Page 7 of Clean Point

Born in the US to Greek immigrants, Nico’s backhand had been the thing of legend for fifteen years. The very backhand that destroyed Matteo’s career.

Closing the space, I stuck out my hand. ‘Nico, good to meet you.’

He paused, his expression fixed on me, as if he were a tiger deliberating whether I would be its prey. He used the extra inches of height and wide set shoulders to his advantage, staring me down with storm grey eyes.

With what could only resemble a gruff noise of disapproval, he shifted his gaze to Jon, completely ignoring my outstretched hand.

‘Let’s get this done with, shall we?’ he said, backing away.

What a dick.

I began to feel stupid, cast aside by this man who clearly thought he was better than me. Deflated, I lowered my hand to my side and rubbed my palm against my leggings, trying to soothe my growing frustration.

Summoning my courage, I decided to make an effort and try again.

‘I saw some of your quarter-final match with Oliver Anderson last year, at the US Open,’ I said, his annoyed attention sliding back over his shoulder. ‘That was a great match. I couldn’t believe the fifth set.’

In truth, I hadn’t missed a single moment of that match. Tucked in a corner cafe, on a rare rainy day in Paris, I had found myself captivated by the way he managed to read his opponent, the way he dominated the court. Suddenly, I’d understood why Matteo had treated him like such a threat.

Fifteen years ago, Matteo had been number one when unseeded Nico Kotas stood opposite him during the Australian Open final. At the top of his game, his skill was unmatched with an almost cruel guarantee he would destroy whoever dared to meet him across a court. Meanwhile, nobody had expected fresh-faced, eighteen-year-old Nico to make it to the quarter finals, let alone the finals.

I’d been in the crowd, ten years old and already deep into my own training. I still remember the shock on my father’s face when, against all the odds, Nico took the final set and walked off the court champion.

‘Oliver always knows how to put on a show,’ he finally ground out, although he made it seem like even looking at me was hard work.

‘Nico’s been recovering from a knee replacement,’ Jon informed, lingering in the doorway. I suppressed a grimace, acutely aware of the toll tennis took on our bodies. How old was Nico now? Thirty-two? Thirty-three? The wear and tear was more than evident. ‘There’ve been a couple of setbacks, but he’s ready to get back to training.’

I nodded, my gaze fixed on Nico, who stood safely on the opposite side of the room, his strong arms folded as he maintained an unnerving silence. Correction, almost complete silence.

‘How’s your dad?’ he asked, a snide grin pulling on the corner of his lips as he spoke. His words took direct aim at my most sensitive nerve.

‘I wouldn’t know.’ I shrugged, masking my annoyance with practised ease. ‘We’re not exactly on speaking terms.’

Nico rolled his eyes, turning to my former trainer. ‘Why am I here, Jon?’

I tried to stop myself from grinding my teeth, my hands tightening into fists to restrain my anger. Was he always this rude? I’d always heard good things about Nico, that he was friendly and nice, a professional to work with. But this was the opposite.

‘You need a partner,’ Jon interjected.

‘I can find somebody else.’ His unspoken words were clear: anyone but her. I was so overwhelmed with irritation that Jon was able to respond to him before I could.

‘You won’t find anyone as good.’

‘She hasn’t played competitively in years; she can’t be that good.’

This time, Jon wasn’t fast enough to speak, and I seized the opportunity instead. ‘And you in six months, but you still remember how to pick up a racket and hit a ball, don’t you?’

‘Still know how to play clean, do you?’ he fired back, a cocky smirk on his lips. He looked at me, and I found nothing but judgement held in his eyes. That look was exactly how they would all see me, what they would think about me.

Cheat.

I shook it off, shook him off, and with my own sly smile, I shot back, ‘Still think you can keep up, old man?’

He laughed, the noise cruel. ‘Old man? I could wipe the court with you.’

Standing tall, my eyes swept across his broad shoulders before locking with his challenging gaze. I’d love to see him on the other side of the net, curious to see how fast his body could move, would love to watch him unravel.

‘I’d like to see you try,’ I challenged, a spark of anticipation igniting within me. He was still across the room, but it might as well have been inches, the tension closing the walls in on us.

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