Page 35 of Risky Match (Royal Spies #1)

BLAKE

I wake from a nightmare, drenched in sweat. My memory is hazy. In my dream, I think I collapsed on the tennis court, woke up in the hospital, and forfeited my Wimbledon match. What a colossal disaster. Thank goodness it was just a bad dream.

Wiping my forehead with my hand, something sharp grazes my face. I pull my hand away and freeze. I’m staring at a hospital wristband.

No. no, no. It wasn’t a dream.

I was released from the hospital last night. And just like that, the memories of the last two days come flooding in.

Shite. I’m hit with the sickening realization that I was a complete arse to Bri, at the hospital and again when I got home last night. I was grumpy and snapping at everyone, wanting them to share my misery.

If I’m honest with myself, I’ve been frustrated and difficult since I pulled out of the quarterfinals at Wimbledon last year due to a torn hamstring. The people around me have tolerated my behavior, probably because I pay them salaries well above what they would make elsewhere.

But I don’t pay Bri. And she’s the one I treated the worst. I was another level of arsehole to her. It’s a miracle she hasn’t already left. She must really want to play. Otherwise, she’d have told me to shove my attitude and walked out.

She didn’t deserve my wrath.

I toss the blankets aside and stumble to the bathroom to splash cold water on my face.

As I reach for my toothbrush, I stare at my reflection, assessing the damage.

Surprisingly, I look better than expected.

If I didn’t know what had happened, I’d think this is just the beginning of another day to gear up for my next match.

A knock on the door interrupts my thoughts.

“Come in.”

“Good morning, Blake. How are you doing?” Natalie asks.

What kind of question is that? I almost died. How the hell does she think I am?

But attempting civility, I respond, “I’m alive. I guess that’s not too bad given the circumstances.”

“Excellent. I wanted to discuss your plans for the rest of the tournament.”

“There is no rest of the tournament. I forfeited the match by collapsing.”

She has lost her mind. Didn’t she see what happened? If not, they’re replaying it on every news channel. She can watch me collapse on court and be carted off on a gurney.

“I mean the mixed doubles with Brianna.”

“After the way I treated her yesterday, I doubt she’s speaking to me, much less wanting to play as a team.”

“She understands you went through a frightening experience. While I’d suggest apologizing for your rude, cold behavior toward her, I know she wants to continue playing doubles with you.

And you need to play a match at Wimbledon again as soon as possible to work past any lingering fears.

The worst thing you could do is wait until next year to play on these courts again. ”

After the way I treated Bri, it’s hard to believe she could forgive me, even if I offered to play tennis with her.

“Really? You think she wants to play. Even if she does, I’m not sure I should? I was in hospital yesterday. How can we expect to win after that? Won’t losing be more fodder for the press? The headlines will say I even choke in doubles at this tournament.”

I don’t mention my concern about having a panic attack on court.

“Are you kidding? The press is singing your praises based on the rumors you plan to continue playing after being poisoned. When you show up and play with Brianna, they’ll crown you as the new Superman.

You have nothing to lose, which also means that you’re unlikely to suffer a panic attack during the match.

Am I correct that’s what you’re really worried about? ”

“You know me too well, but I guess that’s your job. I hadn’t thought of it like that. And I don’t really want to let Bri down. I’ve been feeling guilty about planning to walk away. Her dream would die with mine.”

“That’s yet another reason you need to play tomorrow.”

“You’re right. Where’s Bri? We need to talk.”

“You do. I think she’s in the study.”

I nod. I’m not sure I can fix things with Bri, but it’s worth a shot. After all, she told me to think it over last night as she left my room. Let’s hope that means she’ll give me another chance even if it’s just for the sake of playing our match.

Thirty minutes later, I’m showered, shaved, and dressed. I feel almost normal—at least physically. Mentally, I’m struggling. There’s nothing like facing my own mortality, failing to win Wimbledon yet again, and realizing what a jerk I’ve been to the people who care about me.

I need to find Bri. It’s time to repair the damage I’ve done to her, if that’s possible.

I slowly make my way downstairs, rehearsing my apology.

Peering into the study, I see Bri sitting on the sofa, staring at her tablet. I hesitate to interrupt her, particularly when I haven’t come up with any magic words to make things right.

