Page 45 of Drop Shot (On the Court #2)

WHIMSY

It’s the first day of Wimbledon—arguably the biggest of the majors. It’s rooted in tradition and the one event most people know even if they don’t know tennis. The moment I step out of the car, though, Jackson is there.

He crooks a finger for me to join him.

“Hey, what’s up?” I ask, hoping I sound calm, cool, and collected and not like I’ve been letting my not-so-fake-anymore boyfriend fuck my brains out.

“One of the WAGs is working with Tennis Network for social media interviews. They want to have her talk to you about Elias.”

“Oh, okay. When?”

“Right now.” He pinches his brow. “Which means I have no time to practice with you or give you any kind of debrief. You’re going to have to wing it. Do you think you can handle that?”

As much as I don’t want to do it, this is what I was hired to do—help Elias’s reputation.

“Yeah, of course.” I sound more confident than I feel. I don’t have any media training, and with the podcast Elias and I were together. This will be me doing it solo.

“All right. Follow me.”

His shoulders sag and I follow after him.

He leads me to one of the Skyview Suites overlooking Centre Court. I assume the network has paid to rent out the suite for the interviews as well as their execs.

“Who’s interviewing me?” I ask Jackson as someone mics me up.

“Quinn Riley,” he answers me. She’s American but engaged to an Australian player. “Have you met her before?”

“A few times.”

Only in passing. I don’t think I’ve ever had a proper conversation with her, just a hello here and there.

“Good,” he says, straightening the bottom of his shirt. “Remember to talk up Elias when you can but don’t make it too obvious. If she gives you an opportunity though, jump on it.”

“I can do that.” I try to sound as confident as possible to ease some of Jackson’s obvious stress. I don’t exactly love the guy, but his job can’t be easy.

“I have to run,” he says with obvious distress. I’m sure he’s afraid I’m going to fuck this up. “Are you okay here?”

“I’m good.” I give him a thumb’s up that I hope is more reassuring than it probably is.

They’ve just finished doing a sound test on my mic when Quinn breezes into the room.

She’s gorgeous —the kind of stunningly beautiful that has everyone nearby turning to look.

Crimson hair cascades down her back and her pastel blue dress hugs all of her curves.

She smiles in my direction and waves before heading over.

“Hi.” She extends her hand. “I’m Quinn.”

“Whimsy. It’s nice to meet you.”

“Are you nervous?” she asks, holding still as she too is mic’d.

“A little bit. I did a podcast but that was with Elias. I haven’t done anything on my own.”

“You’re going to be fine. This is not anything crazy, and truth be told, they’ll edit it down to probably only a thirty-second clip. But if you feel uncomfortable just let me know and we can cut it short or take a break. Regardless this shouldn’t be more than ten minutes.”

“I’ll be okay.” I smooth my hands down my skirt—glad I chose a pastel pink tweed skirt and vest-style top.

Once Quinn is mic’d, we’re put into position on pieces of tape pre-marked on the floor with a breathtaking view of Centre Court behind us.

Quinn gives me a quick rundown of how things are going to go and then we’re given a countdown before filming begins.

“Hello, Tennis Network fans, I’m Quinn Riley here at Wimbledon with Whimsy Allen. You might’ve seen her appearing on your screens this season at games. She’s the girlfriend of one of people’s favorites, if not controversial, tennis players—Elias Johnson. Thank you for joining us today, Whimsy.”

“Thank you for having me.” I paste a smile on that I hope is open and welcoming and doesn’t betray my nerves.

“I have to admit, as a lover of fashion myself, I’ve been quite envious of many of your match day outfits. This one here”—she gestures at me— “is beautiful. What’s your style inspiration?”

“Honestly, I wouldn’t say there’s exact inspiration. I just pick what I’m drawn to, and I enjoy curating outfits. Since strawberries and cream are such a staple for this event, I found myself drawn to pink today.”

“Your romantic relationship with Elias is new—is there anything you can tell us about him that might surprise fans?”

I think for a moment. I don’t want to give away anything deeply personal, but something sweet might help how he’s received.

“He watches Jurassic Park with me, and doesn’t mind when I’ve already made him watch it the previous day. He also got me a cute dinosaur stuffed animal because he knew it was my favorite.”

Quinn’s eyes widen in awe. “That’s so sweet.” Turning to the camera she says, “It seems Elias’s sometimes on the court tantrums don’t carry over into his real life.”

“No, not at all,” I say even though she isn’t addressing me. “I wish more people knew the real him. He’s truly the kindest person and he loves his family. He’d do anything for the people he cares about, and he has this way of making everyone feel special.”

“That’s so lovely to hear.” She smiles kindly. “You’re the first public girlfriend he’s had—what do you think has made you different than other girls he’s been spotted with?”

Her question rubs me the wrong way, but I remind myself this is her job.

“For those that don’t know, I was Elias’s assistant first and I think that allowed us to get to know each other organically.

” I think back to our time in Miami—how I hadn’t realized the things he’d taken note of and remembered about me.

“We already knew each other inside and out. There were no surprises.”

“It’s truly been lovely to see the connection you two have. That kiss at the Roland Garros final was something.” She fans herself with her hand. “There’s no mistaking the chemistry between you two. Do you think we’ll see more of those steamy kisses if he makes it to the final here at Wimbledon?”

“You never know,” I say, trying to play coy.

“Maybe you can even bring your dinosaur stuffed animal to wave in the crowd.”

I laugh at the idea of me waving around the brachiosaurus. “I have a feeling security around here would confiscate it from me.”

“Well, we can’t have that now, can we?” She laughs and touches my wrist. “Thank you so much for chatting with us today, Whimsy, and we hope to see you again.”

The feed is cut and someone steps over to begin removing my mic so they can move on to the next interview.

