Page 14 of Match Point

A second email revealed a link to the company’s cloud drive, and he clicked on it. He’d read a how-to guide on tennis and had gained insight into the game. A video labeled “Sorcha” popped up and he started the feed.

“How confident are you in Sorcha’s performing against people much older than her with more experience?” the news commentator asked a short, stout man. “If I weren’t confident in her ability, I wouldn’t have entered her into the tournament. Sorcha has raw, natural talent, and to those doubters, I ask you to hold back judgement until you see her in action.” The man’s voice possessed a lilt similar to Sorcha’s, her father perhaps. He’d also been her coach since she’d hit the circuit.

“We’ll see how well she performs, and we wish her luck. She’s got some tough competition.” The camera zoomed in on the fresh-faced teenager. She wore no makeup and the same freckles spanned the bridge of her nose as she crouched down, tennis racket in hand. She was tall and thin, all arms and legs. At fourteen, she’d been touted as a brilliant tennis player with great instincts, if a bit raw. At least that’s what he read in the countless articles he’d managed to read in between finishing up his duties at the agency.

Young Sorcha threw the ball into the air and lobbed it across the court, the power showed through. He’d seen the same command of the ball that afternoon, this time from the grown woman confident in her abilities.

He fast-forwarded and paused as she performed a backhanded volley, hitting the ball at an angle, causing it to spin, but it fell short of the net. The crowd gave a collective hiss and Sorcha walked in a circle, shoulders hunched, a familiar move. She was shaking off the upset and getting geared up for the next serve.

At fourteen, he’d joined the ROTC in high school at Grams’ insistence and the structure it provided was invaluable. The same training and discipline his father had received as a Marine corporal.

He clicked on the video as she hopped into the air and struck the ball flat with her racket. The ball zoomed at the net with impressive speed, but she’d aimed too low and the ball hit the net. She had power but she couldn’t control it every time, at least not at fourteen.

Yawning, he hit a different link, and Sorcha the adult appeared. Her face was thinner than it was now, dark circles under her eyes. He stopped the video and looked at the date stamp. Last year. Shortly after her father had died, she’d suffered an ankle injury and was off the courts for six weeks. This was the first time she’d been back.

From the sluggish way she moved, she either wasn’t completely healed, or she was phoning it in. Or perhaps it had more to do with her personal loss. He could commiserate after the death of his own father, but it wasn’t his job to commiserate. It was his job to kick her into shape and get her back on track. Like Grams had done for him once he’d been placed into her care.

The same commentator, older now, spoke in a low, serious voice, commenting on the recent death and Sorcha’s subsequent injury. Airing her personal laundry in the public sphere must have been tough.

Sorcha attempted a backhanded volley and failed, the trajectory clearing the net but hitting outside the playing area. She moved to the corner of the court, hands on her hips, eyes squinting against the glaring sun before they called the ball into play once more. There was a desperation in her, something he couldn’t quite put his finger on. She failed to return the volley and made an obscene gesture to her opponent when the other woman laughed at her rookie mistake. The more time spent in the match, the sloppier she became, and her temper didn’t help matters. After four violations, the chair umpire defaulted her out, thus disqualifying her from the match.

A handful didn’t begin to describe her. But there was no denying she was captivating; like a train wreck you couldn’t look away from. The next video echoed the last and he scratched his chin. A pattern was emerging. If she’d just get past her initial resistance to help of any kind, he’d be able to get her over that hurdle. He was no expert on tennis, but he didn’t need to know a lot about the sport to see that tennis wasn’t her issue. Self-confidence was. Crazy, since the moment that she hit the court, she came alive.

His phone dinged and he glanced down at the text. He sat bolt upright and adjusted his jaw. Great, fucking great. He pressed Howler’s number but was immediately put to voice mail. Another text came over the phone. We’re still at Grams’ house. Please take care of it before we lose even more sponsors.

Leo jumped to his feet and retrieved his shoes, marveling at how domestic Howler had become. Before he met Raina, he lived and breathed on his phone. He’d also been high-strung and stressed out, not a good combination. Leo agreed with her insistence on no electronics. Time was precious and being tied to one’s phone removed the human factor. He’d turned his phone off when he’d gone on his date out of respect for Kat.

And he’d wanted to check it every five minutes just in case Sorcha called. For what? To call him a jackass? She’d be calling him more than that once he found her and brought her home.

Snatching up his keys he left the apartment, hoping this wasn’t going to be as hard as he thought, but knowing it would be.

Chapter Eleven

Sorcha flipped her hair from side to side in beat with the techno music, fingers clenching the smooth bars of the human-size bird cage. She was drunk off her ass and loving every second of it. Trent danced beside her; face flushed.

“Selfie,” Trent called out and raised the phone, leaning back into her, and snapped a picture. “My friends are never going to believe I’m at a bar with you.”

He typed something in his phone and hit send.

“I can’t believe you’re this crazy sober,” she yelled, throat strained from screaming over the music.

“I’m high on life.” He wasn’t drunk but it hadn’t hampered his ability to have fun.

“I like that you’re high on life but not enough to stop me from drinking tonight. Where is that cute waiter with my cocktail?” She’d reined herself in the past few months and it felt good to let loose. “Of course, Leo would have a cow if he saw me like this, but fuck Leo. What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him.”

“Oh shit,” Trent said, his smile gone. “Raina is on the group text. The one I sent the selfie to.”

Raina, the woman she was dying to know about. They’d yet to meet since she and Howler were out of town. “Which means she’ll show it to Howler.”

“I’m sorry, Sorcha,” he said. The music faded and he held out his hand, helping her maneuver down the stairs.

She shrugged and wobbled on her feet once she reached solid ground. Howler said she couldn’t get drunk at his house. She wasn’t at his house but a bar. “Raina is so lucky. Charming husband, a great job with the Pioneers, lucky bitch.” Much more charming than stick -in-the-mud Leo. Stay on track, Sorcha, the small, still sober part of her whispered. “But I heard Miller is hard to work for.”

“Raina can handle him. She’s tough as nails and doesn’t put up with the dickhead douche.” He pointed at Sorcha with one strong finger. But you’re a lucky bitch too. Top tennis player with a killer merchandise line. If you weren’t in a gay bar, the guys would be swarming to take you home instead of taking a picture with you. Shit, a few of them would play straight to be eye candy on your arm.”

“How can you be both a douche and a dick?” She’d heard similar descriptions of Miller before. From her dealings with his rag-mag Scandal, he was a narcissistic douche.

He offered a casual shrug. “I don’t know, but somehow Miller manages it.”

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