Page 91 of Clean Point

I caught up easily, increasing the pace of my long strides to match her speed. ‘Do we want to talk about your second serve?’

She stopped dead in her tracks, a hand on the strap of her bag, keeping it on her shoulder, and she peered up at me with suspicion and confusion. ‘What about my second serve?’

I smothered a grin at how easy it was to get under her skin.

‘Hey, if you can’t handle critique …’ I turned, leaving her frozen on the spot, and pretended not to notice the sexy scowl on her face. Scottie Sinclair was definitely still hot when she was mad. The only thing that made her hotter was a tennis racket in her hand.

There wasn’t much distance between us before she yelled, ‘I can take it.’

I immediately whipped around to her, eyes wide as she realized her innuendo. There was almost nothing I could do to fight the smile breaking out before I looked around, trying to see if the crowd had noticed us. But when barely anyone in the players’ room had stopped to look, I turned back, finding her by my side, a slightly nervous look on her face.

I pressed my lips together. ‘Well, apparently you can’t handle your second serve.’

Frustration rushed back onto her face, her mouth opening with whatever retort she had prepared when somebody cut her off.

‘Hey – good to see you out there again,’ Oliver Anderson, one of my competitors in the singles, said with a friendly smile. ‘It’s been a while.’

The last time we’d been on court together was the US Open quarter-final almost a year ago. It was the last grand slam I’d managed to get through with my knee. I won the match against Oliver, but not without the game going late into a tie break.

I grinned confidently at him. ‘Just getting warmed up.’

Scottie interrupted, her arms crossed. ‘Oliver, tell him there was nothing wrong with my second serve.’

He looked uneasily between us, one eyebrow arched. ‘I don’t want to get in between a lovers spat.’

I shook my head, refusing to acknowledge his comment. It was becoming more frequent as the press attention grew. After our positive performance on court today, I knew it would only get worse.

‘It’s about the lack of spin,’ I answered, keeping my attention on Oliver.

Scottie just about exploded. ‘A lack of spin?’

‘Don’t worry about it.’ I smiled. ‘I’m sure Jon’s already constructing a last-minute training session about it.’

She mumbled something mostly incoherent, but I picked up the odd word. That in itself was enough for me to know I definitely didn’t want to hear what she had to say. Her gaze met mine, a fiery anger still burning. ‘I’m going for a shower. Don’t think this is over.’

She narrowed her gaze one last time at me, before her face softened, turning to Oliver as she said a goodbye to him. My attention caught on the sway of her white pleated skirt as she walked away, the bare skin of her thigh calling to me.

I wondered if she’d let me tattoo my name there.

‘Did you see who your opponent is for the quarterfinals?’ Oliver asked, bringing my attention back to him. I blatantly ignored the raised eyebrow and cocky smile combo he was sporting.

‘No, I haven’t had a chance to check. Who is it?’

His smile grew. ‘Me.’

A laugh escaped me, the competitive side kicking in. Every time Oliver and I met on the court, we both knew we were in for one hell of a match. At thirty, he was younger than me, fast and tactical, a defensive baseliner that would always try to force errors from my play. Try being the key word.

‘Should I expect payback after our last match?’ I asked. It had been brutal from the start, running until almost 3 a.m. It had taken all my strength to get through it, leaving me exhausted and unprepared for the quarter final a day after.

He nodded, before joking, ‘I’m excited to see what that new knee can do.’

A tinge of pain struck through my leg at his words, the memory of the days after the US Open playing over, the joint swollen and painful. Even after today, I was desperately needing an ice pack and rest, the reminder from Jon and Ethan not to overdo it still at the front of my mind. I had to look after myself for Scottie. I couldn’t let her down.

‘How’s Ava doing?’ I asked, changing the subject to Oliver’s wife.

Something flashed in his face, a shadow falling over his confidence. He swallowed, looking off at the crowd around us before answering. ‘She’s alright, I think.’

‘You think? She’s your wife.’

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