I check my watch. It’s seven twenty-two. If they were meeting at seven, Dave’s late. What the fuck? Is he going to stand her up? He’d better not pull some shit like that. Not cool.
“So, did Dave text? He’s late, right?”
She shrugs. “I don’t know. We’re set to meet at seven thirty. What time is it?”
“Oh. Guess not then. A few more minutes.” Why do I even care if she gets stood up?
What the fuck is wrong with me?
Okay, so she’s a hot piece of ass that I’m dying to tap, but whether or not she succeeds with her work really shouldn’t matter to me. And whether or not she’s disappointed by some guy she’s going on a fake date with shouldn’t be important to me.
But it is.
Damn. I need to get laid. This is ridiculous.
Tonight. I get fucked tonight. Even if it has to be someone from my little black book. This shit’s fucking with my head. Both of them.
I lean forward, hands braced on my knees. I need to play more often. This is embarrassing.
Just sad. I haven’t lost without scoring once between all the games in probably six years. I can usually at least score one measly point. Best five out of seven didn’t take too long.
“You okay, Ronnie?” Dave takes a swig of water from his bottle.
I hold up a finger, still out of breath.
Jackson meets Dave at the net. They shake hands and chat for a minute, but I can’t hear them for all the wheezing I’m doing at the moment.
Dave and Jackson come my way. I stand, trying to fake that I’m fine. I’m so not fine. That’s it. No more tennis. Since my tits got this big, it’s just not worth the pain and suffering, even with the two sport bras I’m wearing—not enough. And I’m sadly out of shape.
“You’re amazing, Dave.” I smile at him the best I can while still huffing and puffing. Compliment him. He needs to know I appreciate his abilities. “I don’t think I’ve ever had such a talented opponent.”
Dave offers his hand. “Well, good game, and thanks for the fun. I’m afraid I have to get to work.”
Not even the offer of a side-hug.
This is great. I’ve made zero progress in trying to pull Dave in.
Stupid Jackson. Third wheel.
I gather my things from the far end of the court. Dave’s already gone, and Jack waits near the gate. I start down the court, eyes on Jackson as he bends over to tie his shoe.
That ass. Oh my. The memory of it in my hand only days ago sends a shot of fresh adrenaline to my core. Why couldn’t God send me a man like Jackson who actually wants a relationship? One as well put together, but who enjoys women for more than a screw—
The world suddenly tilts as something jumps into my path. A hard thump on my forehead is followed by a flash of pain through my skull.
I let go of my arm full of crap, roll over, and sit up.
Nice.
Follow my miserable set with failing to pay attention to where I walk. I groan, probing the thumping spot on my head. Wetness meets my fingertips.
Jackson runs over, kneeling next to me. “Oh, my God, Ronnie. What happened?”
Great. Dump a little humiliation on top of my disgrace.
I let out a tired breath. “This stupid net jumped out and tackled me.”
Jack chuckles at my sad joke as he whips off his shirt and presses it against my bleeding wound. “C’mon, let’s get you to an emergency room. I think that might need stitches.”
He pulls me to him, holding me tightly to his naked chest with all that muscle under my cheek. “Yes, my head’s throbbing like a bitch, but keep holding me right here against your chest and all that masculine scent. I’m certain I’ll feel better in a few hours.”
His voice rumbles through my head, vibrating in his chest. “Yeah, okay. Now I know you need to go see a doctor. I’ll hold you anywhere you want after they fix you up.”
I pull back. “Tell me I didn’t say that out loud.”
His cocky grin confirms that I did just that.
He pushes his shirt more firmly into place, half of it hanging over my face. “Here, you hold it. I’ll drive. Don’t worry; I’ll let you rub my chest later.”
Jackson stands at the emergency care place and taps the front desk, his tone stern. “I can appreciate that she’s not the only patient, but she’s bleeding. Can we please get her something to stem the flow other than my sweaty shirt?”
I sit in a molded plastic chair, enjoying the entertainment. My head doesn’t hurt too much. It stings like fire, but the headache isn’t terrible. There does seem to be a lot of blood, but I think that’s the norm for a head wound. The girls behind the counter seem determined to keep me in the waiting area as long as possible, probably so they can continue to drool over Jackson’s naked torso. Can’t say that I blame them.