Page 3 of Game Point (Game, Set, and Match #2)

‘Some trainer, I think. A blonde?’

‘That’s her type alright.’ Inés might be sweet, one of the best friends you could ask for, especially considering there were girls on the tour who would gladly stab you for a boost in their ranking (myself included). But if you were blonde, and open to sleeping with the same sex, you were her type.

‘Guess I’m on my own here,’ I added, before realizing that with Inés suitably distracted, I could slip out with nobody noticing. I doubted anyone would actually miss me.

‘I mean, I could step in,’ Oliver offered. He casually took a sip from his bottle, the tan line on his finger catching my attention again. Dangerous proposition, my friend.

‘In for Ruari?’ I asked slowly, trying to work this man out. What did he want from tonight? I wasn’t interested in being a homewrecker.

‘No,’ he said quickly, and I pushed away the slight sting of embarrassment. ‘I’ll step in for Inés. I’ll wingwoman you.’

‘I think you mean wingman?’ I asked, narrowing my eyes at him. ‘Don’t you have better things to do?’

‘Normally, yes,’ he said, ‘but I lost today, so I’d like to at least help somebody else score.’

‘Commiserations.’ I stretched out my arm, my glass meeting his bottle. ‘To the second-place losers in the room.’

He looked at me a little funny as the neck of his bottle met my glass, clinking together. ‘Second place is still second place.’

I forced a smile and took a drink of the champagne to clear the roughness in my throat, but the bubbles still burned as I swallowed. It’s funny how Veuve Clicquot tastes like defeat .

‘It’s not first.’

He blinked, his eyes not moving from me, as if he was taking a moment to try and understand, to really see me. I did not like it. Not for a moment.

‘Come on then, wingperson,’ I said. ‘Where do you suggest we start? Who’s single?’

His shoulders pulled back as his attention shifted away from me, and instead he looked around the room. We surveyed the other party goers, and I could practically hear both of us mentally crossing people from the list.

‘Have you met Alexei?’ I followed his line of sight across the luxuriously appointed apartment where the controversial blond player was laughing obnoxiously.

I scrunched my nose, looking back at Oliver with horror. ‘You mean the asshole who claimed the women’s competition was easier?’

He reeled back, obviously remembering the unfortunate headline from a year ago. ‘That’s true. I’m not sure who invited him.’

‘I suspect he snuck in.’

Oliver laughed. ‘What about Léna Nagy? She’s nice.’

I sighed, almost resigning myself to the disaster of a night.

‘Unfortunately, like many, I have been cursed with heterosexuality. I have considered on many occasions making the switch, after all the male species are …’ I struggled to find the word, so many descriptors coming into my brain all at once.

‘Pretty awful?’ he suggested.

‘I was going to go with fucking terrible, but that works just as well.’

He held his hands up in innocence. ‘I didn’t want to make any assumptions.’

I hummed in agreement, readjusting my position on the sofa. His thick arm grazed mine, bare skin meeting as he moved, his head leaning slightly closer to my ear as a familiar face passed us, a friendly, flirty smile sent my way.

‘Ryan?’ Oliver asked, his eyes following Ryan to the back of the room. A night I had failed to forget from a year ago replayed in my mind, a very regretful mistake after the last US Open. I shook my head.

‘Been there. Done that.’ I turned to meet Oliver’s dark gaze. ‘Never again.’

‘Okay, well, this is impossible. I give up.’ He threw his hands up in defeat.

‘You give up? Already?’ I laughed. ‘Am I that much of a terrible prospect?’

‘Far too picky.’

‘I think you overestimate your wingman capabilities.’ I rolled my eyes at him, ‘You only gave me three options. All of which were unsuitable.’

‘One was perfectly fine before,’ he pointed out. ‘What’s wrong with a repeat performance?’

Blunt honesty bit at my tongue. ‘Yeah, we just were … not a good match.’

Oliver sent me a look of slight confusion, his eyebrow raised in question.

‘In bed,’ I added, trying to answer his silent question.

His gaze only turned more burning; the question was still apparently unanswered.

A small smile threatened at my lips, the truth a little scandalous.

I held his gaze as I told him the truth, watching his confident expression crumple.

‘The man failed to make me orgasm. He was a very selfish lover.’

Oliver’s cheeks burned a gorgeous shade of red as his gaze shot across the room. He swallowed down a mouthful of his drink, his throat bobbing before he spoke. ‘Okay then. Not a reasonable choice.’

‘Exactly.’

‘And women are definitely out?’

‘Trust me, mate. I wish.’

He sighed, seemingly tapping back into his endless well of positivity. ‘Okay, different game plan. Follow me.’

I weighed up my options, wondering if I should take a second look around for Inés, or even take the opportunity to leave. After all, I had been dragged to the party, and then unceremoniously abandoned.

But then I considered my empty hotel room.

A small replica runners-up trophy sitting in its box on my dresser.

I hadn’t even been able to open the lid.

When they’d given it to me after the match, I’d forced myself to smile, refusing to look bitter from the loss.

