Page 38 of Risky Match
It’s a shame something darker is brewing beneath all this tradition.
That thought breaks the moment. I turn to Erin. “Let’s go. I don’t want to miss the next match.”
12
BRIANNA
For dinner, my housemates and I meet at the dining table adjacent to the kitchen. The table technically seats six, but it’s a tight squeeze because Blake’s manager, Noah, joins us. He just arrived and was eager to sample our Italian chef’s cooking.
Blake slides into the seat beside me. When he inches his chair closer, our thighs brush and a spark shoots up my spine. He leans closer, his arm brushing mine. “How was your day?”
Now, my arm is tingling too. I’ll never survive dinner this close to him. My knickers are already wet, and we just sat down. Why does he do this to me?
Rubbing my forearm where we touched, I meet his eyes. Our faces are closer than proper, but I don’t have any desire to move away.
“Today was good,” I manage, heat rushing to my cheeks.
He nods and falls silent. As we wait for food, Blake is twisting his cloth napkin and biting his lip. The tension rolling off him is virtually impossible to miss. How can no one else see it, not even Natalie?
My own tension rises with my worry for Blake. I’m about to reach under the table and place my hand on his in the hope of calming him when Fausto arrives. He approaches the table withtwo platters: one has melon wrapped in prosciutto and drizzled with balsamic vinegar while the other holds a glistening caprese salad.
I’m relieved to see that Fausto understood Blake’s request for a healthier menu, and fortunately, Blake relaxes enough to compliment the tomatoes. I “translate” for show, and the chef rewards us with a grin and a theatrical chef’s kiss.
Then Fausto announces that we have a choice of lasagna or eggplant parmigiano for our main course.
I grimace. It looks like only the appetizer was on the healthy side.
Blake bristles. “Fuck that. What’s wrong with him? Is he out of his mind? I can’t eat those fatty carbs the night before a match. I need complex carbs and lean protein. Tell him to make something else for me.”
Although Fausto’s English is perfect, I keep up the ruse. We’re still hopeful Fausto will overhear something useful if they continue to think he doesn’t understand. “Blake ha bisogno di mangiare pasta con un sugo leggero e proteine magre la sera prima di una partita di tennis. Puoi cucinargliela?”
“È ridicolo. È un buffone ...” He rants and gestures wildly with his hands as he continues to explain that he used lean meat in the lasagna and that any child knows aubergine is a vegetable.
I’m not sure if Fausto is actually angry or if he’s merely playing his role to perfection. I assume it’s the latter and play along. Eventually, he mutters something about ungrateful athletes but agrees to prepare the requested meal.
“Blake, he’s going to prepare grilled fish, a vegetable, and a side of pasta for you. The rest of us can enjoy the other food he cooked.”
“Fine,” Blake huffs under his breath.
Blake’s clearly tense about his match tomorrow. He probably has certain superstitions as well. Many players think they haveto eat the same meal, wear the same clothes, or fall asleep at exactly the same time the night before critical matches. That’s probably part of his problem tonight, but it doesn’t excuse his rudeness.
I wonder if something else is going on too, but that’s for another day. I hope to lift the mood with a change of subject. “I watched a match on Centre Court this afternoon. Did you see anyone play today?” I ask.
“No,” Blake says.
I stare at him hoping he’ll expand on his answer, but I’m met with silence.
Josh fills the void. “We had a great practice on court and then did weights. Blake’s ready to kick ass tomorrow.”
“Of course, he’s ready. Blake’s the best player here. Hell, he could probably win his doubles matches single-handedly,” Noah adds, pounding his client on the back.
Water spews from Blake’s mouth. I may not be one of the top five players in the world, but Blake won’t need to carry me in our doubles matches. I have far more experience than he does in doubles. Unfortunately, decorum requires me to swallow the zinger on the tip of my tongue rather than send it straight through Noah.
“Hey, don’t damage the talent,” Josh half jokes.
The overly gregarious manager waves off the admonishment. “Blake’s tough as nails. The opponent tomorrow doesn’t know what’s coming.”
“Don’t jinx me. And no, I couldn’t win doubles alone. Let’s talk about something else,” Blake huffs.
