Desire, Served: A Tennis Romance Novella by Harvest Hayes

Author:Harvest Hayes [Hayes, Harvest]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Mogul Scarf Productions, Inc.
Published: 2024-02-10T00:00:00+00:00

10

ELIZA

Istep onto the tennis court, the bright sun making my hangover even more painful. The sharp light pierces through my sunglasses, making everything look too vivid, too real. The weight of last night hangs heavily over me, and every step I take towards the court seems to amplify the feeling.

The rumble of Bash’s voice greeting me doesn’t hold any emotion at all. It’s flat, like last night never happened. “Let’s get started,” he says.

We play in a silence that’s punctuated only by his orders—sharp, precise.

“Backhand!”

“Forehand!”

“Serve!”

There’s no room for error. He’s a drill sergeant, pushing me, molding me. But despite the tension between us, I feel a spark. With every swing, every step, I’m actually improving.

An hour goes by, then two, then four. The Miami sun starts its descent, casting the court in a soft orange and pink hue. I’m surprised when he pauses, his gaze locked onto mine. “You must be ready to quit for the day.”

I straighten up, defiant. “No, let’s keep going,” I reply, gulping down electrolyte water, trying to push through the last remnants of my hangover.

His eyebrow raises, a ghost of amusement in his eyes. “I thought you needed rest. Like yesterday.”

I roll my eyes, masking my frustration with sarcasm. “Look at me, all rested. Now, let’s keep going.”

He nods, observing me closely. “Your footwork. You’re not moving back quickly enough. When the ball’s coming at you, your first instinct is to raise your racket. You need to move back.”

His words hit me. It’s the same observation I’ve heard in the past, but coming from Bash, it feels different. There’s a raw honesty to it, a genuine desire to help.

“I have an idea,” he begins, his voice softer now. “Do you trust me?”

I meet his eyes, the intensity in them making me shiver slightly. “No.”

He steps closer, the gap between us shrinking. “Do you trust me enough to someday trust me?”

His question catches me off guard. It’s not a straightforward yes or no, but rather an invitation to a possibility. To a future. My heart races, the boundary between coach and student, friend and enemy, becoming blurred.

“Maybe.” And with that, the tension that’s been hanging over us shifts, opening up a world of possibilities.

He breezes past me, his cologne hitting my nose. It’s not too overpowering but profoundly distinct, like cedar with a whisper of black pepper.

A faint twinge ripples over my wrist as he digs through his tennis bag, the ghost of the injury that had once benched me. I wince, even though there’s no pain. It’s become a part of my body’s memory, an uninvited reminder. Logically, I know the injury has healed, that the physical pain is a memory. But if I’m being honest, that wince, that flinch—it’s become a shield, keeping me off the court, preventing risks, stifling my comeback.

But here with Bash, risk is unavoidable. Committing to the Miami Open terrifies me. The weight of expectations, the crowd waiting for my comeback or my downfall—it’s all too overwhelming. Yet with Bash, even though he dragged me out of the club like a rag doll, I feel an odd sense of comfort.

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