Page 17 of Risky Match (Royal Spies #1)

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F or dinner, my housemates and I meet at the dining table adjacent to the kitchen. The table technically seats six, but it’s a tight squeeze because Blake’s manager, Noah, joins us. He just arrived and was eager to sample our Italian chef’s cooking.

Blake slides into the seat beside me. When he inches his chair closer, our thighs brush and a spark shoots up my spine. He leans closer, his arm brushing mine. “How was your day?”

Now, my arm is tingling too. I’ll never survive dinner this close to him. My knickers are already wet, and we just sat down. Why does he do this to me?

Rubbing my forearm where we touched, I meet his eyes. Our faces are closer than proper, but I don’t have any desire to move away.

“Today was good,” I manage, heat rushing to my cheeks.

He nods and falls silent. As we wait for food, Blake is twisting his cloth napkin and biting his lip. The tension rolling off him is virtually impossible to miss. How can no one else see it, not even Natalie?

My own tension rises with my worry for Blake.

I’m about to reach under the table and place my hand on his in the hope of calming him when Fausto arrives.

He approaches the table with two platters: one has melon wrapped in prosciutto and drizzled with balsamic vinegar while the other holds a glistening caprese salad.

I’m relieved to see that Fausto understood Blake’s request for a healthier menu, and fortunately, Blake relaxes enough to compliment the tomatoes. I “translate” for show, and the chef rewards us with a grin and a theatrical chef’s kiss.

Then Fausto announces that we have a choice of lasagna or eggplant parmigiano for our main course.

I grimace. It looks like only the appetizer was on the healthy side.

Blake bristles. “Fuck that. What’s wrong with him? Is he out of his mind? I can’t eat those fatty carbs the night before a match. I need complex carbs and lean protein. Tell him to make something else for me.”

Although Fausto’s English is perfect, I keep up the ruse.

We’re still hopeful Fausto will overhear something useful if they continue to think he doesn’t understand.

“ Blake ha bisogno di mangiare pasta con un sugo leggero e proteine magre la sera prima di una partita di tennis. Puoi cucinargliela? ”

“è ridicolo. è un buffone ...” He rants and gestures wildly with his hands as he continues to explain that he used lean meat in the lasagna and that any child knows aubergine is a vegetable.

I’m not sure if Fausto is actually angry or if he’s merely playing his role to perfection. I assume it’s the latter and play along. Eventually, he mutters something about ungrateful athletes but agrees to prepare the requested meal.

“Blake, he’s going to prepare grilled fish, a vegetable, and a side of pasta for you. The rest of us can enjoy the other food he cooked.”

“Fine,” Blake huffs under his breath.

Blake’s clearly tense about his match tomorrow.

He probably has certain superstitions as well.

Many players think they have to eat the same meal, wear the same clothes, or fall asleep at exactly the same time the night before critical matches.

That’s probably part of his problem tonight, but it doesn’t excuse his rudeness.

I wonder if something else is going on too, but that’s for another day. I hope to lift the mood with a change of subject. “I watched a match on Centre Court this afternoon. Did you see anyone play today?” I ask.

“No,” Blake says.

I stare at him hoping he’ll expand on his answer, but I’m met with silence.

Josh fills the void. “We had a great practice on court and then did weights. Blake’s ready to kick ass tomorrow.”

“Of course, he’s ready. Blake’s the best player here. Hell, he could probably win his doubles matches single-handedly,” Noah adds, pounding his client on the back.

Water spews from Blake’s mouth. I may not be one of the top five players in the world, but Blake won’t need to carry me in our doubles matches.

I have far more experience than he does in doubles.

Unfortunately, decorum requires me to swallow the zinger on the tip of my tongue rather than send it straight through Noah.

“Hey, don’t damage the talent,” Josh half jokes.

The overly gregarious manager waves off the admonishment. “Blake’s tough as nails. The opponent tomorrow doesn’t know what’s coming.”

“Don’t jinx me. And no, I couldn’t win doubles alone. Let’s talk about something else,” Blake huffs.

I smile at the subtle support from Blake.

Fausto serves our main course as Noah says, “Sure thing. Do you have the gifts for Chris and David? You’re scheduled to present them at the sponsor event in a few days.”

Blake ignores him.

While I consider how to change the tone of the conversation, I take a bite of the aubergine. The flavors explode in my mouth as the spicy marinara sauce hits my taste buds. The light crunch of the breading quickly gives way to the unctuous smoothness of the vegetable. “Mmm.”

Blake turns to me. “Did you say something?”

“Just enjoying the food. It’s not on my typical diet during a tournament, but you should at least taste it,” I say, offering him a forkful.

“No, thanks.”

“Okay. What’s the sauce on your salmon?”

“Lemon and probably white wine. It’s good.”

“Hopefully, Fausto will make it for all of us one evening. And don’t worry, I’ll have another conversation with him about the type of food we need. He’s new to my staff. My parents hired him. Whoever briefed him must have conveyed the wrong instructions.”

