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I handed him the racket and walked over to the side in my bare feet, grabbing a new can of balls he’d brought out.
“No. You serve the whole game,” I called back, looking over to the garden and seeing more guests begin to leave.
“The whole game?” he blurted out, sounding daunted.
I tried not to laugh. “Not the whole match,” I pointed out, emphasizing the different vocabulary. “Just that game. Men’s singles generally have two sets per match, a third if needed.”
I peeled off the lid from the can and popped the sealed top, instantly dipping my nose in and smelling the new-ball scent. It reminded me of summers and sweat, Gatorades and sore muscles.
“Do you play any sports at school?” I asked him.
He reached his arm up, dipping his racket behind his head and throwing a practice swing.
“Yeah,” he breathed out. “I play soccer, but…”
“But what?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know. I just get… pressured, I guess,” he confided, attempting more practice swings. “I don’t think I’m very good. The other team or everyone watching sometimes gets in my head, and it’s all I’m thinking about.”
I smiled to myself, knowing exactly what he was talking about. It was very common for athletes to feel the crowd’s expectations, and winning was as much mental as it was physical.
“Do you know what I realized when I played tennis?” I asked him. “I realized that you’re playing a part in a way. When you put on that uniform or grab that ball, you sometimes have to become someone else to play the game. Braver, harder, tougher… When you’re in a competitive situation, you’re you times ten.”
His eyebrows pinched together, like he understood what I was saying but wasn’t sure what to do with the information.
“An easy way to put on that new mask is to do something to your appearance,” I suggested. “I used to create elaborate braids before pulling my hair back into ponytails for a match. It kind of helped me get my head into the game and feel tougher,” I told him. “Other athletes paint their faces…”
He nodded, looking pleased with that idea.
“Hello.” A woman’s voice interrupted, and I turned my head to see the blonde from earlier, Tessa McAuliffe.
I narrowed my eyes but quickly recovered. I’d thought she’d left.
Many of the guests had filtered out, and I was getting ready to grab my brother – who was deep in conversation with one of the mayor’s assistants – and Kristen – who was chatting with the son of someone important from somewhere important – as well, to leave. Tyler had been in and out of the party, talking to a few people and making eye contact, probably to make sure I was having fun.
But I’d been fine.
I’d spoken to several guests, and my brother was in his element. Tyler had been on my turf a few times, so it was only fitting that I got to invade his.
And it had been eye-opening to see the people he surrounded himself with. Blackwell, other politicians, and members of the elite.
And then Tessa McAuliffe, who I remembered also hosted a morning news show. It was reasonable to believe Tyler had invited her due to the influence she held or her media connections, but I still didn’t like the way she said his name.
Or the way she was so familiar with him.
“I tried to introduce myself earlier,” she said, holding out her hand, “but he swept you away so quickly.”
She gazed at me with a twinkle in her eye.
I nodded once and took her hand. “Easton Bradbury.”
“Tessa McAuliffe.”
“Yes, I know,” I responded, turning away to hand Christian the can of tennis balls before facing her again. “From the morning show, right?”
She grinned, squinting her eyes playfully. “Not a fan?”
“Oh, no,” I shot out. “I’m sure I would like it well enough, but pop culture isn’t really my thing.”
She nodded, and I let my eyes fall down her body for a moment. She looked like everything I wished I was.
Her red dress stood out against the other female guests’ beiges and pinks, and she walked with grace in her tan heels. Her hair was neatly coiffed in an up-do, with locks of rich blond hair falling around her face. Her makeup was soft, and her posture was confident.
My dress seemed childish now, and the dark blue heels I’d rushed out to get to match the splatter of flowers on the dress were cheap compared to hers. It wasn’t that I didn’t have the money for designer things. I’d made a small fortune playing tennis and even modeling in ads for clothes and tennis shoes. I simply had no interest in spending my money on things I considered impractical.
Until now.
She was a woman, and I felt like a girl next to her, with my hair hanging in loose curls instead of up, looking sophisticated. I should’ve done something with it.
What does Tyler prefer? Does he think she’s prettier? More presentable? I —
And then I cleared my throat, stopping myself.
Ridiculous. How the hell did I get filled up with all of these insecurities all of a sudden? All that mattered was me. How I felt comfortable and what I liked.
And Tyler certainly seemed to like something about me.
“And what do you do?” she asked, interrupting my thoughts.
I took a deep breath, stepping over to the side to slip back into my heels. “I teach at Braddock Autenberry.”
“Where Christian goes to school?” she inquired. “What do you teach?”
My toes ached as I pushed them back into the tight-fitting shoes. “American and World History,” I replied.
