Strike to the Heart by Malia Mallory

Author:Malia Mallory [Mallory, Malia]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: contemporary romance, millionaire, sports romance, alpha male, new adult, bad boy romance, mma romance, athlete romance
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 8

Jo

My heart thumped in my chest. I had a chance. A real chance. I could almost see it. The trophy in my hand. The crowd cheering wildly. I was energized. Ready to go.

Maria served. I zeroed in on the ball and placed my return deep in her court with a heavy spin. Her body position signaled she was going down the line, and I shifted in that direction. At the last moment, she pulled her racket, twisted her body, and sent the ball cross-court. I was out of position, wrong-footed. I lurched toward the ball. I felt a pull in my ankle and then a foreboding sense that my foot couldn’t hold my weight. I fell to the court, hitting my shoulder hard. There was a collective gasp as I rolled to my back. The pain in my shoulder competed with a growing throb in my ankle.

I rolled to my knees and picked up my racket, using it to push myself up on my good leg. I half hopped toward my chair and fell into it.

The umpire leaned toward me. “Can you continue play?”

“I don’t know.” Numbness settled into my arm. I moved it around, rotating my shoulder. Bruised for sure. Sore. But I didn’t think the injury was serious. My foot was another story. It tingled ominously and I could see it swelling.

“I need the trainer, please.” Maybe wrapping it would fix me up. Barely a moment passed before the trainer was kneeling before me, probing my ankle gently.

“Will it hold your weight?” the trainer asked.

“I don’t know. I guess I’ll find out.” I had three minutes to figure this out. That was all that the rules allowed for a medical time-out.

“You don’t want to aggravate the injury.”

I knew where this conversation was heading. “I can’t withdraw. That’s out of the question. That’s off the table.”

The trainer nodded. “I understand. Do you want tape?”

“Is Ms. Parker-Barrow able to continue?” the chair umpire asked.

“Yeah. Let me tape up her ankle.”

The trainer wrapped me up with tape. Around and around, my foot, my ankle, and up my calf. The tightness was uncomfortable, but I suspected discomfort was going to be the least of my problems.

The trainer took my hand as I stood. Pain sliced through me. Visions of me hobbling across the backcourt as Maria hit balls right by me passed through my head.

“Play will resume. Thirty seconds.”

I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. Many athletes played hurt. Tennis players were no exception. This might be the only Open final I’d ever play. I couldn’t let this slip from my grasp. I wouldn’t.

The crowd clapped as I took my spot near the baseline. Maria had one more serve. It didn’t seem likely I’d be able to return it, but I was one point up in the tiebreaker. If she won this point and I won both points on my serve, the match would be mine. I rolled my shoulder, wondering how much power I’d be able to put behind my strokes.

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