Noah grimaces, clearly annoyed that Blake ignored him to talk with me. “Can we skip the food talk and let Blake answer my questions? Do you have the gifts for Chris and David?”

“Remind me which stuff he wants? Was it shoes or racquets?” Blake asks.

Josh asks, “Wasn’t it both?”

“This is important. You should have two pairs of shoes and two racquets for him. He also wants to take photos with you and the trophy from your latest win. You can’t just ignore the business side of tennis. Your sponsors pay the bills,” Noah growls.

Blake clenches his jaw, and the air crackles with tension.

“Back off. I have the crap they want, and I’ll pose for the photos. Now, drop it.”

“Who’s the sponsor?” I ask Noah, hoping to take the focus off Blake. He needs a minute to cool off.

“It’s really two sponsors. David is CEO of ProLuxe, and Chris is CEO of WheelCovers” Noah says.

“WheelCovers makes high-end tennis shoes, but I don’t think I’ve heard of ProLuxe. What do they do?” I ask.

“It’s a travel company that books luxury excursions to the top athletic events around the world. They have a high-end clientele,” Noah says.

“That’s interesting. Do the owners of the companies collect tennis memorabilia?”

“Not really. They’ll use the photos with Blake, along with the shoes and racquets, as gifts for their best clients.”

Trying to draw Blake back into the conversation, I ask, “Blake, have you, Josh, Noah, and Natalie worked together for long?”

Before he can answer, Natalie says, “Oh no. I’m new to the team. I knew Josh before, but Noah and I just met tonight.”

“Well, I’m sure we’ll all be good friends before the next two weeks are over,” I say.

“Absolutely,” Noah agrees, returning to his overly happy self as if he hadn’t just growled at his client.

I’m not sure what to think of him. His quick mood swings would annoy me, but I guess he’s good at promoting Blake and managing his career. Blake certainly has a vast array of sponsors paying him top dollar.

Fausto interrupts my thoughts when he arrives at the table with tiramisu. Blake and I excuse ourselves, deciding to skip dessert. But the others stay behind to enjoy it.

As I’m walking upstairs, I text Fausto.

Me.: Let me know if you hear anything interesting.

Fausto: Will do.

We reach the top of the stairs, but I linger when he turns toward his room. Between my body’s reaction to him and my concern for his well-being, I’m not ready to part ways yet, I have a burning need to help him after watching his team ignore his stress.

Racking my brain for an excuse to chat, I come up with what’s likely a weak question. It’s all I’ve got, so I go with it.

“Blake, what’s your evening routine now that the tournament has started?”

“I follow a fairly standard ritual,” he says, continuing to stare at his phone as he walks toward his bedroom door.

Before he can escape, I follow up. “What’s standard for you? I’m always looking for ideas to improve my routine.”

He finally looks my way and walks back toward me. “I like to spend some time alone in the evening.”

“Maybe you should listen to some soothing music tonight. You seemed extra tense at dinner. I’m worried about you.”

He reaches out, places his palm on my cheek while searching my eyes. “How did you know? I tried to hide it.”

“You overreacted to the food situation. You almost tore your napkin in half. And your jaw clenched so tightly, I feared you would break your teeth.”

“You’re quite observant. I’m sorry about being so harsh about the food. I’ll apologize to Fausto in the morning. It’s not an excuse, but I’m not handling the stress of Wimbledon well.”

Taking a half step closer, I place my hand on his upper arm, offering my support. “I want to help. Is there something I can do?”

He leans his forehead against mine with a sigh, whispering, “Thank you, but you need to go to your room before I cross the line and kiss you.”

My breath grows ragged at the thought of his lips against mine. I manage to murmur, “I’d probably let you even though it’s a bad idea.”

“That’s why I’m going to tell you goodnight now. Sweet dreams.”

He kisses my forehead and quickly retreats to his room for the alone time he said he needs the night before a match.

As I enter my room, a guilty twinge passes over me as I remember all the listening devices and cameras planted in his room. He won’t be as alone as he thinks. God, I hope he never finds out.

As I’m toweling my hair dry after a hot shower, my phone dings.

Fausto: Didn’t Natalie say that she just met Noah?

Me: Yes.

Fausto: Then why did Noah ask Natalie if things are on schedule?

Me: I assume it relates to coaching.

Fausto: They’re talking about sponsor events at Wimbledon and which ones Blake needs to attend. Noah is fuming that Blake is pushing back on meeting the sponsors’ requests for the shoes and racquets. He called him an unappreciative twat.

Me: There’s clearly tension between them. What about Josh? Is he part of the conversation?

Fausto: Josh expressed his frustration that Blake isn’t going along with his plan either. It wasn’t clear what that meant though. I’ll keep listening.

Me: Interesting. Keep me updated.

Fausto: Will do.