Challenging the Center (Santa Fe Bobcats) (19 page)

“Damage done,” he said softly.

“Damage done. He was a rising star, I was the girl who wasn’t playing as much as she should, thanks to injuries. Always easier to believe a winner. I didn’t see the point getting into a he-said, she-said argument with Igor publically, especially since he was so well loved on the circuit and I was still very much a nobody. So I dumped him. Which, naturally, he immediately put out there that
he
left
me
because of the video. I just… didn’t bother correcting him.”

“But the dancing on the court when you should be resting between games, the goofy stunts at press conferences, the dancing on the bar at Sin’s Inn, the auction, grinding with Benny Bobcat… that’s you.”

“Yes, it is.” She sighed. “I realized pretty fast that as much as I love this game, as much as I want to be great, I’m not meant to compete with the top ten. I made it to ten on a fluke two years ago, but I didn’t last long. I’m stuck in the thirties where nobody knows me, nobody has heard of me, and likely, nobody will with the way things are currently going.”

He squeezed her shoulder in support but didn’t interrupt.

“So… if I felt the urge to dance, why not? My career clearly isn’t making waves on its own merit, so a little attention for being goofy wouldn’t hurt. It worked, sort of. I got a few small endorsements from those stunts, though nothing to write home about. My coach in Florida, however…”

“Yeah?”

“He just assumes every mistake I make on the court can be traced back to my ‘party girl’ ways. That I’m some sort of nomadic slut making my way around town, partying until three in the morning, and my eyes aren’t on the prize.”

“Are they?”

“Yes.” She sighed. “I mean, realistically, I’m not Wimbledon finalist material. My body is breaking down. I should own stock in heating pads and menthol creams. I won’t last much longer in this sport… and then what? I won’t have a career as an announcer; those go to the big names, and I don’t have the right personality for it. I don’t have enough money socked away from endorsements to live on investments. I don’t have enough of a name to keep carrying on gaining new endorsements when I’m not active. So I move to… what? I have no skills outside of tennis.”

“Coaching?”

She huffed. “Never tried before.”

“You might be good at it,” he said quietly.

“Maybe.” She laughed. “Gary asked me to quit working at the bar and come give lessons instead. There’s no way I could make enough to live on doing that, but it’s a thought.” She gave him a cheeky grin. “Maybe I’d get a discount on my own coaching too.”

“Is that all you’d get out of it?”

“Wow, you’re in an interrogative mood tonight.” She sat up on an elbow to look into his face. “Does this bother you? That I don’t mind the attention? That I sort of seek it out?”

“Yes and no.” He sat up with her, kissing her gently, as if to soothe the blow that was about to come. “It bothers me you don’t have enough confidence in yourself, in your skill, to make it. But from the practical standpoint, I get having to look objectively at what life after the court looks like. I just wish…”

She bumped his forehead with her own. “Don’t hold back now, Manny.”

“I gave up that job. No more manny jokes.”

“Habit.”

“I just wish you didn’t have to do it this way. I feel like you’re devaluing yourself when you act like a ditz.”

“The only one who can devalue myself is me.” She shrugged when he raised a brow. “Modified Eleanor Roosevelt quote. The point is, it’s my life, and I’m living it.”

“And if fewer opportunities come your way to play tennis because of it?”

She sucked in a breath, because that was the sword edge she danced on. Being noticed and being picked up for money-paying endorsements… at the risk of being dropped in tournaments.

“I’ll… figure it out.”

He kissed her gently. “Or you could just keep playing your best, stop worrying about making a name for yourself, stay as healthy as you can, and let someone else worry about the money.”

“Oh, good. Has the money elf come by today?” She grinned at him when he rolled his eyes. “I’m a grown-up. I have to worry about my own money.”

He looked like he wanted to say something but held back. “I just want you to have the best chance.”

Cupping his face in both hands, she got up on her knees and planted a hard, smacking kiss on his mouth. “And that is what makes you a great mentor. Perfect, even. Unofficially,” she added, to cut off his protests. “Besides, you’re no stranger to goofy antics on camera.”

He raised a brow in question.

Kat leaned in close to his ear, knowing her breasts pressed against his chest as she did. “Thirty-two marshmallows,” she whispered, nipping his ear.

