Page 18 of Drop Shot (On the Court #2)

ELIAS

“You’re swinging too soon.”

I glower at Noah Baker—former rival turned friend turned doubles partner. He raises his hand, racket held in his right.

“Don’t shoot the messenger, E. You’re not with it today.”

I walk over to my bag and pull out my water bottle taking several small sips.

“I know,” I concede. “My mind is…” I gesture to my head. “All over the place.”

I had to share a bed with Whimsy last night, which I thought would be no big deal.

We’re both adults after all. Apparently, my brain didn’t get the memo, because I had X-rated dreams about my former assistant all night long.

I woke up with a raging boner. Thankfully Whimsy was out cold and didn’t notice me slipping out of bed and into the bathroom to take care of my problem.

He bounces the ball with his racket. “Well, try to get it back on track, okay?”

“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?”

“The bottle.” I lift a hand from the water and wiggle my fingers at her. “I’ll open it for you.”

Her lips purse stubbornly. I don’t push further—I know how hard it can be to accept help. I’ve been injured before and having to rely on others is the worst feeling in the world, so if she wants to get it on her own, I won’t stop her, but I am here to help if she needs me.

With a soft exhale, she crosses the tiled floor to me. I remove the top and pass it back to her.

“Thank you,” she says, voice small and eyes downcast to her toes that I notice are painted a soft blue.

“Welcome,” I chirp.

She finishes her routine and brushes her teeth before leaving me in the bathroom alone.

Shockingly, I miss her presence, so I don’t stay submerged in the water much longer. I dry off and pull on a pair of sleep shorts. Normally I wouldn’t bother with them, but I’m not in bed alone.

I brush my teeth before I join her in my bedroom. It’s strange having a woman in my bed. I’ve never had sleepovers with the women I’ve slept with, so it’s a new thing for me.

“I was looking at your schedule,” she says, turning her iPad my way from where she sits criss-cross in the bed. “And?—”

I raise hand to quiet her. “Why are you looking at my schedule? You’re not my assistant anymore. Remember?”

She bites her lip. “I can’t help it. I don’t trust you to keep things straight and since you haven’t hired anyone else…” she trails off.

I climb into bed and reach for her iPad but she’s not giving it up easily. “Jackson can handle my shit in the meantime.”

“But you’re supposed to record a podcast tomorrow.”

“I know.”

She frowns. “You do? You never mentioned it.”

I itch to reach out and smooth the wrinkle between her brow. “Because you’re not my assistant anymore,” I remind her a second time in the past minute.

“This is hard for me,” she admits. “I don’t like you paying me and I’m not doing anything.” She turns the iPad off and lays it on the table beside her. “I’m not … I feel like a freeloader,” she explains, pouty pinky lips turning down in a frown.

“You’re not a freeloader.” She purses her lips, staring me down and saying a million things all without opening her mouth. “Your job title changed. That’s all.”

She smooths her hands down the covers in her lap. “If you ever feel differently tell me. Please.” She looks at me with those big blue eyes. “It won’t hurt my feelings. Promise.”

“I’ll let you know,” I reply, but I know nothing will be changing on my end.

Like we’ve summoned him with our talk, my phone begins to ring, lit up with Jackson’s name.

“Fuck,” I curse. With a groan, I answer my phone. “It’s late. What do you want?”

Silence greets me and then my manager says, “That wasn’t very nice.”

I roll my eyes. “I’m in bed. What is it?”

He sighs and even though I can’t see him I can picture him pinching the bridge of his nose and pacing. “You have that podcast tomorrow.”

“I know.” I wonder where he’s going with this. “Why?”

“Take Whimsy with you.”

“For a podcast interview?” I ask stupidly.

He sighs. “Julia wants to interview you both now. She wants to spin it into a more romantic piece—peeling the curtain back on your personal life. This is what we wanted, Elias,” he reminds me of my team’s goal.

I look at Whimsy beside me, her eyes wide and curious. “I’ll ask her.”

Jackson sounds like he’s choking. “We’re paying her—she has to do it.”

“I’m not going to force her to do anything she doesn’t want to do,” I snap at the man.

A gentle hand lands on my forearm and I turn to the woman in my bed. “What is it?”

I lower my phone, covering the speaker. “The podcast tomorrow, she wants to interview us both now about our romance.”

“Oh.” Her cheeks pinken. “That’s okay. I guess. I don’t mind. That’s what I’m here for, right?”

I frown. “I don’t want you to be uncomfortable.”

“I’ll be fine,” she says. “This was always the plan.” She gives a small shrug.

I grit my teeth. “All right.” I uncover the speaker and bring it to my mouth. “She’s in.”

“Good,” is all Jackson says before hanging up.

I set the phone on the nightstand. “I can get you out of this if you’re really not comfortable.”

“I’ll be fine,” she insists, burrowing beneath the covers and turning on her side to face me. “It can’t be any worse than your mom asking me today if there were any baby names I liked.”

I cover my face, stifling my groan. “She didn’t.”

Whimsy giggles, the sheets ruffling as she shuffles her feet beneath them. “Oh, she did.”

“I’m going to kill her.”

“No, you’re not.”

“You’re right. But I might have to give her a stern talking to.”

Her laughter is music to my ears. “Again, no you won’t. You’re such a mama’s boy.”

“Me?” I press a hand to my chest.

“Don’t even try to deny it.”

I grin back at her. “I won’t.”

She rolls her eyes. “I’m going to sleep now. I’m tired.”

I mime zipping my lips and reach over and turn the light off on my side. I’m tired too.

In the morning, the thin rays of sunlight peeking through the shades rouse me from sleep and it’s a good thing they do, because I’m wrapped around Whimsy like I can’t get close enough.

Her head rests on my chest, lips slightly parted as she breathes.

I don’t want her to wake like this—to find me holding onto her like she’s a life raft and I’m adrift at sea, so even though it’s the last thing I want to do, I extract myself and get out of bed.

I need to get control of myself.

Soon.