Page 47 of Drop Shot
“Why do you care?” I taunt, hands on my hips. “If I lose, that’s good for you.”
“I only like it when you lose because I’m beating you,” he quips, catching the ball.
“Aw.” I press a hand dramatically to my heart. “So, you do like me?”
He rolls his eyes and across the way our coaches call for us to get back to it.
“Get your head in the game,” he reminds me.
As I walk to my position I mutter under my breath, “Thank you, Troy Bolton.”
I might be in peak physical shape thanks to tennis, and my intense training schedule that includes lifting weights and running, but it doesn’t mean I don’t ever feel sore.
I sink into the warm bath with an audible groan.
God, my body hurts. Everything hurts. Even down to my toenails. But that’s what I get for giving it my all and then some. My last tennis season wasn’t my best, not by a long shot, and I’m too young to be falling back already. This season hasn’t been much better so far, but I’m determined to change that.
I want to win.
Not just because of the prize money—that’s truly further down my list than many other things—but mostly because winning tells me I’m good, that I’m doing something right, that I’m succeeding.
Failure is not an option for me.
“Oh my God!”
I open my eyes to find Whimsy fumbling in the doorway, hand slapped to her eyes, which is really quite comical considering the amount of bubbles I added to the water.
“I didn’t hear you come up,” she says. “I was?—”
“Out on the balcony drawing. I know,” I finish for her with a lazy swirl of my hand. “It’s okay, Whim. I should’ve locked the door. I forgot.”
“I was just coming to do my skin care,” she explains, still not dropping her hand.
“Help yourself,” I sigh, sinking farther into the water. “You won’t bother me.”
She slowly lowers her hand, biting her plump bottom lip. “Are you sure?”
“I’m pretty well hidden in my bubbles.”
She practically sprints over to the vanity which puts her back to me, but she’d still be able to see me in the mirror.
“You’re so skittish,” I tease. “You’re not a virgin, are you?”
A squeak flies out of her, and she drops the blue-colored bottle she’s holding. She bends down to scoop it up. “No,” she drawls the word. “I am not.”
I lean over the edge of the tub. “You sure act like you’ve never been around a naked man before.”
She shimmies her shoulders a bit and I think it might be a nervous tick. I watch her reflection in the mirror, how her tongue pokes into the side of her cheek. “It’s been a while,” she finally says.
I close my eyes and lean back into the bath. The water and bubbles slosh around me.
The last thing I need to be thinking about is being the one to break Whimsy’s dry spell.
I listen to the quiet clink of her bottles. It sounds like she’s concocting a potion. I peak one eye open and notice the slight tremor in her hands as she struggles to open a bottle.
“Bring it here, Whim.”
She looks over her shoulder at me. “Huh?”
