Losing at Love Page 3

  “I know,” Indy said, trailing off. She opened her mouth to say something else, but then shook her head. “Let’s just get this done, okay? If we can get it out of the way early, I can still get that stupid Calc done before my session with Dom.”

  “Right, that’s what you want to get done,” Jasmine said, tongue between her teeth.

  “What do you want to get done?” Dom’s voice carried from the back of the room.

  “Nothing,” they said together, glancing at each other before dissolving into giggles.

  Dom strode in, shaking his head. “And to think, just a few weeks ago, you two nearly beat the living shit out of each other on the practice court. The good old days. Can you get yourselves under control long enough to analyze this footage or should I book another session tonight?”

  Jasmine pressed her lips together and nodded. “Let’s do this.”

  “Absolutely,” Indy agreed, but as soon as Dom’s back was to them to turn on the monitor, she dug her elbow into Jasmine’s side, who promptly elbowed her back but then pulled paper and pens out of her bag so they could take notes.

  “Okay ladies, let’s take a look,” their coach said, settling in beside them and starting the video. Their practice session today was relatively normal, facing two talented junior boys who could serve the ball hard and cover a lot of ground, but they hadn’t proved too much of a challenge. Dom sped through most of the video, making small corrections on their decision-making: try a forehand rather than a slice backhand, don’t hesitate on an overhead volley, mix in a few slice serves out and away. Plus a few physical mistakes, like Indy’s tendency to overplay a volley at the net with too much wrist action or Jasmine getting too much out on her front foot on her backhand and her shoulder flying out before the ball had fully made contact with the racket, a problem she’d been working on for years, but had never quite figured out. She doodled BACKHANDS in big bold letters across her paper, coloring each letter in as Dom explained an issue with Indy’s footwork at the net.

  “All in all, not bad,” Dom said, as the screen went black, “but it’s not nearly enough intensity. Tomorrow, we’ll start with Canadian doubles. You two against three of the guys. We’ll start off with that as a challenge, but if it’s still too easy, you’ll be limited to the singles court. If you want to make it through qualifying at Wimbledon together and then fight through the main doubles draw, you’re going to need it.”

  “Qualifying?” Jasmine’s stomach sank.

  Dom nodded. “Sorry ladies. Wildcards were announced about an hour ago. Looks like you’re going to have to do it the old fashioned way and earn a spot. Indy, I’ll see you later for your singles session, regular time. Jasmine, you want to start yours a bit early? This is Penny’s usual training slot and 3,000 miles is a long way to fly for a practice session, especially in a walking boot.”

  Indy left them, grumbling about Calculus under her breath and they followed close behind.

  ~

  "So I guess my parents told you about the meeting today," Jasmine said, as they matched strides toward her practice court.

  "They mentioned they were bringing in a guy from a recruiting service. It's a decent option, Jas."

  "It's not what I want. You told me a while back that not everyone can be a great player, not everyone was meant to be in the top ten, win grand slams. Do you still believe that's me?"

  Dom stopped walking, considering the idea. "You tell anyone I said this, I'll deny it to my grave." She nodded. "I think that it doesn't matter what I think. Do your physical skills match up against the best in the world? No. They don't. You know that, Jasmine, but physical skills aren't always what wins matches. You've got to decide if you're willing to go through that, go into matches knowing that your opponents are better than you, knowing that if they play their best or even not quite their best, they'll still beat you. You've got to decide if you love it enough to play even though you're probably going to lose. Some players can handle that. Some can't. You have to be mentally stronger than nearly everyone else. You think Penny could handle that? Or Indy? Or Alex? Or your father? They couldn't, so you just have to be stronger than them. If you think you can handle that, if you think you can go out there and just play for the love of it, then tell the NCAA guy to take a fucking hike.”

  It sounded tough, so much tougher than training her body to the limit and putting her heart and soul into the game, because if she did that she’d have to surrender all the control to her opponent and the game itself. Could she handle that? Did she even want to? "And if I can't?” she asked, wondering if that was possible.

  "Then college is a great option. Four years, maybe three depending upon how you progress physically. You'll be away from home, away from the kind of pressure that comes with being John and Lisa Randazzo's kid. College tennis is all about the team concept. It's fun and you'll get a great education, then maybe you’ll have grown a little stronger physically, make the leap to the pros a little easier. Why don’t you talk to Teddy about it? He made that choice a long time ago and you two have always been close."

  Jasmine toed some of the dirt that had escaped the planters lining the practice courts, the orange and white flowers brightening up the concrete paved walkways. "We did, not that long ago. He said I should go to Duke with him.” He said a lot of other things too, but Jasmine shook her head. Teddy Harrison wasn’t important right now, at least not as anything more than her best friend. She’d let her feelings for him cloud her judgment more than once. She wasn’t going to make that same mistake again. “At lunch today, the recruiter was talking about Stanford and maybe Harvard or one of the other Ivies."

  "Are you really considering it?" Dom asked, arching an eyebrow. “Hard to turn down schools like those.”

  "I mean, I told him no, but I guess I have to think about it, don't I?"