I knew what they said about me, how they whispered about ‘always the bridesmaid never the bride’ Dylan and my inability to close out a fucking final.

But what they didn’t see was the Friday evening before.

When I spent the entire night tossing and turning, unable to find any relief.

My mind played over and over the last run of finals I’d managed to make, picking apart all the lazy mistakes, all the stupid returns I should’ve run faster for, cursing myself for not training enough because obviously if I had, I would’ve won by now.

I’d arrived that morning at the arena with little over a couple hours of sleep, a jittery anxious mess. And I’d walked off empty-handed. Somehow, being alone with these thoughts felt marginally less appealing than spending another few hours here.

I followed Oliver as he led me across the apartment to the dining room, where a little white net separated the table into the two halves.

‘Table tennis? Really?’ I looked to Oliver, unsure if this was supposed to be a joke. ‘Isn’t this a little too on the nose?’

He laughed, that damn smile of his breaking out again. I had to stop with this champagne, it was making me delirious.

‘It is,’ he agreed. ‘But the excellent thing about table tennis is …’ He found the tiny net that was set up in the middle of the table and pulled at the knots that kept it in place, the net turning slack. ‘It doubles as an excellent surface for beer pong.’

I had to fight down my own smile that grew across my lips at the sound of the words ‘beer pong’ in his rich and heavy English accent. ‘And this is supposed to get me laid how?’

‘We are in a room full of competitive athletes, Dylan,’ he answered. ‘Competitive athletes, with one night off. And we’ve got a drinking game.’

Maybe the man did have some good ideas in him. ‘Guess we should get some beer then.’

Turning, Oliver caught the attention of one of the waiters, quickly ordering a few bottles of beer and cups.

‘Alright then, Bailey,’ he said when the table was all set out, the beer poured. He threw the small white ping-pong ball to me. ‘Time to show the world what you’re made of.’

Thirty minutes later, there was a deep crowd gathered around the table, cheering as I perfectly aimed a shot into my competitor’s cup. Felix, a German coach with freakishly big hands, grinned in defeat as he fished the ball out of his cup, throwing it in a glass of water to clean it.

‘Prost!’ He downed the last of the beer.

The crowd cheered again as he finished the glass in one gulp, the player clearly used to the game.

I tore my gaze away from Felix, catching a sly smile from Oliver, who had been dutifully refereeing the games, his plan clearly succeeding.

Our eyes connected, and for a second, the noise of the room fell away.

I picked up my last remaining cup and took a sure but steady sip. Eyes still on him. I forced my mind to take an important list into consideration.

Reasons Oliver Anderson is a Bad Idea?.

He’s married (as far as I’m aware) That goddamn smile.

And those two very good reasons were enough for me to tear myself from his eyes, his kind smile and pretty face, and look across the table to Felix.

‘Want to get another drink?’ Felix suggested. ‘Perhaps one that hasn’t had a ball floating in it?’

I nodded, asking him to lead the way, pushing any and all thoughts of Oliver from my mind.

I didn’t think about him again. Not as Felix got me a new drink.

Not as we sat on one of the sofas and asked questions about each other, awkward moments filling up the space in between.

Not as he flirted, and I forced a laugh at his questions, trying to skip to the end of the night when we’d get on with it and kiss and I’d feel the warm pull you get when someone is interested in you, and maybe for a night both of us could forget about whatever life shit we had going on.

Nothing real, a band-aid on a sinking ship.

Felix leaned in, his mouth meeting mine.

The first touch of his lips cold against mine.

The second touch just as strange. When we pulled apart, I looked up at him, trying to place what had felt so wrong about the kiss.

Over his shoulder, I caught a glimpse of a familiar frame at the other side of the room.

Oliver. When his gaze caught mine, a small smile curled onto his lips when he clearly saw I was successful, and his hand raised in a wave goodbye.

My stomach knotted as I was struck with the realization of how fundamentally bored I was.

Felix was nice enough, but the time I’d spent with Oliver was the highlight of my night.

He’d been the first bit of fun I’d had in a while, and now …

he was going home alone. I had genuinely enjoyed hanging out with him and I wanted more of that.

I softly waved back, returning his goodbye, somehow finding myself already missing his warm sunshine smile.

‘Who was that?’ Felix asked, turning around, but Oliver was already gone. I blinked, refocusing on the cute German in front of me.

‘Oh, just a friend,’ I said, shrugging his question away.

‘Anyway,’ he asked, ‘is your hotel far?’

His question was a given, seeing as I’d been laughing at his jokes and chatting him up, my hand on his arm since we sat down. But there was an ache in my bones. I pulled back, any flirty mood disappearing.

‘Actually, Felix, it’s been great meeting you. But I’m going to call it a night.’

He took a moment, sensing the change in tone and mood, before nodding in understanding. ‘See you around, Dylan.’

A slight relief washed over me at the ease of it all as I smiled back at him, thankful for the friendly exchange.

Instead, I headed for the front door and out into the New York evening.