“That rat,” he growled, flipping her over. “Aileen told you.”

“I’ll never reveal my sources,” she said, bursting into laughter as his fingers tickled her ribs. “Never!”

He mock growled and began nuzzling at her neck, making her squeal and roll away. He caught her and pulled her back for more.

And Kat wondered if she’d ever been this happy.

T
he next day
, Michael managed to get his postpractice workout done early, then took off instead of staying around to shoot the breeze with his teammates like he normally did. He’d be spending an entire weekend, plus travel, with them coming up that weekend as they traveled to L.A. He had somewhere else to be, just for the moment.

Because he’d seen Kat lift weights, and he’d seen her run and box, but he’d never actually seen Kat play.

Really fucking play.

And he knew, one athlete admiring another, that seeing someone lift or run was nothing like seeing them in their element, playing the sport that gave them a reason to live.

He walked into the tennis center and was surprised at how quiet it was. He nearly wondered if he’d walked into a closed business for a moment before he was able to focus on the courts that were lit behind the glass window. He quickly identified the two on the court as Thomas, the dude from the other day, and Kat.

She wore shorts that showcased her long, tanned legs and a tank top that bared her impossibly sexy, toned arms. She was truly an athlete, not just a beauty who liked being admired for being skinny. He watched as Thomas fed balls at intervals he couldn’t quite pick up, but Kat seemed to know the drill, literally. She swung, most of them going over the net, a few barely clipping the top to stay on her side, and one particular doozy that flew way past the other side and smacked the tarp behind Thomas, hard.

“She gets those more as she gets tired.”

Michael jumped in his shoes, then turned to find an older guy wearing a loud, printed button-down shirt and khaki shorts with bright white tennis shoes. His hair, what was left of it, was doing its own sort of crazy thing, defying gravity.

“Uh, hi.” He stuck out his hand. “I’m not a weirdo who just wanders in. I’m Michael.”

“The manny.”

“Yeah… not anymore.” Michael stuffed his hands in his pockets, not sure whether to be pleased Kat had clearly talked about him or annoyed she still referred to him by that insufferable title. “Now we’re just… neighbors.”

“Hmm.” The older gentleman stood beside him, watching the practice as well.

“What did you mean, before?”

“Hmm?”

Michael bit back a sigh. “You said when she gets tired, she gets ‘those’ a lot. What did that mean?”

“Oh, right, right.” The older guy scratched at his head with one finger, eyes never leaving the court. “Lots of players, when they get tired, they start dropping balls into the net. Not this one, no.” He shook his head, sniffing. “This one overcompensates for it and starts swinging for the fences like she’s Joe freaking DiMaggio.”

Michael chuckled at that. “You here often enough to watch?”

“I should hope so. I’m her coach. Gary Brustover.”

Ah, that explained it. “Nice to meet you.”

They watched in silence for a while as Thomas continued to feed, and Kat relentlessly attacked.

“Scared to approach that net. He keeps giving her the chance, and she won’t.”

“She’s not scared of anything,” Michael said automatically, wincing afterward. That sounded too intimate of knowledge for a neighbor.

“She’s scared she’ll get up there and actually win a goddamn point. Put the fucking ball away, Kelly,” Gary muttered, rubbing a hand over his face.

Michael decided to just pretend to understand what the hell the crazy old guy was talking about and nodded, watching still. After a few more minutes, they decided to take a break, and both Kat and Thomas walked to a bench nearby to grab some water.

“Go pick up balls.”

“What?” Michael stepped back, staring at Kat’s coach. “Beg pardon?”

“You wanna support her?”

He blinked.

“Well, I didn’t figure a
neighbor
would drive down here to just watch her practice for a few minutes. You clearly got something for the girl. Go support her by picking up balls.”

Michael huffed out a breath. “Have you met her? She won’t appreciate that.”

“You’d be surprised. Let’s go, young man.”

“I don’t think—”

Gary gripped his forearm tightly and tugged. Michael could have broken away—he was a lineman for God’s sake—but it would hurt the older man, and there wasn’t any call for it. So he allowed himself to be tugged out through the door and into the court area.

