Page 2 of Game Point (Game, Set, and Match #2)

Dylan

Homemade Dynamite – Lorde

‘He’s cute.’ I nudged Inés sharply with my elbow but kept my eyes trained on the tall, broad man. The splash of freckles across his nose was clear from the other side of the room.

I’ve never slept with a redhead before. I bet he’d burst into flames every time he steps into sunlight.

Inés’ attention pulled away from her phone, where she’d been texting God-knows-who, and followed my line of sight, across the busy kitchen filled with the familiar faces of competitors and supporters alike.

We were tucked into a corner of a swanky Manhattan apartment belonging to another tennis player, Scottie Sinclair, the competition having come to a close just hours before.

‘Ruari?’ she barked, the loudness of her voice lost to the crowd. ‘No. Not armed with a thousand condoms.’

I washed down my own laugh with some of the expensive champagne. ‘I’m not sure I trust your opinion on this one.’

‘I’m gay. Not blind.’ She rolled her eyes, taking a long sip from her own glass. ‘He has slept with every girl on the tour, and if you get stuck with a baby, it will be the spawn of Satan.’

‘Every girl, except for me.’

Her expression was unamused, a perfectly waxed eyebrow raised in surprise. ‘That is not the challenge you think it is.’

‘You said you were going to be supportive tonight.’ Inés opened her mouth to respond but I cut her off with a wagging finger. ‘Wingwoman of the century was your promise.’

And the only reason you convinced me to come. That, and Scottie’s expensive taste in champagne.

Thankfully, she’d at least allowed me to spend last night after the women’s final alone.

My regular ritual of crying in a corner, ordering wings from the hotel room service, and then crying again in the bathtub to get rid of all the sauce.

My classic ‘you lost again’ tradition. Bathe away the sadness with smoky chipotle BBQ sauce.

She was silent, so I pushed again. ‘Besides, I never thought you’d be so judgemental.’

Of course, I knew who Ruari Reilly was. He was ranked number 3 in the men’s competition, and number 1 hottie on tour.

And there was the added fact he’d just gone and won the US Open.

There were countless stories of his exploits, none of which I’d ever been interested in until Inés called me up, begging me to come with her to the party.

‘I know you know him,’ I crooned, pushing her slightly. ‘You had to do promo together after Roland Garros last year. And you did the joint campaign together for ELITE. You should introduce me.’

Inés looked reluctantly across the room. ‘I’d like to register my complaint at this terrible idea.’

‘Give me one good reason not to introduce me.’ Her mouth opened to answer me, and I cut her off before she had a chance to start. ‘Other than the man-whoreness. That’s not a problem here.’

‘He’s really full of himself.’

‘If all goes to plan, I’ll be the one full of him.’

She grimaced. ‘God, I hate the straights.’

‘So do I, babe.’ I laughed at my closest friend. ‘But we do make populating the earth a much more straightforward task.’

‘This might be the weirdest conversation I’ve ever had with you.’ She downed the rest of her champagne. ‘Fine. Let’s go. I’ll introduce you.’

A small wave of relief washed through me.

I’d begun to worry she’d only forced me along so she could make me talk about yesterday.

She stormed ahead, intercepting a waiter on the way over and swapping her empty glass for a new one.

Well, at least she meant business. She took a long sip as she reached him, the person Ruari was speaking to dismissing themselves, leaving him alone.

I was barely by her side in time for the introduction.

‘Reilly. Good match today. Meet Dylan Bailey,’ she said, with the driest greeting I’d ever heard.

My head swivelled towards her, registering there might be something more to her dislike of him.

Inés was nice to everyone. Outside of competition, she was everyone’s best friend, a total people pleaser at heart.

But if her demeanour caught Ruari off guard, it didn’t show. A sly smile curved onto his lips as he repeated my name back. ‘Dylan Bailey. Nice to meet you.’

‘Congrats on your new trophy.’

He shrugged. ‘It’s a replica, but it will still look great in the case.’

The comment struck me like a slap as I fought the urge to scream. The image of my empty shelf at home. I’d made space for trophies, back when I was naive and full of fucking hope. Manifestation, I’d called it. Stupidity is what I now realize it was.

‘I’m sure it will.’ I was unable to keep a bitter edge from my voice.

‘I’m going … somewhere else,’ Inés said, dismissing herself. Guess her wingwoman duties are done. I took a sip from my glass, refocusing on the redhead. He was all sharp lines, strong jaw and high cheekbones. He could be a model if it wasn’t for tennis.

He leaned back, perching himself on the arm of the chair behind him. ‘So how long have you been friends with Scottie?’

