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Mac’s eyebrows raised. “Really?”

Tommy chuckled. “Yeah, really. Mostly for socials but we also might want to shop the pictures to some magazines and see if anyone bites.”

“Who's the photographer?” Mac asked, curious.

Tommy checked her notes, the silence making Mac nervous. “I’m between a few right now. I’ll send you their portfolios foryour opinion. I like one of them a bit. They’re a queer, local artist who works in film photos. I think you’ll like them.”

Mac nodded. “Sounds good.”

There was another silence and then Tommy cleared her throat. “There’s one more thing.”

“Okay.” Mac swallowed the lump in her throat.

Tommy sighed. “I got a strange tip from a friend of mine. Do you know anything about Taylor Young’s private jet?”

Fuck.Mac’s hand slapped her forehead as she scrambled to find something to say. She sat straight up and panicked, her heart pounding.

But her lack of a response was all Tommy needed. “Enough said. Listen, I’m going to give you the benefit of the doubt and say that you’re too smart to get wrapped up in something romantic with Women’s Tennis’s darling. But hypothetically, if you had, I would tell you to keep your shit locked down. And for god’s sake, please tell me when you do something like this so I can help you.”

Mac nodded. “Right.”

Tommy tapped her hand on her desk. “I’m keeping the story quiet. No need to worry on that front. So, no funny business during Wimbledon. We’ll reassess after.”

“Sure thing, chief.” Mac nodded. They said goodbye and hung up the phone. Of course, if anyone was going to find out, Tommy was probably the least destructive. If anything, her knowing might help.

Mac opened her texts and sent a message to Taylor.

Leak on your plane. Manager told me but has it under control. We need to stay apart.

She threw her phone into the duvet and walked around the room. The best thing Mac could do was keep herself distracted. If she thought about Taylor, she’d drive herself crazy with lust.

Unlike her double bed room in Paris, this was just hers. There was even a couch and a full wet bar. Not that she could use it until after her matches.

After she walked around the room, Mac tapped her fingers along the bar.Now what?

A ding from her phone saved her from the boredom. Leaping across the room, Mac threw herself into the bed as she grabbed her phone. It was a text from Taylor:

Crap. Got it. So, no sexting?

Mac bit her lip, the thought of seeing Taylor’s body making her heart race.

No one said anything about that. Feel free to send ;)

It was going to be a long couple of weeks. Especially with matches starting in just over 24 hours.

Two days later, Mac was tossing her belongings in the tall, wood lockers in the Women’s locker rooms. Unlike the lockers at Roland Garros, these were long, horizontal cabinets. They were just tall enough for racket bags.

Mac looked up at the skylight overhead and sighed. She jumped up a few times and grabbed her racket bag.

She walked down a long hallway to the training room where Babs was leaning against a squat machine. “Do you think you’ll ever be on time?”

“Isn’t it better that I’m late to you and not the match?” Mac questioned, setting her bag by the door.

The duo launched into her warm up routine, stretching out her arms and legs. With each stretch, Mac tried not to picture Taylor doing the same thing – how good her toned arms would look as she moved.

After a few movements, Taylor took off her sweatshirt and pants. She pulled off the hoodie revealing the tight, blue tennis shirt underneath. It was a brand new set, sent in just for her and waiting in her hotel room the morning of the match.

But as she did, the shirt shifted and revealed more of Mac’s shoulder.