Page 14 of Risky Match (Royal Spies #1)

BLAKE

J osh and I warm up on the practice court while we wait for Bri. I’m not thrilled about spending time on doubles practice, but I don’t really have a choice. If we’re not in sync, we’ll fail miserably and embarrass ourselves.

The joint session is cutting into my regular workout time. I want to keep it short, then work on my singles strategy.

I’m just starting to sweat when Bri appears, making me miss what should have been a perfectly placed drop shot. Instead of falling just over the net, it clips the top and drops back onto my side.

Bloody hell. She’s a distraction I don’t need.

I can’t stop staring at her. Her short white tennis skirt and sleeveless, body-hugging top hug every delicious curve.

“Good morning. It looks like we won’t have rain today,” she says, stretching her arms above her head. Her shirt lifts enough to flash a strip of smooth skin.

I nod, avoiding eye contact. No need to give away what’s in my head.

Fortunately, Josh jumps in. “We can be thankful for the nice weather. Martina and I have a practice plan for today, but take a few minutes to warm up with Blake first.”

That’s when I notice Bri’s coach, Martina, standing courtside.

“Perfect,” Bri says with a grin, jogging to take Josh’s place across the net.

I’m tempted to slam the ball across the net to release tension, but Bri shouldn’t be the target of my frustration. This isn’t her fault. The blame falls on my sponsor—and the Wimbledon committee that denied her the singles wild card she deserved.

We work through a standard warm-up: baseline shots, volleys, overheads, and serves. Her serve is powerful. Two years ago, she said that she was focusing on it. Clearly, it paid off.

We’ll see if the rest of her game holds up. I’ve heard she’s become more competitive, but I haven’t seen her play lately.

Ten minutes in, Josh stops us. “That’s good. Let’s play a couple of doubles games. Martina and I will be your opponents.”

“Fine. I’ll serve first,” I say.

Bri asks, “Shouldn’t we coordinate hand signals? Or do you prefer to talk between points, so I’ll know where you’re placing your serve?”

“For now, let’s just play and see what happens.”

She shrugs but her narrowed eyes reveal her frustration. Serious doubles teams always coordinate on every point. But right now? I can’t be bothered.

Especially with her bent over in front of me, ready at the net, her tight bum directly in my line of sight. Whispering strategies would push me over the edge. I’ll be needing a cold shower after this.

My plan: serve aces and avoid the need for strategy.

It doesn’t work. Our first two games are a disaster. Martina and Josh return most of my serves. Bri and I have run into each other, left parts of the court wide open, and let balls pass us assuming the other would hit them.

After the second game, Martina and Josh motion for us to meet them at the net.

Shaking her head, Martina says, “I doubt it was your intention, but you two are putting on a hilarious comedy skit. You’re more likely to hit each other than the ball.

Unless you get your heads in the right place and start working together, you’ll have everyone laughing at you.

Start talking between points. Share strategy.

Act like you’re partners with a common goal. Otherwise, it’ll be a disaster.”

Josh adds, “She’s right. Blake, you can’t play like you’re the only one out there. Move together. Sync up. Let’s try this again.”

Walking away from the net, I lean toward Bri. “We were in sync a couple of years ago. Timing was perfect, if I remember right.” I grin and raise my eyebrows.

Her cheeks flush, and she swats my arse as I pass.

I do like her spunk.

At the back of the court, I realize she followed.

She says, “Let’s keep our focus on the game. Our coaches are right. We have to talk between points.”

“Fine. I rarely play doubles, so I’m rusty. I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I need your help with doubles strategy.”

“I understand. Doubles is different. It’s all about constant communication and teamwork. I need to know where you’re serving, and you need to know where I’m moving. Chemistry’s key.”

“We’ve got chemistry. We just need to apply it to tennis,” I say with a smirk.

She playfully punches my shoulder. “That was a one-time thing. But we can use our history to work together better. We aren’t strangers, so that’s a benefit.”

“This will take work, and time is tight. Do you have ideas for a plan?”

“Today, let’s focus on the basics. First, if I move toward the sideline during a return, you shift toward center. Second, most doubles players stand farther from the centerline to serve. That’s your decision though. And finally?—"

I interrupt. “I know the last part. Don’t play hero. We’re a team.”

“You got it. Let’s make this work.”

“Aye, aye, captain,” I say, saluting. I can’t resist swatting her cute bum with my racquet as she jogs past me on her way to the net. Turnabout is fair play. I smile.