The first thing that hit him was the smell. He had no clue what that was—plastic? rubber?—but it was overwhelming. The second was the fuzz. Fuzz everywhere. He kicked at a yellow fuzzy clinging to his jeans and transferred three more fuzz clumps of greater size.

“Lost cause, give it up. You walk out here, you get fuzzed. We don’t vacuum the courts until tomorrow.”

“Ha, right, you… wait, you really vacuum the courts?”

Gary gave him a look that implied he was an idiot for asking. Michael had no clue whether that meant
Yes, you moron, of course we vacuum
, or
No, stupid, that’s not a real thing
.

“Uh, okay, but look, I don’t want to interrupt their practice so—”

“I brought you some help,” Gary called, leaving him no choice but to keep walking or risk Kat and Thomas see him turning and running for the door like a little bitch.

Kat swiveled on the bench, saw him, and jumped up. “Michael?”

“Hey.” He didn’t know what to do—hug her? shake her hand? give her a high five?—so he just laced his hands behind his back and rocked on his heels. “So, uh, good playing.”

She watched him for a moment, as if judging if he were telling the truth. Then she laugh-snorted. “You have no clue what good tennis looks like.”

“You got most of them in the court. That’s good enough to me.”

“You get most of your blocks,” she shot back. “Good enough to me.”

“Point made.”

“Yeah, it was.”

Michael realized they were basically nose to nose now, and he could smell the sweat and effort on her. Her skin flushed from the hard work, and her hair was coming out of its ponytail, wisps curling by her damp temples.

She was a fucking goddess, and he wanted nothing more than to drag her off to a private spot, lift her against the wall, and have his way with her like an animal in heat.

Instead, he forced himself to take a step back, literally as well as figuratively. And noticed that both Thomas and Gary had suddenly become scarce. “Where’d your coach and his whipping boy go?”

“Whipping… oh, Thomas?” She rolled her eyes and pointed toward the back courts where the lights weren’t on as they weren’t being used. “There’s a storage closet back there. Most likely finding cones to make me aim at. Then Gary gets to berate me for being an idiot when I miss them all, saying I’m doing it on purpose.”

“Are you?”

Kat ignored that, grabbed a wire basket with a tall handle, and began picking up balls. He grabbed another and started doing the same.

They picked up balls in silence, occasionally dumping them into a larger basket on wheels that Michael had seen Thomas digging balls out of during the drills. After a few minutes, Kat quietly said, “Thanks for coming.”

“Anytime. Seriously,” he added when she gave him a
get real
look.

“You. Big guy.”

Michael turned around to find Gary walking back with Thomas, carrying a cone and a racket. “It’s Michael.”

“Whatever. Big guy, stand right here.” Gary used the racket to point to a spot on the court.

“I have no clue how to play tennis.”

“Did I ask you to play tennis? I asked you to stand. Uncomplicated, really.” Gary shook his head at Thomas. “One too many hits to the noggin, I think.”

Michael shot a death look at a snickering Kat, then grudgingly walked over to stand in the spot, on the line of the front left box, a few steps over from dead center. “Here?”

“Good work, Big Guy.” Gary turned to Kat. “You’re at the net.”

“But—”

“Na ah ah.” Wagging a finger, her coach cut her off before she could begin. “What happened the last time you argued with me?”

“You threw a shoe at me,” she muttered. Michael snorted, earning him a glare.

“At the net. Here, this is for you.”

Michael took the racket Gary handed him, then just stood straight. “What am I doing with it?”

“Standing!” Gary shook his head at Thomas, who was now silently laughing, the bastard. “So many head traumas. Kat, you are at the net. Your partner—”

“Partner?”
she squeaked. “I’m a singles player!”

“Yes, and that’s worked out so well for you.”

Kat’s face turned red, but she took her position at the net as requested.

“Good, good. Now, your partner has served. Thomas back here is returning the serve. You are at the net, taking up as much real estate as you can. You want all the boardwalks. Build hotels like it’s your job. It’s Monopoly time, baby, and there are no mercies shown at family game night.”

That made Michael smile, thinking back to his own family game nights and several bloody rounds of Monopoly with his brothers and parents. Accurate description.

“You’re cracked,” was all Kat said.

Gary ignored that. “You are aiming at the other net person. Why?”

