Page 35 of Drop Shot (On the Court #2)

ELIAS

“Jesus Christ!” Noah ducks out of the way of my serve. “Are you trying to kill me?”

I ignore him and pull another ball from pocket. I volunteered to be his hitting partner today. I needed the cathartic release after my own practice where I stewed the entire time over Whimsy.

I told her I wanted to make things real, and she said no.

I can tell she likes me as more than a friend, so I can’t figure out why she’s so hesitant to give this a real shot. Maybe I’m delusional, but I don’t think her reservations come from a place of fear over her income. It’s something else. Something deeper.

I serve again and Noah hits the ball back over the net. I’m there in an instant, sliding over the clay and reaching out my racket to smack the ball after it makes the first bounce.

Back and forth we go.

I’m aware I’m playing way too hard and aggressive. This isn’t a match. But I can’t seem to stop myself.

Fisher yells out, “Enough!” and when the ball returns to Noah he doesn’t hit it back over the net.

Fisher might be Noah’s coach, but he storms his way over to me. He’s the same age as Noah and probably could’ve outplayed all of us if he hadn’t gotten a career ending injury early on.

Fisher stops in front of me. I expect to see anger on his face, but instead I’m shocked to find worry there instead.

“What’s wrong?” he asks in a surprisingly gentle voice.

I suck my cheeks in and lift my right foot, smacking my shoe with my racket to dislodge some of the clay and then doing the same with the left. “Nothing’s wrong.”

“Bullshit.” His hands settle on his hips. “Something’s clearly going on. You look like you’re out here asking for an injury and you’re already operating on a compromised knee. Like it or not, you need to be careful and that was the furthest thing from it. You’re done for the day.”

“What?” I blanch.

The last thing I want to do is go back to that Parisian apartment and have to see Whimsy. In fact, Keaton would be a welcome sight after last night.

“You’re. Done. For. The. Day.” He enunciates every word. “Grab a water, go shower, and get something to eat. I mean it.” He claps me on the shoulder. “You have to take care of yourself. Your body is your tool. We don’t need you beating yourself up out here in practice. Got it?”

I nod woodenly and join Noah on the sidelines. He passes me a bottle of water that’s dripping from the melting ice in the cooler. We both lean back and take slow sips of the liquid.

“It’s something with Whimsy that’s got your panties in a twist?” Noah probes.

I glower at him.

“What?” he laughs. “Trust me, I know how woman troubles can make you feel. I was a beast on the court when I was frustrated with being so attracted to Sabrina.

“And now admitting your love has mellowed you out?” I ask with a humorless laugh.

His laughter is more genuine than mine. “Yeah, something like that. You can talk to me, you know? I’m not going to judge you for whatever is going on.” His brows knit. “Unless you were a jerk. Then I’ll judge you.”

Noah’s like a dog with a bone when he gets going. I know he isn’t going to let this go until I open up. At this point I’m starting to believe that Noah is my unofficial therapist.

“I asked Whimsy to date me for real, and she said no.”

It hurts even worse saying it out loud and I feel like an even bigger crybaby. I can handle rejection, but fuck this feels different.

Noah throws his head back and laughs. “Oh, god. This is incredible. She turned you down? I bet your ego is cowering in the corner whimpering right now.”

Frowning, I pick at the label around the bottle. “I know she’s into me. I can feel it. But she’s scared.”

Sobering, Noah says, “Then be patient with her. If you think she’s the one, then give her time.”

“The one?” I repeat. Is that what I’m thinking? That she might be my forever?

My stomach drops with the realization that deep down, that is what I think, and it’s why I’m handling this so poorly.

I wasn’t aware of it, but some part of my brain was already thinking about the future.

Putting a ring on her finger, buying a house for her, figuring out whether she can get pregnant or if she would need help or even a surrogate.

Unconsciously, my mind was putting bricks into place and creating a path to a life I’ve never contemplated before.

My sole focus has been tennis since I was about twelve years old as crazy as it sounds.

Dating for real—for the purpose of finding a partner—hasn’t been a priority.

I’ve satisfied myself with hookups and I’ve always been fine with that.

Until now. The idea of being with anyone other than Whimsy right now makes my stomach hurt.

“Falling in love is scary,” he says in a softer tone. “Trust me. I’ve done it twice. But it’s worth it. Even when it hurts.”

I know he’s thinking of his wife who passed from cancer years ago. It was hard for him, and he didn’t play for an entire year because of it.

I acknowledge what he’s said with a nod. “I think she might be scared that I’m not serious. That I’ll change my mind.”

“Okay,” he drawls the word. “Then just make sure in little ways that you’re showing her you care. Don’t force anything on her, though.”

“I won’t. I wouldn’t do that.”

“Good.” He claps me on the shoulder. “Now get your ugly face out of here. I have a practice to finish with a hitting partner that isn’t trying to kill me.”

Laughing, I pack up my stuff. “All right. See you later.”

After showering and changing my clothes, I catch one of the vans and have it take me to the apartment. On my way up, I hear shouting coming from one of the apartments.

It’s as I get closer that I realize it’s mine.