  Dom hesitated and wiped a hand over his face before he said, “You should consider it, Jasmine. I know you think it isn’t what you want, but how do you know that unless you find out more? Explore it a little, give it a chance. It doesn’t mean it’s the right choice for you, just that it’s a choice and it would be foolish to dismiss it out of hand.”

  She nodded, not sure what else to say. A warm hand landed on her shoulder and squeezed gently. Dom was rarely physically affectionate, so she gave him a small smile in return. “Thanks, Dom. I promise I’ll think about it.”

  “Come on, let’s get on the court. Whatever you decide, you still need to train.”

  “What are we working on today?” she asked.

  “Full workout and then backhands, Jas. Backhands for the rest of your life. Whatever you decide, no coach in their right mind is going to let you get away with that crap you call a backhand.”

  She groaned, but a smile crept through. There was the Dom she’d known her whole life, barking orders and not letting good enough ever be good enough. “I’m going to start having nightmares about backhands soon.”

  “Good, maybe then you’ll keep your shoulder in.”

  “Yeah, maybe.”

  Chapter 3

  June 15th

  Alex Russell’s Townhouse

  Egerton Crescent, Chelsea

  London, England

  Penny Harrison gripped the side of the mattress, tentatively pressing her foot against the soft area rug beneath the bed. A sharp pain immediately flew up her leg and made her entire body tense. “Damn it,” she muttered to herself but felt the bed shift behind her. A warm hand slid up her bare back, tangling into the bottom of her hair.

  “Alright, love?” Alex asked, voice still rough with sleep. The morning light was just barely creeping through the shades over the windows and the sound of people leaving their homes, car doors closing, engines rumbling down the street signaled the start of the day as well. The taupe walls made the room warm and cozy, despite the floor-to-ceiling windows, white molding outlining each one, and high ceilings, the same glossy white crown molding surrounding the room. The dark, nearly black, wood of his bed and fur
niture gave the room a distinctly masculine air. This was unmistakably his space, her luggage and some of her clothes strewn on the floor, the only feminine touches allowed.

  She looked over her shoulder, blowing a lock of dark brown hair out of her eyes. He was leaning up on one elbow, dirty blond hair sticking up in all directions, the navy blue sheets pooling around his waist.

  “Still hurts when I put pressure on it,” she mumbled, leaning back into the bed and pulling the sheet around her as well.

  “Doc said it would,” Alex reminded her, his arm snaking around her waist, drawing her closer to him. “A couple more weeks at least, until you’re at full strength.”

  “I know, I was just hoping…” she trailed off, then sighed. “I wanted to play in Birmingham and that’s not going to happen.”

  The scruff lining his jaw rubbed against her shoulder, soothing in its roughness, before he kissed the skin gently. “Doc said that too. Grade two ankle sprain, four to six weeks, minimum.”

  “You never know, I could wake up one of these mornings and all the pain could be gone. Besides, he said it was between a grade one and grade two, the teeniest, tiniest tear.”

  “Very tiny,” Alex agreed, sliding his fingers underneath the chain around her neck, pulling the old British penny from it’s usual home against her skin. He rubbed his thumb over the metal, his eyes suddenly far away.

  “It’s not really Birmingham I’m worried about,” she whispered, her hand resting over his, stopping the motion and drawing his eyes to hers.

  “I know, love, I know.”

  Wimbledon was just a few weeks away. Her ankle might be just fine by then, but there was a good chance it wouldn’t be and even if she healed up in that time, she’d have to miss weeks of training leading up to the tournament, the most important one of her life. After beating Zina Lutrova in the quarterfinals of the French Open, even with her ankle barely holding her weight by the end, the entire tennis world expected her to pick up right where she left off. She went into the French Open expected to do well, but she would be going into Wimbledon with everyone expecting her to win. The injury couldn’t possibly have come at a worse time, right in the middle of the shortest break between Grand Slams. She’d been at the top of her game at Roland Garros, but instead, she had to watch someone else hoist the trophy from the stands with an air-cast on her foot, a constant reminder of exactly why she wasn’t out there winning the whole damn tournament. For Penny, there was nothing closer to hell on Earth than watching someone else play while being told she couldn’t. Even Alex’s trophy, downstairs in his ridiculously gorgeous London townhouse mocked her every time she walked past it, though it would be worse back at home. Her parents would be fussing over her and she’d have to watch everyone else train day in and day out. She was better off here where she at least had London to explore and Alex to show her everything he loved about his hometown.

  “Alright, no time for a lie in this morning, time to get up,” he said, pulling away and grabbing his watch from the bedside table. “Paolo will be here soon and while I’m sure he’d appreciate how you look right now, he definitely doesn’t want to see my naked arse.”

  The bed shifted behind her again and Alex groaned, his reflection in the window stretching his arms over his head. “You take the shower here, love, easier on that ankle,” he said, gathering some clothes from his dresser and heading down the hall to another bathroom.

