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They net the first two points, but we gain the next four. Then we miss the point because of a failure in communication. I curse. Sophia curses. And after that, we make sure to call it—always, and it doesn’t happen again.
She’s good. Great even, especially her backhand. It’s hard to master, but she makes it look effortless. The ball becomes a blur over the net, flying in quick crosscourt shots.
Playing feels good, the forehand swings and the twang of the ball great. We win the first set, but it’s close, and during the water break, I watch Percy give animated pointers to Scarlett.
Sophia gives me a fierce look over her water bottle. Her skin glistens beneath the overhead lights. “You’re really good,” she says. “Those serves? Damn.”
I shrug. “Anthony and I were forced to work on serves until we could do the movement in our sleep.”
“They’re hard. I can never quite get the ball toss quite right.”
“I’ll show you sometime,” I say.
She knocks my shoulder with hers. “I’d like that.”
The second set is far more intense than the first. Percy has kicked into a higher gear, and I find myself responding in kind, sending balls as hard as I can back to the other side. For a few glorious seconds, it’s just him and me, crosscourt forehand shots and the ball clearing the net by mere inches. I flick my wrist slightly on the next impact, and it skews just out of his reach on the other side.
Point us.
The game reaches a fever pitch. I can feel it on the court, playing beside Sophia, who hits every ball like it’s a tie-breaking shot. I can feel it in the sounds of the onlookers, too. For a brief moment I feel sorry for Scarlett, who’d likely signed up for a fun day of tennis and not a death match at the Colosseum.
But then I remember what she’d done to Sophia, and the pity fades.
The final set is close. We lose points three times in a row, but in the last second, Sophia plays a drop shot. Scarlett sprints but it’s too late, point us, and the game shifts in our favor.
And they never recover.
We win the final point with one of Sophia’s backhands, and it’s all over. The referee calls the game over and, absurdly, the people around us applaud. I wipe sweat off my forehead and meet Percy’s gaze from across the court.
He looks like he wants to lob his racquet at my head. I give him my most polite of smiles.
Sorry, asshole. You lost.
“We won!” Sophia says, and I tear my eyes from Percy’s scowl. She’s flushed and stunning, and she drops her racquet on the court floor. Then, she throws herself into my arms.
I swing her around. She smells good, like warm woman, and shampoo, and victory. “We won,” she murmurs into my ear. “Thank you, thank you,thank you.”
I tighten my arms around her waist before I let her sink back down to the floor. “My pleasure.”
Her smile is a beautifully bright thing. “Incoming,” she says, and then she kisses me again.
I ignore the people looking at us and, selfishly, take my time. It's impossible not to with the softness of her lips against mine and the lithe waist beneath my hands.
But most of all? I ignore that she’s only doing this to get back at the man across the net.
Sophia pulls away first. “Now,” she murmurs, “we’re even.”
“You know,” I say, with the taste of her still on my lips, “I think I might enjoy being in your debt.”
She smiles, alight with life and victory. “Really? Help me win another game, then.”
14
ISAAC
We place fourth overall in the tournament. By our third game, my shoulder aches and the bloodlust in Sophia’s eyes has turned into a satisfied simmer. She doesn’t want to stay for the after-tournament drinks, or to collect our prize, and I couldn’t agree with that decision more.
We won against her ex-husband, and that was victory enough. So we leave the club together. The early September air is still warm, but lacks the sting of heat the summer had carried. I won’t miss it.
