Page 42 of The Backup Groom
Not to mention embarrassed, rejected, and humiliated.
I didn’t think I was hurting anyone by trying to find someone to marry so I could get my inheritance. It wasn’t deceiving anyone since everything would be spelled out in writing for whomever agreed to marry me. It wasn’t against the law. Maybe my ego was suffering from the shock of Radio Ryan telling me no. Even without the money, I think I have a lot to offer, so it caught me off guard.
One thing for sure, I would not give up. And if we had to expand our search area all the way to Los Angeles to find more Ryan Scotts, we were going to do it.
No matter what, I would find myself a husband. I would not allow Maggoty Mercedes to get her money-grubbing hands on my inheritance.
I pulled into the first open parking spot at the recreation center and opened the trunk to get the stuff out. As I walked toward the main building with my hands full, a woman wearing a navy-blue polo with the recreation center logo on it came out, looking like she was locking the front door.
“Oh—I was told you were going to be open until eight,” I said.
She spun around to face me. “Normally, yes, but we’re closed for a private event.” She glanced at the box and poster tube in my arms. “Can I help you with something?”
“Yes—I’m dropping this off from Pacific Beach Media,” I said. “They’re the fliers and posters for your summer camp.”
“Wonderful! We’ve been expecting that.” She glanced toward the concrete bench near the front door. “Set it down right there and I’ll take it inside.”
“You got it.” I placed the box and tube on the bench, then glanced over to the tennis courts when I heard the screeching of tennis shoes on the asphalt.
“Do you play?” the woman asked, following my gaze.
“Not as much as I would like to, but yes, I do. This place brings back a lot of happy memories. I learned to play here as a kid.” I glanced over at the courts again, the memories flooding back to me, lessons on Tuesdays and Thursdays after school.
“That is wonderful,” she said. “We’ve had more than a few players go on to the national level, you know.” She motioned toward the courts. “Have a look around if you’re feeling nostalgic. We added nine new courts last year with lighting for nighttime play.” She smiled proudly. “We now have the most courts in San Diego County.”
“That’s amazing,” I said. “I’d love to go take a peek, thank you.”
“You’re very welcome. Thanks for dropping this off.”
I felt my smile get bigger the closer I got to the courts, watching the young girls and boys in the middle of their lessons. They couldn’t have been more than eight or nine years old, the same age as me when I had learned how to play the game.
I walked toward court 1 and watched a female coach with two young girls, showing them the smooth motion of the backhand stroke several times. They mimicked her motion.
“That was a very nice try! Make sure you follow through on that serve,” a man called out on the court behind me. “That gives you more power and also improves your aim.”
His voice sounded familiar.
Curious, I flipped around to see if I knew the guy.
I did.
It was Scotty.
He was dressed in a matching black T-shirt, shorts, and tennis shoes, all Adidas. He appeared to be right at home on the court as a coach—confident, kind, with one hundred percent of his focus on the young boy he was coaching.
“Okay, now let’s have one more serve before we call it quits for the day,” Scotty said to the boy.
I quietly moved closer, grasping the chain links on the fence.
The boy served again, getting it over the net.
“Yes!” Scotty called out, hitting the ball back to him. They rallied for a few shots before Scotty hit the ball into the net. I couldn’t help wondering if he did that on purpose to give the boy more confidence.
Scotty patted him on the back. “See the difference when you follow through on the serve?”
The boy bobbed his head enthusiastically. “Yeah.”
“Well, great job today, Ethan,” Scotty said. “I’ll see you next week.”
