Page 58 of The Omega Lesson

That gets a smirk out of me. But then Noah is springing to his feet and I wonder if we’re about to get yelled at again. Only, the guy striding towards us is so familiar in this context, I suddenly feel like I’m fourteen again. Travis is in a navy polo and white shorts, a Wilson Pro Staff racket in hand, and he looks a million bucks. The only flaw in the picture is the scowl on his face as he stops short and takes us all in. I brace myself for more abuse, but he just says, “Anton pulled out. I’m going to have to forfeit the match.”

“Fuck. I’m sorry.” That gets Travis’ attention and I bite my lip. “He called this morning and told me to stay away.”

“He did more than that.” Noah folds his arms, a challenging gleam in his eye. “He accused her of chasing the Lyall boys around town. Told her she was going to blow some legal deal with you. Ring any bells?”

“We’re in discussions with the firm,” Travis says shortly, “but they’re not the only ones. It’s a big piece of our business, and I’m looking for a long-term partner.” He tilts his head, his gaze lingering on my polo. “And this is some kind of public declaration, I take it?” He nods his head towards the other side of the court. “There’s some paparazzi over there if you want to go public.”

“Well, we were mainly here to cheer you on, numbnuts,” Mattie says with a cheeky grin.

“We’re not making a public declaration, Travis. But we are here to watch you play.” When I extend my hand towards him, Travis instantly steps forward to take it. But I pop over the small barrier and grab his racquet, giving it a practice swish. “You’ve got a spare, I take it?”

“What…?”

But I leave him staring after me as I walk along the edge of the court to the official’s tent. A couple of older guys are having a whispered argument, and everyone looks tense as they pretend not to eavesdrop. The official who met us outside is the only one I recognise in the huddle, so I head her way. “Hi, I assume you heard that Anton Novak is unavailable?”

She gives a harried nod. “Yes, we’re just about to announce the program change…”

“Well, before you do, I’m the other Novak. Lexi. I played here for a few years as a teenager.”

“Oh, yes,” the woman says, her eyes lighting up. “And you were on the All-Australian Girls Team for a year, weren’t you?”

Something my family is unaware of, since my dad banned all extracurriculars, and I had to rely on my forging abilities on the parental forms. “And third runner-up for the Female Junior Athlete of the Year. If you give me a chance, I promise to give you a good game.”

A determined look settles over her face and she muscles her way to the front of the huddle. A moment later, the two grey-haired men are frowning in my direction and asking to see my credentials. But they both freeze as I feel an alpha presence at my back and Travis says in a polite rumble, “I’d be delighted to partner you, Alexa.”

Travis

Alexa plays like a professional, if you consider torturing your partner a sound doubles strategy.

I try to find my zone. The one that was effortless until she swished into view, my racquet clutched in her hand, and my pack initials stitched to her breast. She wins every serve and owns every shot that comes her way, while I hit half my returns into the net and lob the rest into the stands.

She’s just so damn distracting.

Like a pretty pink rag waved in the face of a horny bull.

All I want to do is stretch her out on the baseline and service her until she screams.

“What?” I snap to attention as she sashays towards me, that pink ponytail swaying back and forth. She looks as fresh as a rose, while I’m sweating like a… well, a horny-as-fuck bull.

“I just said we should swap racquets. This one is so heavy. Who the hell can even swing it?”

“Jim Courier, Steffi Graf, Pete Sampras, Roger Federer. 117 grand slam titles have been won with that racquet.”

She widens her eyes at me. “It’s pretty special then.”

I grunt, since she’s clearly making fun of me. “The Head Graphene’s not much lighter,” I warn her. “And it has a smaller head. It takes some getting used to.”

She gives me a wink. “I can handle a little head.”

Well, mine just exploded all over the court. Especially as she plucks it from my hand and sashays back to the centre line. Not only does she have the cutest pleated skirt I’ve ever seen, but she’s wearing white knee socks. Like some kind of Tennis Barbie who can hit a serve at one hundred miles an hour.

And I can tell our opponents are struggling to come to terms with her as well. One’s a State player Anton and I have beaten in the past, but the other is here for entertainment value. He’s a South American playboy who made his name in polo and rum. He’s disgustingly good-looking, and while he can’t play tennis for shit, he’s putting a lot of effort into flirting with my partner.

She ignores him for the most part, but of course, that just gets his competitive juices flowing. He actually starts trying to win, like the glass plate we’re playing for will also serve him up a side of pink-haired alpha.

Fuck that.

I pick up my game in the second set, pounding a blistering serve straight into the polo player’s solar plexus. He staggers off the court for a bit and Alexa skips over to me. “Great serve. But it wasn’t very charity-event-friendly.”

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