But waiting won’t make it easier, so I force myself forward. “Bri, can we talk?” I ask tentatively.

She looks up. “Sure. Have a seat.”

“Thanks.”

As I sit in the chair across from her, I search her face for any sign of hope. All I see are her sad eyes and her lips pressed into a tight line. Clearly, she’s not eager for this conversation. I can’t blame her.

“Did you think about what we discussed last night?” she asks.

“Yes, and much more. First, I’d like to apologize.

I’m so sorry for how I treated you yesterday and the horrendous things I said.

There’s no excuse. You’ve been such a wonderful person.

I’ve even wondered if there could be more between us.

And now, I’m not sure what to say other than to express my sincere desire to make this up to you. ”

“Does that mean you’ll play our next match?”

“It does. And I’d like your help with apologizing to Fausto. I had these wild ideas that he picked leaves from the garden to prepare his sauces. But any trained chef would know not to cook with oleander. I just wasn’t thinking clearly. I know he isn’t the person who poisoned me.”

“I’d be happy to translate. He deserves at least that,” she says with a neutral expression.

I suspect that her true emotions are hiding behind this practiced princess pose. The dig is there though, and I can’t argue with her. I’ll also let the rest of our housemates know that I don’t blame Fausto. His reputation shouldn’t suffer because of my outburst.

As for patching things up with Bri, all I can do is share my truth.

“Understood. And as for us...” I pause.

“Last night, you called me out for being a selfish prick. I can’t say you were wrong.

I’ve been difficult at best, and yesterday the way I treated you was unforgivable.

I don’t want to make excuses, but there are things I should have shared with you sooner.

If you’re willing to listen, I’d like to remedy that now. ”

Bri’s shoulders relax slightly, but she also frowns. “This sounds serious. What didn’t you tell me?”

“I’ve been going through a very stressful time. It started after Wimbledon two years ago. You know what happened there.”

Bri nods. “Yes, go on.”

“Soon after that, my manager, Noah, made some unexplainable business decisions that resulted in me losing quite a bit of money. I told you about the ugly sweatshirts, but that wasn’t his only misstep.

He also signed me up with a couple of new sponsors without discussing it with me.

I threatened to fire him, but he assured me it wouldn’t happen again and argued the new sponsorships were great deals for me.

He begged for a second chance, which I granted out of respect for our long-time working relationship.

I’ve been trying to monitor my business dealings closely since then, but I’m always on edge. ”

“I can see how that would be stressful. How are your finances now, if you don’t mind me asking? All you said before was that you aren’t broke.”

“Stable. And my portfolio is growing. But I’ll never have the same level of trust in Noah. That’s the reason I plan to make a change.”

“I don’t blame you.”

“Thanks for understanding. There’s more though.

Several months ago, mysterious emails began showing up in my inbox.

They revealed various ...umm ...let’s call them indiscretions by my prior coach.

At first, I didn’t believe the accusations.

I assumed someone was either trying to disrupt my training or wanted to steal my coach. ”

“That’s horrible,” she says, her eyes wide with worried surprise.

I was mortified at the time because he put my career at risk. Remembering the situation still makes me shudder.

“It was, and it got worse. Each subsequent email came with more direct proof.”

“What exactly were his indiscretions?”

“I guess there’s no harm telling you. He was running a side business selling marijuana.

Not only did he put himself at risk of arrest, but the authorities could also have thought I was involved.

Even worse, I found out that he’d been using it himself.

Not that I care what he personally does, but he put me at risk of testing positive if I’d accidentally consumed one of his food products or inhaled vapors.

Others have been suspended from tennis for years after failing drug tests. ”

“Why in the world would a pro tennis coach do something that carried so much risk?” she asks, placing her hand over mine.

“I gather he started using it to manage pain from an old shoulder injury, and then he grew it into a business. Selling to others like himself made it profitable.”

Her eyes narrow. “But how did he transport it across borders and through all the airport security inspections?”

“He always insisted on bringing along his favorite blend of coffee. It was the only kind he would drink. Apparently, he hid the marijuana in the coffee.”

“Clever. I guess the coffee tricked the drug-sniffing dogs. You’re lucky that someone alerted you about the problem. What did you do about it?”