The Unforgiving Minute (3 page)

“You’d
like
to bite him on the ass.”

Ryan threw his napkin at her. She laughed, completely unrepentant. “Look at him. He’s just won the title and his idea of celebrating is dinner in a shirt and tie with his dad
,
his coach, and his physio.”

“Don’t forget the athletic trainer and the hitting partner,” Ryan said snippily. “I don’t know how he manages to get out on court with an entourage that size.”

Elena snorted.

“What?”

“Yes, I’m sure it’s the size of his
entourage
you’re so interested in.”

His napkin gone, all Ryan could do was glare at her.

“Okay, so we’ve decided that the table over there is a socially stunted tennis champion and his paid-for minions. What about the three in the corner? In a his-and-hers relationship and cruising for a threesome?”

Ryan sighed. “They’re parents with their
daughter
, Elena.”

“You sure about that?”

“Considering she looks exactly like her mom… yeah, I’m sure.”

Elena passed him his napkin back, “Because I know you’ll just make a mess otherwise,” and they turned to the serious business of clearing their plates so they could study the dessert menu.

As well as a sports psychologist, Stefan had sent Ryan to consult a sports nutritionist. Ryan was already seeing the difference; he’d lost 3 percent body fat as a result and, more importantly, he was feeling it in his game. The increased muscle mass meant he was more powerful, more agile, and fitter. He rarely deviated from the nutritionist’s plan because it was working so well, but just occasionally he craved something fried, or sugary, or otherwise nutritionally bankrupt. At the end of the first tournament of the season, on a night out with his best friend, Ryan reckoned he could treat himself. He also knew Elena would never tell Stefan. They shared their sinfully indulgent desserts, savoring every last mouthful. They also shared the check, their usual practice.

As he got to his feet, ready to go, Ryan came to a decision. They’d be walking out past Josh Andrews’s table. He might as well make sure Tommy had been right about him. Perhaps Josh had just had his mind set on the upcoming match. Perhaps he hadn’t heard Ryan’s greeting.

As they passed by the table, Ryan paused. The man who had been holding forth about weather conditions in Melbourne—seriously? This was Josh Andrews’s idea of celebrating?—stopped talking and glanced up at him.

“Great game today, Josh,” Ryan said.

Josh looked up from where he was studying the seared salmon on his plate, and then had to look up further. Ryan didn’t think he was
that
tall, but he guessed he was taller than most. “Uh, thanks,” he said.

Ryan let Elena tug him away, but all he could see were those blue eyes, surprise and wariness equally evident in them.

“So, Mr. Josh-Andrews-is-a-dick-and-I’m-going-to-ignore-him-forever, you want to tell me what that was?”

He chose to answer by grabbing her round the waist, swinging her up over his shoulder, and threatening to throw her in the river. It seemed to distract her. That was just as well, because Ryan didn’t have an answer to her question.

Chapter 3

R
YAN
had no time to think any further about Josh Andrews or those blue eyes looking at him, because Stefan seemed determined to have his pound of flesh for Ryan’s two days of almost-holiday. As a result, by the time he walked into Melbourne Park for his first match of the Australian Open, Ryan was in the right headspace and not rushing around like a delighted gigantic puppy at seeing in real life all the places he’d watched on TV when growing up. That didn’t stop him from being nervous as hell in the locker room, but as soon as he walked out onto the sunbaked court, he was in the zone. And that showed itself in the results: he won in straight sets, to the crowd’s approval and his delight.

As he was leaving the locker room, his phone rang. It was his mom and dad, calling to congratulate him. It seemed highlights of his match had been broadcast back at home. Interest in the new up-and-coming American player was apparently running hot. He tried not to laugh too hollowly at the thought of him being a “new” player. This was only the culmination of about eighteen years work, after all. His dad, who had driven him to so many, many lessons and matches before he got scooped up into the USTA training program, sounded choked up during the call, and his mom was openly crying. The Australian Open was the one they’d stayed up late into the night watching together when Ryan was young and had begged every single year to be allowed to do so. They’d been so proud, they said, to see him playing there.

Neither of his parents played tennis and seemed mildly confused by how they’d managed to produce Ryan, but they were as supportive as it was possible for any parents to be. Ryan hoped that one day he’d be winning enough money so that he could send them plane tickets and they could come and explore some of the same places he was now seeing. After watching him lift various Grand Slam trophies, of course.

He was jolted from his pleasurable daydream by the now-familiar sounds of teenage girls shrieking, albeit in a reasonably genteel sort of a way. This was tennis, after all. And somehow, he wasn’t surprised to find that it heralded the approach of Josh Andrews. Surrounded by the inevitable army of men in sweats, he walked past on his way to the locker room, leaving a trail of teenage hormones and unrequited love in his wake. Ryan sighed. He’d been doing so well not thinking about Josh, too.

Determined to distract himself from any more thoughts of Josh Andrews, Ryan took himself to the ultimate inner sanctum of the players’ lounge. He tried his best not to geek out at the prospect, but failed, miserably. Ryan had never been the cool kid. Forget his sleeve; he wore his emotions on his face. So maybe he was grinning from one ear to the other as he walked into the sun-drenched lounge, and maybe that wasn’t the coolest way to make an entrance, but the place was busy so he was pretty sure no one except the lady at the welcome desk saw how big a dork he was. Her professional smile turned into a genuine grin as he gave her a little half wave, just before he tripped over one of the bags that players seemed to have left everywhere.

Half of the lounge was bathed in the sun that came through the wall of windows, but beyond the pool and the ping-pong table, the far end was darker. The blinds were closed and the lighting was dim. Peering down there, Ryan could see one or two players sacked out on the funky-looking couches, either meditating or listening to something through earbuds. Something for everyone, then, including food from the pasta bar and carving station. His stomach grumbled at the thought, but he’d already had his post-match carbs.

