym, leaving Sam and me alone.
There was an unmistakable tension now that it was just the two of us.
“You know, of all the pastas, I think penne might be my favourite,” Sam broke the silence, and a bark of laughter escaped me.
“Why?”
A tilt of one of his shoulders. I noticed a vein twine around the top and along his bicep and forearm until it joined a network of others on the back of his hand.
“Seems like it does the best job of soaking up a sauce.”
“That’s a wrong opinion to have,” I managed to get out, although my voice sounded deeper than normal. A low rumble of a chuckle came from Sam.
“Oh yeah, what is the best then, Miss Pasta Connoisseur?” he teased.
A rush of heat flooded through me. I cleared my throat.
“You’ve seen how much of it I eat. Which is why I feel confident in saying that the best pasta is fettuccine.”
The corners of his mouth tipped up in a way that was almost cocky. And annoyingly attractive. “Text Wyatt and get him to order both. We can do a taste test.”
I tried to match his smile, saw his tempo stutter for a beat, and picked my phone up off the handlebars.
“You’re on.”