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CHAPTER TWO

Snuffleupagus Pubes

I scoffed down another mouthful of salmon pasta, stretched out on a comfortable sofa in front of the big screen TV in the players’ retreat. I couldn’t believe how lucky I was to have this little bit of downtime. The press conference had been shorter than I had anticipated.

Clayton Banks, another Aussie playing his quarter, aced Ric Fontaine and I gurgle-cheered through a mouthful of carbs.

“Well, hey there gorgeous!” a warm American accented voice said behind me. I recognised it immediately. Holy shit! I bolted upright, swallowing my mouthful without chewing it properly.

“Oh, don’t get up, Mel. You just played a hard match. Congratulations by the way.” I turned my head, relaxing my stiff posture with some effort. He rested his elbows on the back of the lounge, leaning closer flirtatiously.

“Hi Pete,” I replied breathlessly. Oh shit, was that a piece of salmon caught between my front teeth? I sucked at it with my tongue, trying to look inconspicuous. “When’s your quarter?”

“Tomorrow night. I wish Donatello Herrera was in worse form. It’s gonna be close, that’s for sure!”

I rolled my eyes. Pete Levine was the number one men’s singles player. He was the odds on favourite to take out the Australian Open. He was also really bad at feigning modesty .

“Come on Pete, you know you’re going to smash him!

” I said. Pete laughed, the sound sending a shiver down my spine.

He turned all the power of his deep brown eyes on me, ruffling one big hand through his dark curls.

I had to wipe my mouth – was I drooling?

I’d always thought Pete was hot, but we hadn’t really had much to do with each other in the two years I’d been playing on the pro circuit.

“So, I guess it’s been a while, hasn’t it?” he asked, a twinkle in his eyes. My mouth popped open. How could he possibly know that? I mean, I’d been wondering if hymens could grow back, but I was hardly advertising the fact. I shifted uncomfortably, tucking one leg under myself.

Pete chuckled. “I mean, it’s been a while since you’ve won a quarter-final.” He didn’t really need an answer for that, but I shrugged.

“Hey, everyone goes through a dry spell now and then.” I was flattered that he paid enough attention to my career to even know that.

He put his hands on my shoulders, his fingers caressing the sides of my neck. Reminding me again about my other dry spell. Well, I certainly wasn’t feeling too dry now, not with his big warm hands on me, and his breath in my ear as he leaned down to whisper.

“You’re very tense, Mel,” he said, his hands still moving against my neck. I was tense; every inch of me was zinging with sexual energy. I think Pete could sense it.

“You’re staying at Savoy Tower, aren’t you?” Pete asked quietly. I nodded mutely. If I opened my mouth I was worried I would screech out, “Take me now, you big handsome beast!”

Pete exhaled a deep breath. It tickled at the nape of my neck. I shivered involuntarily.

“Well, maybe you might like to pay me a visit tomorrow night, after my quarter? I’m in room 1537,” he suggested breathily.

Saliva flooded my mouth, but before I could compose myself to respond, Pete’s hands were off me and he was gone, leaving me gasping and aching in very naughty ways.

I’d lost my appetite, but I forced myself to finish the bowl of pasta. It sounded like I was going to be burning extra calories a bit earlier than my semi-final. At least, I hoped so, with every single fibre of my being.

I couldn’t have been more grateful that I didn’t offer to swear off sex in my little promise to God before the match. I’d just have to figure out how to sneak out past Steve; he wouldn’t approve of this late-night rendezvous.

Was it wrong of me to even be considering sneaking out to meet up with Pete Levine?

I mean, I had to play the most important game of my career in two days.

But … I needed this. Besides, relieving that particular form of tension would probably help my game.

That was my line, and I was sticking to it.

Pete was rumoured to be a bit of a Playboy, but I didn’t buy into labels like that.

What two consenting adults did together in private was their own business and no one else’s.

It wasn’t up to anyone but God to judge them.

I didn’t think God would judge me too harshly for this.

After all, he made me, and he’d given me a very active libido.

One that, self-care notwithstanding, hadn’t had a proper workout in quite some time.

I wondered how the infamous Pete Levine would stack up compared to my one and only sexual partner.

Grant Johnson and I had had a long, sordid relationship.

We’d popped each other’s cherries at fifteen, he asked me to move in with him at eighteen (thank God I said no to that one), and last year he met me at the airport when I arrived home from a tournament, with a blonde ditz by the name of Susie Keens hanging smugly off his arm.

