Match Point - New Romance Coming Soon on 10th May

                          

Wimbledon is coming this May, bringing two weeks of tennis drama to the lustrous court. I would love for you to meet Jake Evesham and Nyx Morgan. 

Jake was mentioned in The Pitcher, Rissa’s favourite tennis player in the world.

Putting together the final touches before launch on 10th May. I was so excited that I wanted to share the first chapter with you below. Please let me know your thoughts in the comments 😊.

Match Point is available to pre-order now - https://books2read.com/u/mYMKWw. 

About Match Point:

In the world of Tennis, I’m at the top of my game. I don’t have time for anything else. I’m an island, except for my team, who are with me constantly. Loving this sport wasn’t without sacrifices, as I’ve been doing that since I could hold a racket. It’s all or nothing for she can be a cruel mistress and sometimes unforgiving. I’ve worked hard for too long to stay at this level, and I’m not about to let Nyx Morgan rattle me, even though she constantly distracts me. She plagues my mind to make me wonder that there’s more in life than winning another grand slam.

No way! I’m on a roll and need to be super focused.

There’s something about watching a person through the eyes of your lens. You catch the best expression when they’re not aware. Jake Evesham has caught my eye in more ways than I’d care to admit– more than in a professional way. Photographing football players is more my thing, but when I’m asked to cover Wimbledon, I have no choice but to spend two weeks in London SW19.

I was expecting it to be boring. And what I found wasn’t what I’d expected - Jake Evesham. I didn’t know that leading up to the final week of Wimbledon, my world would change.

 

Chapter One 

Jake

           I throw the tennis ball in the air and prepare to hit an ace at the body of my opponent for match point. I’ve been visualising this for part of yesterday. For a second, I catch sight of the woman who has been plaguing my every waking moment since the start of the tournament, and for the last week, my dreams. In fact, it was at the tail end of Queens that she’s been on my mind.

Constantly.

Damn her.

Because of my lapse in concentration, and the moment my racket made contact with the falling ball, I knew it wasn’t the ace I was aiming for. Instead, I hit the net. I turn towards the photographers’ media pit and scowl at them. At her in particular. She, who’s making me work harder at winning this simple game, and it’s only the third round game, for fuck sake. And even in the pack of photographers, I notice her.

It’s not just her physicality of her slim, toned body in skinny jeans, tees and the NY baseball cap, but it’s her soft laughter that I catch each time during the bloody breaks. It makes me stand to attention and send shivers down my spine.

And my opponent, Dalton Green, is an unranked player, but a very good one. Nonetheless, he came through the draw as a wild card. All he needs is a good coach to improve his game and practice. Anyway, he’s young, but he would rather party his way through the circuit than focus on tennis. He has beaten a few good players to advance to the next round. Yet here I am, giving points I shouldn’t.

Argh!

I see their bemused face as they look about themselves, unsure why I’m angry at them. I’m used to the silent click noise their cameras make, and my focus is second to none on court, but after two hours, she’s gotten to me. Still glaring at her, I walk back to the baseline. In that second, she lowers her camera slightly from her face, and I see her gorgeous, clear green eyes. She’s obviously embarrassed. She blushes when she gets a few bemused smiles from her fellow colleagues.

I catch her mouthing to her neighbour, “What did I do?”

Her neighbour shrugs and mutters something back, but damn it, she deserves my sneer.

Fuck! Realising that I’ve made it too obvious as I glance up at the players’ box, Everson Reed, my coach, is frowning. This game shouldn’t have taken this long. I should’ve finished this over twenty minutes ago. That was the tactical plan for me to execute, and I’m doing a piss poor job of it.

I give myself a good talking to as a hush comes over the court; I’ve been here before, and this should be familiar as I buckle down and get back in focus. I take a slow breath and exhale. I roll my shoulders and bounce the ball. At each bounce of the ball hitting the grass, my focus deepens; the sound is soothing and calming.

I’m ready. I take a deep breath, then exhale slowly. By the third bounce, I roll my racket, throwing the ball in the air, and as it comes down with all my force and technique, it hits my racket hard. The green ball flies across the opposite side of the court and passes Dalton. He makes an attempt to return, but it flies by him and hits the back wall, barely missing the line judge.

“Advantage Evesham,” says the umpire. His voice is crisp and clear from his high chair as I walk back to the baseline. I cast a quick glance at the media pit before she distracts me again. I’m in the zone.

I go through the same process, and I produce a second ace.

Game, set and match! Now, that’s more like it.

With my racket in my right hand, and as I bend my left elbow, I clinch my fingers into a fist. I turn to face my box and then the crowd, as I’m so pumped with the win. And within seconds, I’m already onto the next game in a few days. I walk to the nets to commiserate with my opponent, Dalton, because he had fought hard to get here. I take his hand in a firm handshake as I tower over him at six-one.

“Well done, Jake.”

“Good game. Better luck next time,” I reply as I hand him the umpire’s hand first. It’s my standard response after a game, and I swiftly follow him.

