Page 29 of Risky Match
Bloody hell. She’s a distraction I don’t need.
I can’t stop staring at her. Her short white tennis skirt and sleeveless, body-hugging top hug every delicious curve.
“Good morning. It looks like we won’t have rain today,” she says, stretching her arms above her head. Her shirt lifts enough to flash a strip of smooth skin.
I nod, avoiding eye contact. No need to give away what’s in my head.
Fortunately, Josh jumps in. “We can be thankful for the nice weather. Martina and I have a practice plan for today, but take a few minutes to warm up with Blake first.”
That’s when I notice Bri’s coach, Martina, standing courtside.
“Perfect,” Bri says with a grin, jogging to take Josh’s place across the net.
I’m tempted to slam the ball across the net to release tension, but Bri shouldn’t be the target of my frustration. This isn’t her fault. The blame falls on my sponsor—and the Wimbledon committee that denied her the singles wild card she deserved.
We work through a standard warm-up: baseline shots, volleys, overheads, and serves. Her serve is powerful. Two years ago, she said that she was focusing on it. Clearly, it paid off.
We’ll see if the rest of her game holds up. I’ve heard she’s become more competitive, but I haven’t seen her play lately.
Ten minutes in, Josh stops us. “That’s good. Let’s play a couple of doubles games. Martina and I will be your opponents.”
“Fine. I’ll serve first,” I say.
Bri asks, “Shouldn’t we coordinate hand signals? Or do you prefer to talk between points, so I’ll know where you’re placing your serve?”
“For now, let’s just play and see what happens.”
She shrugs but her narrowed eyes reveal her frustration. Serious doubles teams always coordinate on every point. But right now? I can’t be bothered.
Especially with her bent over in front of me, ready at the net, her tight bum directly in my line of sight. Whispering strategies would push me over the edge. I’ll be needing a cold shower after this.
My plan: serve aces and avoid the need for strategy.
It doesn’t work. Our first two games are a disaster. Martina and Josh return most of my serves. Bri and I have run into each other, left parts of the court wide open, and let balls pass us assuming the other would hit them.
After the second game, Martina and Josh motion for us to meet them at the net.
Shaking her head, Martina says, “I doubt it was your intention, but you two are putting on a hilarious comedy skit. You’re more likely to hit each other than the ball. Unless you get your heads in the right place and start working together, you’ll have everyone laughing at you. Start talking between points. Share strategy. Act like you’re partners with a common goal. Otherwise, it’ll be a disaster.”
Josh adds, “She’s right. Blake, you can’t play like you’re the only one out there. Move together. Sync up. Let’s try this again.”
Walking away from the net, I lean toward Bri. “We were in sync a couple of years ago. Timing was perfect, if I remember right.” I grin and raise my eyebrows.
Her cheeks flush, and she swats my arse as I pass.
I do like her spunk.
At the back of the court, I realize she followed.
She says, “Let’s keep our focus on the game. Our coaches are right. We have to talk between points.”
“Fine. I rarely play doubles, so I’m rusty. I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I need your help with doubles strategy.”
“I understand. Doubles is different. It’s all about constant communication and teamwork. I need to know where you’re serving, and you need to know where I’m moving. Chemistry’s key.”
“We’ve got chemistry. We just need to apply it to tennis,” I say with a smirk.
She playfully punches my shoulder. “That was a one-time thing. But we can use our history to work together better. We aren’t strangers, so that’s a benefit.”