“Sorry Mel, it’s been over for ages. I just couldn’t find the right way to tell you.”

What a nice way he found of doing it, arsehole!

Since Grant, I’d promised myself I would stay celibate, and throw myself into my career. Which was why I was now ranked twenty-third in the world and hoping to climb a few rungs.

Grant had left me a year ago. And a year without sex for someone who spent the previous six years having a lot of sex had been torture.

I was so ready for a hook-up. Pete was gorgeous and I’d heard some wildly hot rumours about the size of his dick. I wouldn’t get emotionally attached. He got my motor running and he apparently felt the same way about me. All in all, it seemed pretty perfect.

By the time I had decided one hundred percent to knock on Pete Levine’s door the following night, I was in the elevator on my way up to the seventeenth floor of Savoy Tower, where Steve and I had rented a three-bedroom apartment for the duration of the Open.

The third bedroom had been reserved for my mother, but Steve had banned Mum because of the whole curse thing. I’d assumed that by then it was too late to re-book a smaller apartment.

You know what they say about assume: Ass. You. Me.

I unlocked the door, hearing the TV blaring inside. I narrowed my eyes suspiciously.

“Hey Stinky, you broke the dreaded curse!” a deep male voice dripping with ego greeted me. I couldn’t see him because he was lying down on the lounge, but I knew who it was, and I groaned.

“It’s not Stinky, it’s Smellie, and I only let my friends call me that.” I retorted. Steve’s son Joel just brought out the worst in me.

“Whatever, Stink.” He unfolded his six-foot-four frame off the lounge and slouched into the kitchen, pulling my organic kombucha out of the fridge and sculling it straight from the bottle.

I clenched my fists. “Well, now I know why your dad kept the three bedrooms, don’t I? Why are you down here anyway? Oh wait, let me guess, you quit another job, right?” I used my most cutting tone. Joel grinned at me, totally unfazed.

“Actually, Stink, I’m taking a little holiday before I start seeing clients next week.” He took another massive gulp of the kombucha before pulling a glass out of the cupboard.

“You want some?” he asked, tilting the bottle towards the glass. I shuddered.

“Uh, no thanks,” I muttered crossly, thinking about all the backwash that had just gone into the bottle.

Joel shrugged, took another slug and put it away, launching himself back onto the lounge.

I growled at his retreating back and rummaged through the stocked pantry before emerging with my favourite post-game treat: a humble Caramello Koala .

I followed Joel back towards the lounge and sat down on the floor, reaching out to stretch my hamstrings and focused my gaze on the TV. A dreadful sitcom was on.

“What clients? Wait, let me guess, you’ve got a job as a male escort?” I asked as I peeled the wrapper from the object of my chocolatey desire.

“Yes, well I absolutely missed my calling there,” he replied with a wink and a leer that made me cringe. “I’m starting my own personal training business, didn’t Dad tell you? I figured he would’ve mentioned it, since he wants you to train with me a couple of times a week.”

I bit into the feet of the koala as I turned and watched him, eyes narrowed.

Joel had been a personal trainer for a while now, but he’d had a string of jobs with gyms all around Sydney, which he never seemed to want to hold onto.

He had a problem with authority. I had a private theory that it was because he hated being told he wasn’t allowed to do things like wink at female patrons or challenge other guys to wrestling bouts.

He said that people just didn’t get his sense of humour. I was one of them.

I’d always wondered why he hadn’t followed his father’s footsteps into tennis – I’d played a few friendly matches with him and there was no doubt that he could have been great if he’d put his mind to it.

I would never tell him to his face, but I had a feeling that running his own business was probably going to be a success.

He wouldn’t have to kowtow to anyone else’s ideals, for starters.

And he certainly looked the part. His tall, broad physique was toned, tanned and totally cut.

I was sure that he waxed his chest and back just so it was impossible to ignore how defined his muscles were.

I didn’t want to think about where else he might wax. Not that I would ever go there, but in my sex-starved state, dick was never far from my mind.

So yeah, he was a specimen. Men would employ him because they wanted to look like him, and women would employ him because it would mean they got to perve on him for the duration of their training session.

Not to mention the motivation factor: if I just lose that extra ten kilos, I might have a chance with a man like him .

Vomit!