I accept his quick congratulations. I quickly go to my chair and gather my belongings; no doubt Dalton is ready to hit the locker room and shower as I am. I glance hurriedly over to the media pit as she chats with her fellow photographers. I’m pissed as the guy she’s talking to makes her smile. I shove my white wrist bands into the crowd, then my baseball cap into my bag. My racket follows swiftly; I’m too rough, but who gives a shit if I break it.

I’m fuming. I’ve just won a match, progressing me further in the tournament; I should be excited to reach the next round, and yet I’m pissed because the woman who has been in my head is grinning at some fucker she’s been sitting next to throughout my game - two bloody hours chatting quietly. Something is wrong with that.

Fuck!  

Placing my sports bag straps around my arms, it simply rests on my back. Dalton is waiting for me by the umpire chair, and as we stride towards the entrance that takes us back into the building, but not before giving a goodbye wave to the crowd. After signing a few autographs, I make my way to the entrance, leaving Dalton to enjoy his final moments at Wimbledon.

I accept the congratulations on the way to the locker room. Damn her for making me feel sour when I should be excited that I’m three matches away from a Wimbledon final, but let’s not get ahead of ourselves. I still have to win these matches. Good players want that prize as much, if not as much, as I do. At twenty-eight, I’ve been in a Wimbledon final twice and not won it, and yet over the years since turning professional, I’ve won ten Grand Slam championships, and I’m an Olympic singles champion.

But Wimbledon, this is the one that eludes me.

I’m in the best shape of my career, and I’ve been on a roll since last year. First stop, the US Open and its home turf for me. Followed by the Australian Open and then the French Open. I nailed all of those, plus the tournaments in between, which I use to prepare for each Grand Slam. It’s now Wimbledon, the tournament that eludes me. The one I want the most - the one that teases me every single waking moment.

No fucking pressure. And who’s counting anyway!

I reach the changing room for the top sixteen seeds and champions and turn to my locker room. In a previous life, I used to share it with other players, and no doubt Dalton is talking to the few players who have returned from the practice courts and are now playing golf. Well, actually, it’s putting golf balls into a glass; it’s an easy way to kill time. This isn’t a done thing here, as a few players who are up for the next game are psyching and preparing for the next match of the men’s doubles. It can be frosty here. I catch the eye of my team around the room. As a seeded player, I can request my usual locker. I almost miss sharing – almost, but it’s the banter I miss the most. The area is generally quiet. There’s a certain hum about a competitive tennis club’s men’s changing room, and there are certain etiquettes to follow, but being in my own space, I don’t need to follow them. I peel my bag off my shoulders and plant it on the wooden bench. I take a seat beside my bag, and without looking up, I take a towel that’s offered to me.

I mutter a gruff thank you and peel off my white Under Armour top, place my elbows and forearms on my thighs, then bow my head. I sit far longer than I should, as I suddenly feel exhausted.

I need to get a grip on this! And get her out of my head.

I stand and remove my hair tie. I run my fingers through my long hair, and it’s plastered to my skull from the sweat. But when I open the door, I immediately know it’s doping control. I take a pee and hand the tube to an ITF official as Nate watches from a distance.

When they leave, I remove my trainers, socks and white long shorts before taking a quick shower. Afterwards, I put on my black board shorts for a ten-minute warm down on the bike. After I catch my breath, I have a plate of sushi waiting for me. I need to recapture all the nutrients I’d lost during the match, as the fluids and energy gels aren’t enough. I have to maintain a 6,000-calorie-a-day regimen due to the amount of exercise I do. At my last bite into the sushi, Nate stares at me with a look I don’t understand. I make my way to Sloane as she pats the massage table. I lie down and let her ease the tension out of my over exercise body.

Forty five minutes later, the hum of conversation between my team brings a smile to my face. I don’t say much as I mentally review the game’s strengths and weaknesses. It’s my way of winding down from the match, preparing for the press conference and debriefing with Everson.

I put booties on my toes before I do one of the painful things about being an athlete: ice baths. There are a few things I hate about this job, and ice baths are in the top five. My recovery time between matches and practice is good, so why stop the painful routine? And like everything else with my tennis, I do it with gusto because I love this game! As I take my iPod out of my bag, Everson walks in with my protein shake. Obviously, I didn’t eat enough sushi. Sushi can get boring after a while, and Sloane must have noticed that I didn’t eat all of her required portions today.

“Good, you’re ready.” He smirks, grinning at me with such glee.

I glare at him, as he knows I hate this. But I understand the importance of doing it – for me, this works. I’ll feel better afterwards. It’s only ten minutes of my life. I wrap the towel around my neck and follow him to the treatment room, where the ice baths are.

It’s only him and me; we briefly go over the game. I provide him with an overview of where I excelled and where I fell short, along with the improvements we can make. He’s dressed in white from top to toe, long shorts, Under Armour tees and trainers. You’d think he was about to play a game with me.

“Are you joining me this time?” I ask, talking to his back. He shakes his dark head, and I mutter after him, “Pussy.”