“I’m sorry for the question about what makes you different than other girls. The powers that be demanded it.” She taps her ear and it’s then that I realize that she’s wearing something and someone somewhere is feeding her questions—I guess to keep things juicy.

“It’s okay. It’s not an unexpected question.”

I might not enjoy being reminded of all the women Elias has been with, but it’s a part of his past that can’t be erased.

I can’t help but wonder though—if we weren’t already outted because of the fake dating scheme would he have gone public with me? Hell, would we have even made it to this point?

I put a needle in those thoughts. Now is not the time to spiral. I need to get to the court for his first-round match.

I make it to my seat, joining Ebba who returned from Brighton yesterday.

“Hey.” I greet her with a smile. “How was your time with your friends?” I only saw her in passing yesterday so we haven’t had a chance to catch up.

“It was fun. Much needed after everything.”

I’ve been trying not to think about that night with Keaton—what happened, what could’ve happened, the fact that he got to go back home like he did nothing.

Maybe that’s selfish of me, to not want to think about it, but I don’t want to remember those feelings of helplessness.

Being scared like that is a feeling I never want to have to endure again.

Ebba and Elias’s parents join us, giving each of us a hug before they settle in their seats.

Elias is lucky to have such loving parents.

I’ve encountered numerous parents on tours over the years that are not kind to their adult children.

All they care about is the winning and the money.

I can’t imagine what it would be like growing up with parents like that.

When the match finally begins, I find myself on the edge of my seat.

It’s Elias versus Trager, which always promises an interesting match for those watching.

The way they battle it out on the court is intense to say the least. Even when Elias had a bitter rivalry with Noah, they didn’t play this aggressive.

The way they hit the ball with such speed makes it seem like they’re hoping to hurt the other.

It's achingly hot today on the outskirts of London where Wimbledon is located and the two guys are dripping with sweat as the match goes on. Set one goes to Elias. Set two Trager. And three to Trager. I know Elias well enough to know that he’s pissed when he sits down for his quick break and yanks his water bottle out. Trager’s getting to his head.

I wish I could talk to him—tell him to play his best and not let the aggressive maneuvers trigger him. He can easily beat Trager if he doesn’t allow himself to get overwhelmed. But there’s no way for me to do that so it’s going to be up to him to figure it out.

When the fourth set begins it’s a mess. Elias is all over the place and his anger is getting to him. Jackson isn’t in the stands today, but if he’s somewhere watching this mess, I’m sure he’s about to go into cardiac arrest.

“Elias,” I mutter under my breath. “What are you doing?”

I don’t think I’ve ever been so stressed watching one of his matches before. But this is Wimbledon, and he was only beginning to get back on track. A loss here would be devastating for him.

If I didn’t have the fear that cameras are on me, I would be watching through my fingers as it moves into a tiebreak.

“I think I’m going to be sick,” I mutter.

Ebba reaches for my hand. “He’ll pull through. He has to.”

Only, he doesn’t, and Elias is out of Wimbledon in the first round.

The crowd is in shock.

I’m in shock.

So are Ebba and her parents.

I know Elias has to be devastated as he shakes hands with Trager who says something that has Elias’s upper lip curling in a snarl.

This is a heartbreaking loss for him.

After shaking hands with the umpire, he quickly packs his bag before waving to the crowd and exiting.

God, I want to get to him as quickly as I can, but I know it’ll be a little while yet before I can talk with him.

We don’t bother staying to hear whatever Trager has to say. I don’t care if it might come across as rude. I just want to get to wherever Elias is and wrap my arms around him.

Waiting for him feels like hours even though I know it’s not nearly that long. I’m just so desperate to make sure he’s okay with my own two eyes.

When he finally texts to meet up with us, and I spot him rounding the corner I can’t control my natural reaction to run to him.

I throw myself into his arms and he catches me easily with a small grunt. His lips find mine and the kiss is soft and sweet. There’s a sadness to it too, and I know how heartbroken he must be by this outcome.

“Hey, baby,” he murmurs.

“I’m so sorry,” I tell him. “Are you okay?”

He sets me down and cups my cheek, thumb smoothing over the curve. “No.” I’m glad he at least answers honestly. “But I’ll get over it eventually.”

“I’m sorry,” I say again.

“It’s part of the sport. More losing than winning. I just hate I went out this quickly.”

My heart hurts deeply for him. Elias deserves to make it farther—to win. He won Wimbledon the first year I began working for him but not since.

“Don’t cry for me,” he says softly, wiping away my tears. “I’ll be okay.”

I wasn’t aware I’d begun to cry.

“Fuck Trager,” I mutter.

I’m shocked when he gives me his full-blown mega-watt smile—dimples included. “Yeah, fuck him,” he agrees and lowers his head to give me another quick kiss. “I better talk to my parents.” He nods in their direction.

“Oh, of course.” Somehow, I forgot that there were other people around us, including his family.

He laces his fingers with mine and we cross the short distance to where his parents and Ebba wait at the table I was originally seated at with them.

“My baby.” His mom is up and wrapping her arms around him. She’s tall, not quite as tall as him, though. “How are you feeling?”

“Sad. Angry. Annoyed. But it’s all part of the game. I need to move on and focus on what comes next.”

“And what does come next?” His dad asks, standing to hug him once his mom lets him go.

Elias drops his eyes to me. “I’m going to talk to my team some more, but I think I’m going to take some time off, train hard, and come back for the US Open. I’d rather put my focus on that than to burn out my energy on smaller events.”

His dad nods. “Makes sense to me.”

I hate this for him, but there’s nothing I can do to make it better.

He must sense my feelings because he gives my hand a squeeze and says to me, “It’s okay. I’m going to bounce back.”

He will. I believe him.