Erin storms toward us, eyes flashing, but Bri waves her off.

Apparently, my racquet on Bri’s arse summoned her bodyguard. I shake my head, amused that no one flinched when Bri did it to me.

We start talking more, before and during points. The awkwardness slowly fades. We’re still not perfect, but there’s progress. We’re starting to gel, so there’s hope. We’ll work together even better when I get over my infatuation with watching her move around the court.

By the end of practice, we’re teasing, bumping shoulders, and fist pumping when we win a point.

Finally finished, we plop down on the benches at the side of the court.

I grab a towel, wipe my face, and down a bottle of water while chatting with my coach.

A couple of minutes later, I turn to Bri. “Are you ready to go?”

“Almost. First, I have a question about your racquets,” she says, grabbing one from my open bag.

“How do you like this one? It’s a new brand for you, isn’t it?” she asks, spinning the racquet in her hand, testing the weight and feel.

I reach across to take it back. “Hey, put that down.” Annoyance sharpens my tone.

She switches the racquet to her other hand, holding it farther away, flashing one of her wide, infectious smiles.

“What’s wrong with you? I’m not going to steal your precious racquet. I’m just looking at it,” she teases.

I shrug, chuckling at myself as I run my fingers through my hair to hide the heat rising in my cheeks.

“I don’t like people touching them,” I mumble.

“That’s weird. You do know how many people handle your racquets when you send them for restringing, right?”

“That’s a brand new one. I haven’t even tried it yet. Never mind. Forget it. It was an involuntary reaction. I usually don’t let other players handle my racquets.”

“I promise not to steal any secrets.” She winks.

“I doubt those racquets will be winners anyway, so I’m not worried about anyone copying them.”

“What do you mean? Why use them if you don’t like them?”

“That’s not what I meant. I’m happy with the power and control overall. But that specific one just won’t work for me.”

“Huh. That’s strange. It’s heavier than I expected. Let me hold the one you played with today.”

“Here.” I hand it to her.

“Wow. There’s a huge difference.”

“My coach wants me to experiment with different weight distributions. He adds tape on the head and grip. Your coach must do the same, right?”

“She does, but your coach is making larger weight changes in your racquets.”

“I still haven’t tried the heaviest one. I already know I won’t like it, but Josh wants me to test it anyway.”

“A couple of these don’t have dampeners to minimize vibration. Would you like some of mine? My parents ordered a whole case with our royal seal. I’ll never use them all.”

“Sure. Why not? Put them on the two heaviest racquets. Then I won’t grab them by mistake.”

Marco walks up, calling out, “Good to see you, Blake. Why are you complaining? I love my heavy racquets, especially at tournaments like this. Wouldn’t want to lose those!”

“If you say so.” I wince as he slaps me on the back.

His grin reminds me of a clown’s—too big, too fake. That’s why we’ll never be friends. I’d bet anything he’s only buddying up to me to get close to Bri.

Not a heartbeat later, he proves me right.

“Your Highness, I don’t think we’ve officially met. I’m Marco. Welcome to Wimbledon. It’s your first time playing here, right?”

Bri’s eyes dim as she bites her lip, visibly keeping her emotions in check.

My chest tightens at the flicker of pain in her expression.

It hurts her to be reminded how long she’s waited for this invitation—and it’s not even in singles.

His insensitive comment mirrors the ones reporters throw at me about never winning Wimbledon. What an arse.

After a brief pause, she says, “I’m happy to be here. It’s also a pleasure to meet you. I had the opportunity to watch you play in Paris.”

He coughs, caught off guard.

I suppress the laugh that’s threatening to escape. He tanked in Paris and lost in the first round. And somehow, she poked him while making it sound like a compliment. Touché.

She’s no pushover. Her calm poise is a major turn-on.

Eventually, he says, “Unfortunately, I was dealing with a painful hamstring injury. But my sponsors insisted I play. You know how that is.”

“You hid it well. You must have a high tolerance for pain. I would have never guessed. Please excuse me, though. I have to go. Good luck with the tournament.” She grabs her bag and walks off with a quick wave.

I grin appreciatively. We all know Marco pulls the injury card whenever he plays poorly. It’s his go-to excuse.

Only a princess could humble him and leave unscathed. Watching her take Marco’s ego down a few notches makes her even more attractive.

It’s too bad I can’t waste time on doubles. Bri and I would make a dynamite team.