Page 40 of Drop Shot (On the Court #2)

WHIMSY

With one day off—which is still spent with practice and physical therapy and all the other things Elias has to do—it’s now Sunday, the day of the final match at Roland Garros.

As a Majors tournament it’s a big deal. The Superbowl for tennis players and fans if you will. Except instead of once a year, it’s four times. The Australian Open, Rolland Garros, Wimbledon, and the US Open.

Celebrities fill the stands, including quite a few from the States. The energy in the stadium is infectious and I hope the crowd will help build Elias’s momentum. Despite some of his bad behavior at times, he’s generally a fan favorite.

It’s warm already, and our seats are currently directly in the sun. A decent breeze is made by my folding fan, and I pray that my setting spray does its job and locks my makeup into place.

Elias and his opponent—a powerhouse of a player at only twenty-two named Conor Davies from Great Britain—each enter the stadium to a raucous of cheers. My heart is already racing, and the game isn’t even underway.

Elias looks surprisingly calm as my eyes track his movements. By the time Conor makes the first serve I’m taken by surprise. I’ve been so focused on every detail I can absorb from Elias’s micro expressions that I didn’t realize they were already starting.

It’s going to be a long game. I think Elias expects that from the way his brows settle and the determination in his gaze. He’s locked in and focused. I can only hope that bodes well for him.

First set goes to Conor.

Second to Elias.

The third is neck and neck and goes to a tiebreak. I bite my nails the entire time—a disgusting habit I haven’t resorted to since I was around twelve years old and got braces.

When Conor cinches the win for the third set my stress levels are through the roof. That means Elias has to win the next one and a fifth set in order to win.

“My stomach hurts,” I mutter to Ebba. “I genuinely think I might throw up.”

“If you do”—she says under her breath— “don’t do it on me.”

“I’ll aim for Jackson,” I whisper back, and she has to hold in a laugh.

Conor manages to squeeze out the tiebreak win, sending the match into the fourth set. My anxiety is rising with every second and the jittery feeling in the crowd around me isn’t helping to level out my racing thoughts.

You can do this , I think toward the spot where Elias sits, sipping on water. Don’t get too in your head. Focus. Win this. I believe in you.

As if he can sense my thoughts, he turns his head and finds me in the box. He winks and that stupid gesture has my stomach doing somersaults.

Why did I tell him we couldn’t try this thing out for real?

Oh, right, because I’m clearly an idiot.

What am I so afraid of? Heartbreak? It isn’t like I haven’t had my heartbroken before. What’s the big deal?

The big deal is that I care a lot about Elias—as my boss, as my friend, even as my fake lover—and if we would end, I know I’d mourn the loss of not just him but his whole family and this whole tennis world I’ve come to love.

He might swear up and down that I wouldn’t lose Ebba, but I would, because I know I wouldn’t be able to stomach being around her when all I’d be able to think about is her twin brother.

And as for the tennis world, I’m sure Elias thinks he could pull some strings and get me a job with another player or on the social media end, but then I’d be forced to be around him.

Perhaps run into him with other girls from time to time.

And my heart … I’m woman enough to admit that it’s a fragile thing.

Can I be faulted for wanting to protect it?

I visualize shoving all those pesky thoughts out of my mind and focus as the fourth set gets under way.

It becomes apparent as the set goes on that Conor is getting tired.

He’s young and only recently started climbing in rank.

Despite his immense talent five-set matches can be brutal.

Elias has stamina on his side. He’s been playing this sport longer and he’s handled numerous five-set matches over the years.

Elias wins the fourth set six to three.

Ebba grabs my hand. “He can do it. One more set. He can pull this off.”

“He can,” I agree, but it doesn’t mean I don’t still feel nervous.

If I thought my stomach felt queasy before it has nothing on how I feel when the final set begins. Conor’s dragging and it gives Elias a chance to pull ahead. But then, somehow, Conor is rallying and catching up from two points down.

“Oh, god,” I mutter. “Please, let him win.”

No offense to Conor, he seems like a decent guy, but I want my guy to win.

When Elias scores the fifth point of the match and Conor’s still at four it means if he can win the next point, he’s won the match.

“Come on,” I mutter, leaning forward with my elbows braced on my knees. Surely, I’m wrinkling my designer dress despite the pretty penny that was paid for it, but I don’t care.

Winning the next point isn’t as easy as making the next score—you have to get 15, 30, 40, and then your next point would count toward your overall number. The point system still doesn’t make sense to me.

Elias serves and Conor volleys it back. Elias sprints to his left to catch it in time and it soars back over the net. Conor’s there, racket connecting with the ball and—it collides with the net giving the point to Elias making it 15-0.

I’m fairly certain there will be indents left in my cheek from my nails by the time this is over.

Elias serves again and it turns into a long rally.

15-15.

“Oh, come on,” I groan. “Keep it together.”

My heart feels like it’s in my throat as the game continues.

30-15.

40-15.

40-30.

40-40

40-40. Advantage to Conor.

40-40.

40-40. Advantage to Conor again .

“Elias.” I will my voice to carry on the wind to his ears. “You can do it, baby.”

40-40.

The beat of my heart is thunderous in my ears.

40-40. Advantage Elias. Championship point.

Championship point .

If he makes it that is.

Everyone in the stadium is on the edge of their seats.

I can practically hear what the commentators are bound to be saying on TV, “Can he do it? We’ve seen him choke a lot this year.

He seems focused. Look at that determined stare.

What a serve! Conor’s quick on his feet, though.

Elias is going to have to be quicker—and oh my god folks he’s done it! Elias Johnson has won Roland Garros!”

An excited, relieved scream tears out of me as Elias collapses backwards into the clay from shock.

He did it.

He fucking did it.

“Oh my god!” I scream, jumping up from my seat and clapping. I brush away a few tears that escape from my mixture of excitement and relief. “He did it!”

Ebba screams along with me and pulls me into a hug. His parents cheer and his mom lets tears fall freely.

Elias gets up and shakes hands with Conor. After shaking hands with the umpire, he throws his arms in the air and pumps them. The crowd erupts with even louder cheers than before.

The next thing I know, he’s running toward the crowd and climbing up and around to reach the box. He shakes hands with his coaches and hugs them, then his parents, Ebba, and then finally he’s standing in front of me.

“Hey, Whim.” He grins down at me. His eyes glimmer with excitement and something else, maybe relief.

I open my mouth to say hey back, but he doesn’t give me a chance.

He cups my cheeks gently in his large hands and in my next heartbeat his mouth is on mine. The kiss is slow and deep and probably too sensual for public consumption, but I don’t stop him. I grasp his shirt, damp with sweat. I lean back as he deepens the kiss further.

When he pulls back, he’s grinning even bigger than he was before with his dimple on full display.

“I’ve gotta go,” he whispers and gives me another quick kiss before he’s hurrying back down the aisle to get back to the court.

When I turn back to face the court I catch Jackson’s narrowed eye stare.

That look has my blood freezing in my veins. He looks suspicious to say the least. I wish I could assure him that this is still very much fake despite Elias expressing his desire for more.

Down below, the trophies are given, and speeches are made.

I hold my breath when Elias singles me out in his speech.

“And Whimsy, I just want to say to you, that these short months with you have already been some of the best of my life. Whether you know it or not, you encourage me every day to push myself to be the best. Your belief in me is absolute and I cherish that. This is your win as much as it is mine. Thank you, baby.”

Ebba grabs my wrist and lets out a little, “Ooh, my brother is so in love with you.”

It’s on the tip of my tongue to refute her, but Elias is still looking at me from his spot on the court and it might not be love, but there’s something more there in his gaze.