He turns around and stares at me with quiet intensity and determination, quickly capturing my attention. There’s something about the way he glares that gets me every time. A knowledge of wisdom hides behind those amber eyes.

“If you stop fucking around like today and win your matches, I’ll do it.”

Christmas has arrived early! A slow smile creeps up my face, “Don’t lay down challenges you can’t keep, E.”

“Haven’t you learnt anything about me, Jay?” He beams at me.

“More than you know,” I smirk back at him.

I’ve known him since I started playing the circuit as a junior; he was a professional player chasing the Grand Slams and most games in between, but mostly as my coach for the past five years. In that time, I’ve learnt so much from him. Not only has my tennis improved, but I respond so well to his quiet, take-no-shit attitude and demeanour. It’s an added bonus that he’s a friend.

He glares back at me hard, like he’s daring me to fold – no fucking way. “Next match?” I enquire hopefully.

He shakes his head, “After the final.”

“That’s not an incentive, E. And you know it,” I accuse with a raised brow. “We do it at every final I win.”  One of the few ongoing deals I have with Everson.

It’s the one time I can serve some punishment to my team. I purse my lips and smile. He knows I’ve got him. His shoulders drop, and he lets an exasperated breath. “Fuck. Okay, semi.”

I give him my outstretched hand because I want us to shake on this – a gentleman’s agreement. He takes it and mutters, “Now get in.”

I step into the cold water, and my skin instantly reacts with a tingling sensation as I submerge further and sit down. It should be set at eight degrees Celsius. I quickly lost the grin on my face. I take a deep breath and breathe out slowly, and the mist of warm breath and cold air can be seen. I should be used to the cold, but I always fight it. I fight it because it’s so fucking painful, and after a long workout session and a game, it doesn’t get any easier. Fuck! It’s cold. I relax and grimace at Everson.

“Now, who were you looking at in the media pit?”

Trust him to pick this moment to ask me that question. I stiffen briefly and will myself to relax again. That shit from him isn’t going to work today. I glance at him and shrug nonchalantly, and then place my buds into my ears. I can do without any more questions about this woman. I don’t know what’s happening either, and after two weeks, I’m still unable to explain it, let alone to myself. How can I explain it to Everson? I press play, and music fills my head, blocking out any questions coming my way.

He furrows his brow and glares at me. I close my eyes, but I can still feel his eyes on me. I ignore him and the pain as I let Logan’s Shiver from their London album wash over me. My mind wanders to the sexy beauty with the clear green eyes who has caught my attention since the Queen’s Club Championship.

I frown and wonder why, after two weeks, I haven’t made a move on her. It’s not like me to wait. I never wait. Too damn impatient for what I want. Yet here I am playing the waiting game. Why am I waiting?

But I fear that seeing her will be something more than a casual thing. And the answer to that question is that I want to win Wimbledon so severely, and she’ll be a distraction-a diversion that I don’t need.

As the lyrics of Shiver get to me, I lose myself on the first day we bumped into each other on my way from the practice court. I had wrapped my arm around her to stop her from falling, and she felt so great against me, so soft. She’s slim, and for an average five seven, she’s small next to my tall frame. I suppose at six four, it’s an impressive height and large frame. It was her eyes that held me. They were so calm and very expressive. Her pupils dilated, and her pale sea green eyes that would melt the coldest of hearts, and in that moment, I did melt.

Stunning.

It made me feel instantly tranquil, as if I were flowing through calming waters. It’s not often I instantly get that feeling around people. Her olive skin glows as I move along her pert nose and those full, luscious lips. My dick stood to attention as I saw my cock wrapped around its warmth. Everything about her screams at me, from her dark hair on her head to the tip of her pink toes. And even though I’m holding on firmly to her arms, my other hand moved to her neck and caressed it. For a moment, she stiffened, and her eyes widened. The reaction matches mine as undercurrents run through us.

I leaned closer when a sudden nudge reminded me that I had to let her go. I was immediately reminded that I had a game to play. I cursed whoever had moved me from her, but tennis called.

I don’t know how many times I thought of her in this moment, replayed it over and over again with thoughts of her beneath me. The need for me to be with her is as painful as this ice bath. It’s an ache that won’t go away. I rub my chest in the hope of rubbing away the ache in me. And since that day, I’ve seen her with the rest of the media and photographers, but never in a position to make small talk. So why am I waiting?

I should speak with her and see what she has to say.

Three songs later, and in the middle of Pearl Jam’s Even Flow, an alarm penetrates my mind, away from my photographer. I ease myself out of the ice bath, for I need another warm shower to warm my cold body. Then there’s the press conference to contend with. Maybe we’ll have a celebratory Indian meal made to order from my favourite restaurant at Wimbledon Village, Rajdoot. Or has Clay arranged something else?

And what I also need is another kind of relief from this pressure cooker that I enjoy. And perhaps she’s the distraction that I need and will truly relax my mind and body, blocking out all the noise to win Wimbledon.

I need to know. And it’s going against everything I’ve told myself I shouldn’t be doing.

How did it get to this?

Match Point is available to pre-order - https://books2read.com/u/mYMKWw.