Page 60 of Risky Match
I smile and kiss her forehead. “Is that all? Don’t give it a second thought. A calm evening with you is exactly what I need.”
She relaxes. “Okay. Let’s enjoy the evening. Can you believe we won today? We barely had a chance to practice together.”
“Of course we won. We both played well.” Hopefully, my words don’t betray the concern and guilt I felt earlier. Walking onto the court, I worried it was a mistake to have skipped practicing with Bri.
She looks at me like I’m from another planet, clearly doubting the inevitability of today’s win. “Blake, you know two people can play well individually and still lose if they aren’t working together. I was surprised that we were so in sync today.”
She’s smart and no pushover. I love that she analyzes her game even when we’re celebrating a victory.
“We clicked the moment we met, so it comes naturally. If I were a fan of doubles, you’d be the perfect partner for me. Our chemistry works.
“It certainly did today.” She studies me, clearly still second-guessing our lack of prep.
“It’s time to celebrate. Let’s start with a toast.”
I pop the cork on a bottle of champagne, which elicits an adorable tilt of her head and twinkle in her eyes.
Taking her glass from me, she says, “Wow! Who conjured the light-hearted, fun-loving version of the man I first met? What happened to the laser-focused, fun-avoiding Blake who’s been living here for the past week?”
I chuckle. “It was you ...along with some reflection.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Let’s sit. You’ve been incredibly patient with my mood swings and rudeness. I owe you an apology and an explanation.”
I motion toward the cozy rattan sofa for two. We sit and our knees touch, but neither of us shifts apart.
She sips her champagne. “I started to think you were two different people.”
“I’ve been dealing with...a lot. I’ve handled it poorly. I’m sorry.”
“Is it more than your problem with Noah?” she asks gently.
I exhale slowly. “Yes. I didn’t want anyone to know for fear the press would find out. They would roast me on the front page of every tabloid. From what you’ve said, you understand how the press can make your life miserable.”
“I do. But don’t worry. Anything you share with me will be safe. I won’t tell anyone,” she says, pressing her free hand against her chest.
“I trust you with my secret. That’s not why I’m hesitating. When I organized this dinner for you, it didn’t include baring my troubles. It’s supposed to be a celebration. We can discuss this another time. I don’t want to ruin tonight.”
Resting her hand on my leg, she looks at me with sincere concern. “You won’t spoil anything. I’ve been walking on eggshells trying to figure out what was wrong. It’s a relief to talk. Please tell me what’s wrong.”
“Okay. Give me a minute to organize my thoughts and decide where to start.”
“Don’t they say it’s always best to start at the beginning?”
“They do. I remember telling you two years ago that I felt tremendous pressure to win Wimbledon because I’m from the UK.”
“You did.”
“It’s more than just the need to win for my country though. It’s the one Grand Slam I haven’t won. People are saying I choke. I’m getting older and running out of chances with the younger players who are drilling their serves and playing like seasoned veterans in their early twenties.”
“But you’re still at the top of your game. Those younger players fear you on the court.”
“They do, but they might not fear me as much if they hear the rest of my story.”
“What do you mean?”
Her gaze turns darker and so sad. What must she be thinking?