Snagging a cold juice from the bar, he found an unoccupied corner in the sunny area, delighted to find the armchairs were far more comfortable than their ultra-modern appearance suggested. He hadn’t seen anyone he knew on his way through the lounge and, while Ryan didn’t usually think twice about plunging into conversation with total strangers, he was too aware of just who these players were to feel easy doing that. Right now, it was enough for him to
be
here; he’d get to know more people over time.

“That seat taken?”

He glanced up and promptly choked on his pineapple juice. Chase freaking Mitchell, universally known simply as Mitch, was standing there, two bottles of sponsors’ beer in his hands. He was looking straight at Ryan.

“Uh, no,” Ryan said, hoping he didn’t have juice running down his chin from the whole choking incident. That would not be the impression he wanted to make on one of America’s top players. Especially not one who was looking as mouth-wateringly hot as Mitch looked at that precise moment. His dark hair was slightly tousled, his smile white in his tanned face, his checked shirt open over a white tank, and his faded jeans cinched with a belt bearing a bronco buckle. It was his signature, the whole cowboy shtick, and hell if it didn’t look good on him.

“Ryan Betancourt,” he said, with a furtive swipe of his—thankfully dry—chin, as Mitch sat down next to him, placing the bottles on the coffee table in front of the chairs. He slid one along to Ryan.

“I know,” Mitch said. “I saw your run at the Open. Gotta tell you, I was impressed.”

“Thanks.” Ryan wondered just what to say that wouldn’t have him gushing like a fanboy. “Sorry you weren’t playing.”

Mitch shrugged. “One of the perks of the job, your body breaking down on you. Especially when you get to my advanced age.”

“You’re not—” And Ryan crashed to a halt, not sure how to say it without being incredibly rude, or achieving the opposite of what he wanted to say, which was that Mitch wasn’t all that old, even for a tennis player. At twenty-nine, he was only five years older than Ryan, and for most of those five years, he’d been one of the top ten players in the world.

“It’s awful nice of you to say so, Ry,” Mitch said, his twang suddenly very pronounced, and Ryan was fairly certain he was being laughed at. “So what brings Ryan Betancourt this far from home?”

“Tennis.” And then Ryan clutched at the bottle of beer in front of him and took a frantic swig, because what the hell, Ryan?
Tennis?

“Well now, ain’t you just full of surprises?” If the twang had been prominent before, now it stretched the words almost beyond recognition.

Ryan tried not to choke on his beer because there was shtick and there was whatever the hell that had been. Corn?

Mitch grinned at him suddenly, a smile that showed the dimples in his cheeks, and damn it, that shouldn’t have been so attractive. And his eyes really shouldn’t be that gray either, because it wasn’t
fair.
Mitch leaned forward slightly, which just happened to draw attention to the way his tank was drawn tight over his chest and abs. “The press love it,” he confided, twang entirely eradicated all of a sudden. “And lots of good press means happy sponsors.”

“I guess,” Ryan said uncertainly.

“So what’s your selling point, Ryan?”

“Excuse me?”

“Me, I’m just a cowboy. Jurgen speaks about eight different languages and knows how to ask for a blow job in all of them. Andrews has his whites—his love of the game is just too pure to be sullied by crass commercialism. Philippe’s married to the Face of Dior. What’s your angle?”

“I, er, don’t know,” Ryan said, turning the bottle round in his hands. He felt somehow lost and not quite happy with the conversation.

“You’re kind of new at all this, aren’t you?”

Ryan nodded.

“Look, it doesn’t mean you love the game any the less or that you’re not working your ass off, it’s just that as a career, being a tennis pro has a built-in expiry date. And that’s if you make it to thirty without a bad injury. Your career could be over before it’s really begun, so you need to look after your future.”

Ryan had never thought of it that way. He’d just wanted to play tennis and hopefully win enough prize money so he could eat and have a roof over his head and maybe buy a car. His dreams might have gotten a little grander since he’d started winning more prize money over the last few months, but he’d never really thought it could all
be taken away from him in an instant.

Mitch was leaning back in his chair now, his legs spread carelessly in an inviting sprawl as he raised his beer bottle to his lips. He looked more like a porn star than a top-flight tennis pro. A really
good
porn star, Ryan amended, as he watched Mitch’s lips wrap round the long neck of the bottle. Mitch took a lengthy drink, his eyes closing briefly at the welcome sensation of the cold liquid, and then gave a small sigh of satisfaction, his tongue flicking out over his lips afterward. God, if that was how he was with a bottle, Ryan could only imagine how he’d be in bed.

He looked away carefully. He didn’t want to scuttle his career when it was just taking off, and hitting on the number-five player in the world would probably qualify as far as career-scuttling went.

“Hey.”

Ryan looked up to find Mitch had shifted in his chair and was once more leaning toward Ryan, creating a sense of intimacy. His eyes were serious. “Stefan might be a good coach, but he doesn’t care about the business side of things. Looks like you might need someone to take you in hand and show you the ropes, so far as all that goes. I could do that, if you want?”

If Ryan wanted? If Ryan wanted Chase freaking Mitchell to spend his time helping Ryan adjust to the world he’d suddenly been thrust into? And he was
so
not going there about being taken in hand by Mitch, ropes and leather chaps being entirely optional. And what the hell, Ryan—leather chaps?

“That would be awesome,” he said, trying to convey the depth of his gratitude without giving any clue to the pictures his imagination was feverishly producing.

Mitch got to his feet. “I’ve got some pressers to do, but I’ll catch you later, Ry.”

Tipping an imaginary cowboy hat to Ryan, he walked away. And Ryan totally did not turn round to watch him go and admire the back view presented by those artfully frayed and beautifully fitted jeans.