Page 22 of Ignition

The dull sound of his racket hitting the ball for the opening serve reached my ears, and my feet moved of their own accord, the familiar buzz of adrenaline humming under my skin as I intercepted it. The ball became a blur as I sprinted all over, skidding on gravel to parry it back.

We settled into a comfortable sort of competition, and before I knew it, we were tied. My breath was coming out in sharp little pants, my legs cramped from the exertion, and the salty-sweet tang of sweat beading on my brow pricked my nose.

The ball flew in a volley my way, and with a grunt, I backhanded it hard.

My heart swelled in anticipation as time slowed.

Pristine rubber-soled trainers squeaked on gravel as he skidded to a halt, and missed the parry by a split-second.

My lips curled into a victorious little grin as I wiped my brow so the sweat wouldn’t get in my eyes.

“Damn,” he panted. He strode my way and stopped in front of me, holding out his hand.

“Good match,” we both said at the same time as we shook.

Up close, I had another glance at him: square jawline, high cheekbones, but it was the incandescent smile and the dimple in his left cheek that put me at ease.

And maybe it was the endorphins of the game—or the fact that nobody but Pri had so much as smiled at me in this place—but I found myself grinning back, a genuine one this time.

“She can play,” a smooth drawl rang out from behind me.

An all-too familiar tingle crept down my spine.

My shoulders stiffened at once.

No… Not you. Not here.

The tennis court morphed from sanctuary to something else in the blink of an eye.

“She can also hear you,” I mouthed under my breath.

Stomach sinking, with the air of heading to the guillotine, my hand slid from Liam’s, and I turned.

Josh was standing with his arms crossed over his chest, leaning against a pole and watching us with an amused quirk to his mouth. And of course he’d stepped out of Menswear Weekly, Sports Edition. While most opted for white and beige combinations, he wore pants and a cap in dark green, pristine white trainers, and a polo shirt—everything impeccable, as though it had been unboxed for this very occasion.

The clothes seemed almost… tailored to him. They probably are, I reminded myself. My jaw ticked, a scathing remark fizzing on the tip of my tongue.

My gaze flicked down before I could stop it. The muscles in his lightly tanned arms flexed over his chest, sinews and veins standing out in his forearms.

I immediately wanted to pour bleach into my eyes.

What are you doing? He’s literally evil.

I wiped myself down with a towel, taking more time than I needed. And little though I wanted to admit it, the cold fabric felt incredible over my flushed skin.

Maybe these people aren’t as clueless as I thought.

Nausea crawling up my throat, I frowned at the cooler, then at Josh, for lack of something to glare at.

“Intimidated?” I taunted, flashing him a look that was both challenge and warning.

He gave me his customary slow once-over that made me feel like I was somehow breathing wrong. His smile landed closer to a baring of teeth as he plucked a racket from a monogrammed bag.

I resisted rolling my eyes with superhuman effort. Instead, I gestured with my head towards the pitch and let myself picture wiping that smirk off his face.

His eyes shone with something like wicked delight as he gave Liam a nod as if to dismiss him—the audacity of this guy—and ambled onto the pitch, the racket meeting his palm in sharp, impatient smacks, belying the casual ease dripping off him.

I wasted no time throwing him a hard serve, the dull thwack echoing in my ears, before his trainers thudded on gravel.