Page 37 of Drop Shot (On the Court #2)

ELIAS

My first-round match is rougher than it should be playing against someone I’ve easily beaten every time in the past, but my head is all over the place and unfortunately not as focused on the game as I should be.

Ebba and Whimsy are noticeably absent from my players box and the reason why has my stomach churning.

Fucking Keaton and his prick ass face and his prick ass outfits.

I knew he wasn’t good enough for my sister, but she’s a grown woman.

I can’t tell her who she can and can’t date.

But man do I wish I’d at least said something.

Granted, perhaps stupidly, I wouldn’t have thought him capable of what happened.

And now both of my favorite girls are traumatized by it.

I held Whimsy all night long and pretended not to notice when she woke up around four this morning quietly crying.

I return the volley and do my best to focus on the match.

Back and forth the ball goes. The familiar thwack of my racket connecting with the high-speed ball helps soothe the chaos of my thoughts.

I successfully complete the point in the longest rally of the match so far and prepare to serve again.

I pull two balls from my pocket and rub my fingers over them, testing the amount of fuzz. When I’ve chosen, I prepare to serve. I blow on my fingers before bouncing the ball a few times.

I take a centering breath and lift the ball to my racket.

Three, two, one I count down in my head and toss the ball up, jumping as I do and hitting the ball over the net.

“Ace!”

Gaining an immediate point from your serve is always a bit of a high.

Somehow, I manage to stay in the zone and finish out the match with a win. After a quick on court interview, I’m off to stretch and meet with my team before hitting the showers.

The last thing I expect is to be cornered by Fisher as I leave the locker room.

“What the fuck?” I blurt out, my heart accelerating at being startled.

“You never texted me last night,” he says accusingly, tugging me over to one of the rest spots with a couch.

“I was tired. I forgot.”

“What. Happened.” He bites out each word. “Clearly something went on. Both those girls were spooked.”

I’m not sure how much I want or even should tell Fisher.

“Why does it matter to you?” I counter. He doesn’t know I suspect him and my sister of having a relationship.

“I know both of them and therefore I care when I see two women who look traumatized out of their minds. Forgive me for being concerned.” He crosses his arms over his chest, his arms shockingly buff. He must be hitting the weights because I don’t remember him being built like that.

With a sigh, I sit down on the couch and look up at him.

“Ebba’s boyfriend attacked her and Whimsy.

He was drunk and shoved Whimsy and slapped Ebba.

I’m not sure what kind of verbal garbage he might’ve spewed either before I arrived.

” I let out a breath I think I might’ve been holding since last night.

“I’m so glad I got there in time, but I wish I had gotten there sooner. ”

“Boyfriend?” Fisher’s face turns a shade of red that resembles a radish.

“Hopefully, and probably most definitely, ex-boyfriend.”

Fisher shakes his head. “How awful for them. If they need anything let them know I’m happy to help.”

“I will.”

He clears his throat. “Actually, maybe don’t say anything. Don’t even let them know I asked.”

I narrow my eyes. “Okay?”

He ducks his head and practically speed walks away.

Fucking weird.

I’m not quite sure how him and Ebba think we’ve all been oblivious to their … situationship or whatever I should call it.

Gathering up my stuff, I shoulder my bag to head out.

Getting cornered by Fisher was bad enough, getting cornered by a member of the press on my way out is entirely unexpected. There are rules and they’re not supposed to bother us like this, but a microphone is shoved near my mouth, the camera barely a foot from my face—or so it feels like.

“We’re hearing word that your sister and girlfriend were attacked last night by an American named Keaton Mills. Supposedly, he’s been dating your sister. Is this correct?”

What the fuck?

I’m not sure how they have that information.

“You’re crossing a line,” I tell the woman whom I recognize from press conferences. “You shouldn’t even be over here.”

“Can you please confirm or deny?” she speaks into the mic before holding it out to me.

“No comment,” I bite out, and sidestep her and the camera man.

They continue to follow me, and I’m not sure why. I’m stubborn as hell and I’m not giving up information on my sister and Whimsy to satisfy some kind of weird curiosity.

“Reports are saying that you arrived in time to intervene. Can you at least confirm or deny that?

If it were only prick-ass Keaton involved I’d throw him under the bus gladly, but it’s not my place to talk about Whimsy and Ebba’s trauma from last night.

I ignore them all the way until I finally get into the car to take me back to the hotel. As soon as I’m seated, I pull out my phone and Google my name.

Articles pop up from less than thirty minutes ago, detailing that there was an attack on Whimsy and Ebba with Keaton’s name attached.

No wonder that journalist was so persistent. She wanted to be the first to get a direct quote.

I’m not sure how the information could’ve gotten out there though. It’s not like?—

Jackson.

Fucking Jackson.

It has to be. I don’t know who else would’ve gone to the press.

I know there’s zero chance Ebba or Whimsy called them up.

I can’t even get them to talk about it with me.

Fisher didn’t know until just now. I’m honestly surprised he hadn’t seen the news yet.

So that leaves one person considering the fact that Keaton is still currently in custody.

The car pulls up to drop me off and I storm into the hotel—a man on a mission. I check the bar first. No Jackson. I can only hope he’s in his room.

After charming one of the front desk ladies, I make my way to his room. She wouldn’t give me a key, but at least she gave me the room number.

I bang the palm of my hand repeatedly against the door.

“If you’re in there you better open up you motherfucker. Don’t fucking ignore me.”

The door opens and I grab a stunned Jackson by his collar as I step into his room. I slam his back into the wall. I’m grateful to be so much taller than him since it allows me to glare down at him.

“What did you do?” I give him a shake. “You leaked that didn’t you?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Him playing dumb only serves to piss me off further.

“It’s all over the internet about my sister and Whimsy. The only person that knew besides me and the bastard who committed the crime was you . I called you for help with the room because I thought I could trust you!”

God, I’m worked up now. I’m pissed and frankly hurt. Not that I think Jackson is my best friend or anything, but I thought I could trust him not to spew private business for a quick buck.

“It made you look good! The hero swooping in to save his sister and girlfriend. I did it for you!” he yells back. Despite his bravado there’s fear in his eyes.

“No.” I shake my head. “You didn’t do this for me. You did it for yourself.” I grind my teeth together. “Their trauma is not my free publicity.” I give him a shake. “Do you hear me?”

He nods.

“Say it!” A little of my spit lands on his cheek. Oops. I’m sorry but not sorry enough to apologize out loud. Especially when he hasn’t.

“I hear you,” he replies. “Will you let me go now?”

I narrow my eyes on him and give him another shake before I drop him. I point a finger at him in warning. “Fuck you.”

Swinging the door open, I let it slam shut behind me. I gather my stuff up from where I dropped it outside his room.

Jackson might think he’s in charge around here—but he needs to remember that I’m the reason he gets paid, and it would be all too easy to fire him.