‘Three weeks, give or take.’

The space between his eyebrows creased. ‘Do you not know each other very well?’

‘Oh, we’ve played against each other for years.

But we weren’t friends.’ I almost had to stifle a laugh at my own words.

We weren’t anything near friends. For the last two years, I’d cursed the name Scottie Sinclair.

She’d beaten me at Wimbledon a couple of years ago, another women’s singles final.

I’d taken it … badly. But then she’d come forward, admitting to using performance-enhancing drugs and somehow, that had made it all worse.

His head tilted forward in question, a single ginger curl falling across his forehead. ‘Until recently?’

I took a second, trying to figure out if he hadn’t heard or actively didn’t follow the news. ‘Well, we took down her dad together.’

The father being the one who’d drugged her, without her knowledge. I’d even gone as far as to work with him for a few weeks and … I’d walked away with a much better understanding of the woman I’d once called my rival.

‘Matteo Rossi,’ he interrupted, his amber eyes catching the light.

‘The very bastard,’ I mumbled.

‘Can’t believe the stories that came out about him, eh?’ His Scottish accent rang louder, and I narrowed my sharp eyes at him. To my further surprise, I found his attention distracted, his gaze across the room, his bottle of beer raised to his lips as he absentmindedly took a long sip.

‘Believe it? I said it!’ My words had no effect on him. I glanced around, trying to find what or who was more important.

I turned back to him, swallowing down my pride, ready to try again when he mumbled, ‘I’ll be right back.’

He pressed his empty bottle into my hands. As if he was mesmerized, he disappeared into the crowd.

I blinked once. Twice. He fucking left? The urge to scream again slammed into me. Why were men like this?

My phone buzzed in my pocket, pulling my attention from the disappearing act Ruari had pulled, a text from my oldest friend appearing.

AVERY

Sorry you lost again. Call when you can.

The reminder of what had happened felt like another knife twisting in my gut. That’s it. I’m going home.

‘Don’t blame yourself.’ I turned to my right and found Oliver Anderson, another past US Open champion, standing beside me, his dark-brown eyes trained on me. ‘Ru has a habit of straight up ghosting people.’

I held his gaze and pushed my phone back into my pocket, text unanswered. My tone was only a tiny bit bitter when I asked, ‘Even when he had a good chance at getting laid?’

A sharp laugh escaped him, and he took Ruari’s place on the armrest in front of me. ‘Weirdly enough, yes.’ He took a sip of his beer, my eyes temporarily fixated by the bob of his Adam’s apple, the curve of his thick neck.

‘The rumours around him have been greatly exaggerated.’

‘What do you mean?’

He shrugged as another waiter passed us, and we both swapped our empty glasses for fresh. Me, another champagne, Oliver a beer. So much for taking it easy tonight. He took a moment to consider his words. ‘Just don’t take it personally.’

Intrigued, and without any other choice, I sat down next to him, already sick of standing up all night.

‘It’s a little late for that, don’t you think?’

Oliver just smiled brightly at me, switching his bottle to his left hand.

‘I’m Oliver,’ he needlessly introduced himself.

I’d met him briefly months before, but still, it was strange, being in the same room as so many fellow players, so many people you already knew the name of, even followed their careers, but had never really spoken to or even had more than a basic introduction. The curse of professional sports.

My hand slid into his, his palm cold from the icy glass of his bottle. His well-earned callouses meeting my own. There was something in his touch, an intention to the firmness of his hold.

‘Dylan.’ I held his gaze, the dark colour of his eyes hard to place in the low light of the apartment. For a moment, I forgot to let go of his hand.

He smiled as if he knew. ‘Nice to meet you.’

I took a sip, trying to wash the moment away, the one fact I knew about Oliver trying to coordinate itself with the bareness of his fingers.

He was supposed to be married. The tan line on his left fourth finger, beneath his knuckle seemed to confirm it. For safety , I told myself, he took it off in the shower, left it in the bathroom.

‘Have you seen Inés?’ I asked, turning my attention back to the room, the density of the crowd somehow increasing with every moment that passed. ‘I’m in need of my wingwoman.’

‘Inés Costa?’ he asked. I only nodded in reply. His teeth pulled at his bottom lip, and I swear this man blushed as he stumbled for the right words, a pink tinge heating his cheeks. It was annoyingly cute. ‘I think she might be … somewhat indisposed.’

I rolled my eyes, somewhat acknowledging I couldn’t be mad at her. At least one of us was getting laid. ‘Who’s the lucky girl?’