  She hobbled over to where her suitcase was resting atop his dresser, digging through it and finding one of her dresses, only slightly wrinkled from the trip across the channel. They’d stayed a night in Paris, celebrating his victory at a nightclub with a name she couldn’t pronounce and from there it had been a short trip to London. She planned on just calling The Dorchester, her chosen spot for the two weeks of Wimbledon, and starting her stay there earlier, but Alex had actually laughed at the idea and brought her straight home. It was a lovely house in a gorgeous neighborhood, all white town homes facing a small park with actual gardens in the back, a rarity in a city like London. It felt like something out of Mary Poppins.

  The shower in the en suite was walk-in with a long bench that she could sit down on and keep the weight off her ankle and as the hot water sluiced over her body, she half wanted to call out for Alex to come join her but knew that was probably a bad idea. They’d get distracted, much the same way as they had over and over again the night of their arrival from Paris, when he’d promised his mother they’d go to her house for dinner and he’d forgotten about it completely. They had to start being able to reign in that desperate need for each other soon. It wasn’t natural to want someone that much, was it? Penny bit her lip and laughed as she shampooed her hair. She decided that she didn’t care. Natural or not, it was amazing.

  Penny made her way slowly down the stairs toward the smell of coffee brewing and the sounds of a conversation, half in English, half in Italian, the words meshing together so seamlessly, like a completely new language. Paolo Macchia, one of Alex’s best friends and his training partner while they were in London, must have arrived while she was in the shower. She felt her cheeks get warm, glad she hadn’t given into the urge to call down the stairs and invite Alex back up to join her.

  Paolo had been in Paris too, but she and Alex hadn’t exactly been on speaking terms for most of their time in France, so she hadn’t actually met the man yet. He wasn’t playing at Queens and Alex probably shouldn’t have either, but he felt a deep loyalty to the tournament hosted by the courts he’d grown up playing on as a junior. So despite being more than a little drained by the quick turnaround, he kept his commitment to the place that had given him so many opportunities over the years.

  Smoothing down the skirt of her floral print sundress, she braced her weight on the end of the banister and leapt lightly off the last two stairs, landing on her good foot with ease. Leaning over just a bit onto her bad foot, the pain wasn’t quite as intense as when she awoke, the hot water having done it some good.

  Limping just a bit to keep her weight off of it, she stepped into the kitchen and let out a little shriek as she was immediately swept up into a hug, but not into the strong arms she was accustomed to. The man she assumed was Paolo spun her around and then put her down gently, before bussing both her cheeks with a kiss.

  “Let me look at you.” He held her back by her shoulders, looked her up and down, then nodded. “Perfetto.”

  Alex stood just a few feet away, leaning against the island at the center of his kitchen, a smirk playing across his face as Paolo finally released her. “I told you so,” he said, standing up straight.

  “Sei felice.”

  Alex nodded once, a serious expression on his face and suddenly it felt like this meeting was a lot more important than she initially realized. Penny twisted her mouth into a pout and raised her eyebrows, knowing they were talking about her but not having any idea what they were saying. “If you’re going to stick around, you need to teach me some Italian,” she said, moving toward the coffee machine to pour herself a cup.

  Paolo nodded. “It’s easy. I’ll teach you.”

  “Where’s your boot?” Alex cut in, frowning down at her bare feet.

  Penny wrinkled her nose. She hated that damn boot. “In the library. I took it off last night when I was reading, then someone stole my book and decided to...” his hand slid over her mouth and muffled the rest of her words, his other arm sliding around her waist, pulling her back against his chest.

  Paolo’s face lit up in a huge smile, olive skin crinkling at the corners of his blue eyes as they twinkled in amusement, a lock of nearly black hair falling across his forehead, making him look even younger than his twenty-four years. “I do not want to know, but Alex, if we don’t leave soon, they will give our practice court away.”

  It wasn’t true of course; they’d hold the training court for hours for Alex if he asked them to. Still, in the middle of a tournament where courts were in high demand, being late and holding everyone else up was consider
ed bad form in the pro ranks. Right on time, the doorbell rang, signaling that the car scheduled to take them the short distance to the courts had arrived.

  “I’ll see you later, right?” Alex asked as he and Paolo grabbed their bags. His quarterfinal match was scheduled for later that night.

  She pushed up on her toes and he gripped her elbow to help her balance as she pressed a soft kiss to his lips. “I’ll be there with bells on,” she said, rolling her eyes. As if she hadn’t been at his matches all week.

  “Bells on?” Paolo asked as they both shuffled out of the door.

  “She’s American,” Alex said with a laugh and Penny huffed in annoyance, but they were already out the door and beyond her reach.

  She limped into the library, a large room with bookshelves stuffed to the gills. Alex always had a couple of novels on his nightstand in his house near OBX, but she still hadn’t expected this room to be quite so packed or the books so well used. No one would believe her if she told them, but Alex Russell, Britain’s bad boy, was a closet geek. She found her boot, right where she’d left it next to a brown leather sofa in the center of the room, and slid the stupid thing on, tightening the Velcro straps across the front. Now there was nothing but time to kill. Her phone was on the table beside the book Alex ripped from her hands the night before and, checking the time, she calculated the difference, knowing it was still the wee hours of the morning in North Carolina. That didn’t stop her though as she ignored the night’s worth of notifications, pulled up Indy’s number and shot her a message.

  It’s 3am. Put the books away and go to bed! You have training in four hours!