Total pages in book: 63
Estimated words: 58651 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 293(@200wpm)___ 235(@250wpm)___ 196(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 58651 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 293(@200wpm)___ 235(@250wpm)___ 196(@300wpm)
Crack!
The ball explodes off his racquet from the peak of his toss, streaking toward me almost too fast to track. From how close I’m standing, I barely have time to get my racquet up in time to deflect the ball defensively. It bounces off my racquet and lands nowhere near the lines.
Holy shit.
I don’t give him the satisfaction of complementing the serve, even though I have to imagine it was at least a hundred and twenty or a hundred and thirty miles per hour. It was easily the fastest serve I’ve ever returned, and I didn’t even let him warm up. I move to the ad side of the court and this time line up four long steps behind the baseline.
“That’s game,” he says ten minutes later. “My win.”
I’m dripping in sweat and my legs already feel weak. I haven’t played that hard in a long time. I have to imagine his tennis game is a lot like the way he handles his business. He goes big on every shot. The serves are big, his groundstrokes are big, and he never once hit a slice or a drop shot. Everything was full power, punishing, and fast. I was only able to claw my way to deuce by changing the dynamic. I played as defensive as possible, forcing him to keep taking high-risk shots and letting him beat himself.
Logan sinks down dejectedly beside me. He’s sweating a little, but I notice with embarrassment that he’s not sweating nearly as much as I am.
“You play just like my sister, but it took her a lot longer to figure out she could try to beat me like that.”
I grab a towel and wipe the sweat from my face. “Did you play in college?” I ask.
“I didn’t go to college,” he says.
“Really?” I ask.
He shrugs. “Yeah. Money was tight and I figured I could get more out of the little I had by investing it in my business.”
I look down thoughtfully. Damn. I wish I had the guts Logan does. I’ve risked a lot for my business, but he just plows forward toward what he wants and never even thinks about looking back. I envy that. When I take risks, I dwell on them and worry constantly.
“So it’s zero to one,” I say, “for now.”
He smirks. “Yeah, you’re right. It’ll be two to one, then three to one…”
I slap his arm, turning so he doesn’t seem my grin as I walk to my side of the court. The longer we play, the less small talk there is. It seems Logan is just as competitive as I am. Soon we’re both just giving the game all we have, grunting as we pound groundstroke after groundstroke over the net, running down shots that should be impossible. Our only words are to call balls out or state the score before serving. We stop even taking breaks, choosing instead to keep grinding out point after point.
There’s something about giving everything I have against him that feels therapeutic. It’s silly to think, but somehow struggling against him on the court feels like more than just trying to win a game. It’s like I’m trying to prove something, even if I don’t know what I’m trying to prove. Maybe in some convoluted way I’m trying to make this tennis match about he and I. Maybe I’m trying to prove I’m worthy to be with him as more than his submissive in some dark sex club. Whatever it is, my mind is focused and I don’t give much more thought to why. All I want to do is win.
The set comes down to a break point. If I can win this last game while he’s serving, I’ll win the set. But his serves have only been getting harder as the set has dragged on. His hair is plastered to his head with sweat, and the black dry-fit shirt is hugging every curve and line of his muscles. He looks sinfully good, but I can’t focus on that. His eyes are hard, and for whatever his reasons are, he wants to win just as badly as I do. I briefly think about how silly this is. Two adults locked in a tennis match in a deserted tennis facility after hours, taking the game as seriously as if it was the Wimbledon cup.
He serves an absolute thunderbolt at me. I only have time to block the shot, bracing the racquet with both hands to keep it from flying out of my grip. I manage to put the smallest amount of backspin on the ball. The backspin makes my return shot drag through the air slowly, quickly losing height and sinking like a rock. It just barely skids over the net and Logan has to sprint forward to get it. To my surprise, he lunges forward, laying himself out completely, arm outstretched toward the ball. The rim of his racquet catches it, popping the ball back over the net with almost no power. I’m forced to sprint to the net too, but his shot bounces high enough to give me time to set up.