Kat blinked. “Because they have—”

“Because they have less time to react!” Gary cut her off. “Aim for the feet, but I won’t yell at you if you plant a facer. Thomas, go!”

“Wait, I’m sorry.” Michael held up his hand, waiting to be called on.

Thomas barked out a laugh before stopping himself. Kat bit her lip. Gary rolled his eyes, then nodded. “Big Guy.”

Big Guy
was suddenly surpassing
Manny
as his new least favorite nickname. “What exactly am I supposed to be doing?”

“Not dying.”

Kat doubled over, looking like she was having stomach troubles, but he knew she was laughing so hard it just hurt. Thomas cleared his throat as he dropped a few balls, then turned his back on the group to pick them back up. Probably to hide his laughter.

Gary looked at them each individually, then threw his hands up. “What are you waiting for?”

Thomas fed the first ball to Kat, who slammed it right into the net. “Gary, really, I—oh!” She had to lunge for the next one, and it sailed out of bounds. Way out. “Gary, I’m a singles— Thomas! Stop!”

Michael shook his head. She was fighting it too much. If the coach asked you to jump, you didn’t ask how high, you just went as far as you could go until they said stop.

“Gary, Peter always said the money was in my ground strokes.”

“Peter is a Russian shithead,” Gary said without any emphasis. “You’re not a singles player. You’re a doubles player.”

“I’m a
what?
” Kat’s racket nearly dropped to the ground. She looked so offended Michael wondered if this was some sort of tennis-specific obscenity he didn’t know about.

You’re ugly.

Yeah, well, your mother’s a doubles player!

“Give it a try. If you suck, we try something else. Just hit the ball.”

Thomas fed another, and Kat connected solidly, right back at Thomas.

“At him.” Gary pointed. “Hit the ball at Big Guy. Make him cry. Make him weep. Make him wish he were playing football where his life is safer and he’s not at risk of death.”

A sudden gleam shone in Kat’s eyes, one that warned of bad things to come. Michael shifted on his feet, not sure what to do or where to go. But he’d been told to stand there, so…

Thomas fed a ball, and Kat made the move, angling her racket and shooting the ball toward him. It landed about four inches from his right foot. “Nice shot,” Michael said, smiling.

“She’s just getting started.” Gary nodded at Thomas. “Keep ’em coming.”

As Thomas fed, Michael had to dance out of the way more than once for several balls that came dangerously close to hitting his feet. Once or twice, he actually managed to use the racket to deflect a ball coming at his torso or—the worst one—his junk. But he kept returning to the same position, because otherwise Gary would yell at him, and Gary might just be scarier—and weirder—than any of his football coaches.

With every ball he barely dodged, Michael had the pleasure of watching her confidence grow. When Gary asked them to switch sides, so she now worked on backhand volleys, he noticed she was already bouncing on her toes, ready to roll when Gary scooted him to the other side of the T toward the front of the net.

“Watch yourself,” Gary said mildly at one point, and Michael looked up toward him.

Just as a ball hit him dead in the cheek. Sharp, instant pain exploded through his head like a bullet tearing through his cranium. He dropped to one knee, groaning, to avoid actually toppling over.

“Oh my God!” Kat dropped her racket with a clatter and launched herself over the net to rush at him. “Did I get your eye? Oh my God, oh my God, I blinded a Bobcat. I’m going to hell.”

She knelt down beside him. Cool hands cupped his face, tilting his head up, making him see stars. “Jesus, Kat, hold on a second.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to hit your face!”

“Better not have meant to.” Looking remarkably unconcerned, Gary wandered over, arms crossed. “It’s never a good idea to aim for the head. Too small a target. Too much risk of missing.”

“
That’s
what you’re worried about?” Kat snarled at him. “Thomas, could you go get some ice or something?”

“Sure thing.” The other man jogged off, leaving the three on the court.

“I’m fine.” Michael had no clue if he was actually fine or not, but he wanted her to stop roughly handling his head in an effort to examine him. “I just need to sit down a minute.”

Kat reluctantly let go, fingertips sliding over his skin as she relinquished her hold. And Michael realized he’d rather have her jerking his aching head around than lose the contact. He reached up and grabbed her hand, lacing fingers with hers.

Gary coughed. “I’m gonna go check on the ice situation.”