Page 3 of Game Point
The comment struck me like a slap as I fought the urge to scream. The image of my empty shelf at home. I’d made space for trophies, back when I was naive and full of fucking hope. Manifestation, I’d called it. Stupidity is what I now realize it was.
‘I’m sure it will.’ I was unable to keep a bitter edge from my voice.
‘I’m going … somewhere else,’ Inés said, dismissing herself.Guess her wingwoman duties are done.I took a sip from my glass, refocusing on the redhead. He was all sharp lines, strong jaw and high cheekbones. He could be a model if it wasn’t for tennis.
He leaned back, perching himself on the arm of the chair behind him. ‘So how long have you been friends with Scottie?’
‘Three weeks, give or take.’
The space between his eyebrows creased. ‘Do you not know each other very well?’
‘Oh, we’ve played against each other for years. But we weren’t friends.’ I almost had to stifle a laugh at my own words. We weren’t anything near friends. For the last two years, I’d cursed the name Scottie Sinclair. She’d beaten me at Wimbledon a couple of years ago, another women’s singles final. I’d taken it … badly. But then she’d come forward, admitting to using performance-enhancing drugs and somehow, that had made it all worse.
His head tilted forward in question, a single ginger curl falling across his forehead. ‘Until recently?’
I took a second, trying to figure out if he hadn’t heard or actively didn’t follow the news. ‘Well, we took down her dad together.’
The father being the one who’d drugged her, without her knowledge. I’d even gone as far as to work with him for a few weeks and … I’d walked away with a much better understanding of the woman I’d once called my rival.
‘Matteo Rossi,’ he interrupted, his amber eyes catching the light.
‘The very bastard,’ I mumbled.
‘Can’t believe the stories that came out about him, eh?’ His Scottish accent rang louder, and I narrowed my sharp eyes at him. To my further surprise, I found his attention distracted, his gaze across the room, his bottle of beer raised to his lips as he absentmindedly took a long sip.
‘Believe it? I said it!’ My words had no effect on him. I glanced around, trying to find what or who was more important.
I turned back to him, swallowing down my pride, ready to try again when he mumbled, ‘I’ll be right back.’
He pressed his empty bottle into my hands. As if he was mesmerized, he disappeared into the crowd.
I blinked once. Twice.He fucking left?The urge to scream again slammed into me. Why were men like this?
My phone buzzed in my pocket, pulling my attention from the disappearing act Ruari had pulled, a text from my oldest friend appearing.
AVERY
Sorry you lost again. Call when you can.
The reminder of what had happened felt like another knife twisting in my gut.That’s it. I’m going home.
‘Don’t blame yourself.’ I turned to my right and found Oliver Anderson, another past US Open champion, standing beside me, his dark-brown eyes trained on me. ‘Ru has a habit of straight up ghosting people.’
I held his gaze and pushed my phone back into my pocket, text unanswered. My tone was only a tiny bit bitter when I asked, ‘Even when he had a good chance at getting laid?’
A sharp laugh escaped him, and he took Ruari’s place on the armrest in front of me. ‘Weirdly enough, yes.’ He took a sip of his beer, my eyes temporarily fixated by the bob of his Adam’s apple, the curve of his thick neck.
‘The rumours around him have been greatly exaggerated.’
‘What do you mean?’
He shrugged as another waiter passed us, and we both swapped our empty glasses for fresh. Me, another champagne, Oliver a beer.So much for taking it easy tonight.He took a moment to consider his words. ‘Just don’t take it personally.’
Intrigued, and without any other choice, I sat down next to him, already sick of standing up all night.
‘It’s a little late for that, don’t you think?’
Oliver just smiled brightly at me, switching his bottle to his left hand. ‘I’m Oliver,’ he needlessly introduced himself. I’d met him briefly months before, but still, it was strange, being in the same room as so many fellow players, so many people you already knew the name of, even followed their careers, but had never really spoken to oreven had more than a basic introduction. The curse of professional sports.
