countryman, Jason Dillard. Will you be having an early night tonight?” she asks. Her full, red lips curve into a grin, and I can feel myself harden.
I shift in my seat and lean forward, resting my elbows on the table in front of me. “Well, that depends.” I smirk.
“On what?”
“On whether or not you’ll give me your phone number.”
**
“What the hell, Ryder?” Matt groans and drags me out of the room. I’m sure it’s a preventative measure—before I can get myself into any more trouble.
“What?” I protest, a gleam in my eye. One of my favourite hobbies is stirring him up. He makes it so damn easy. “You’re the one who insisted I go up there and answer some questions. I told you I wasn’t feeling it.”
“You’re going to kill me. My other ten clients put together cause half the trouble you do,” he mutters, running a hand through his short hair.
“Yeah, and I probably make you more money than all of them put together,” I smirk.
He glares at me, but he knows I’m right. “You do understand it’s a requirement that you do a post-match press conference? You know, being the professional player you are, and all.”
Matt is in his late fifties, and one of the best managers in the world of tennis. He worries too much and always focuses on the negative, but I guess that’s part of what makes him so damn good at his job. He is my complete opposite.
“Oh, calm the fuck down. They love me. Everyone does. I’m the bad boy of tennis, right?” I laugh, not concerned in the slightest by his bad mood. I know he won’t stay mad at me; he never does.
“Yes, but you don’t know when to pull it in,” he says. The frustration in his voice is obvious. “Propositioning a reporter? Not a good move, Ryder.”
I laugh. It might not have been a smart move, but it hadn’t stopped her slipping me her number as I walked through the crowd.
“Settle down, Matt. Go out and watch some tennis or something. Don’t you have any other clients here you can hassle?”
“I feel like I need to watch you,” he grumbles, scowling at me.
I reach up and pat him on the back, a laugh escaping from my lips. As if that would make any difference to my behaviour. “Tell you what: just for you, I’ll head back to the hotel and have an early night, okay?”
“Yeah. Sure,” he mutters, shaking his head. “I’ll believe that when I see it. Just remember, it’s your career you’re fucking with. Not mine.”
I laugh again and walk off, leaving him standing outside the pressroom. He just doesn’t get it. Not many people do. With the exception of my little sister, Hailey, and my training partner, Josh, no one really gets me. This isn’t an act. I’m not trying to impress anyone; it’s just how I am. Why pretend to be someone I’m not?
I love tennis, I really do, but the fact that I’m good at it doesn’t mean I want it to consume my life. I’m smart enough to understand that I was born with a hell of a gift, and I’ve used it to my advantage. Because of it, I’ve built a life for myself and my family that most people could only dream of.
But there are a lot of people who think I’m wasting my talent by not reaching the level I can. I’m the fucking number one ranked player in the world. I have twelve grand slams under my belt, and I’ve lost count of how many titles. How much better can I really get?
That’s not meant to sound cocky, either—though I know I sometimes come across that way. Imagine your life is Monopoly, and that every time you play, you win. There has to be a point when you think why do I keep playing this when I know I’m always going to win? Where’s the incentive? Where is the drive?
The late nights, the partying—it’s all my way of pushing myself, believe it or not. If I can win with the world’s worst hangover, exhausted after God knows how many orgasms, then that’s gotta say something about my natural ability, right?
Leaving the stadium, I do go to my hotel—to
I shift in my seat and lean forward, resting my elbows on the table in front of me. “Well, that depends.” I smirk.
“On what?”
“On whether or not you’ll give me your phone number.”
**
“What the hell, Ryder?” Matt groans and drags me out of the room. I’m sure it’s a preventative measure—before I can get myself into any more trouble.
“What?” I protest, a gleam in my eye. One of my favourite hobbies is stirring him up. He makes it so damn easy. “You’re the one who insisted I go up there and answer some questions. I told you I wasn’t feeling it.”
“You’re going to kill me. My other ten clients put together cause half the trouble you do,” he mutters, running a hand through his short hair.
“Yeah, and I probably make you more money than all of them put together,” I smirk.
He glares at me, but he knows I’m right. “You do understand it’s a requirement that you do a post-match press conference? You know, being the professional player you are, and all.”
Matt is in his late fifties, and one of the best managers in the world of tennis. He worries too much and always focuses on the negative, but I guess that’s part of what makes him so damn good at his job. He is my complete opposite.
“Oh, calm the fuck down. They love me. Everyone does. I’m the bad boy of tennis, right?” I laugh, not concerned in the slightest by his bad mood. I know he won’t stay mad at me; he never does.
“Yes, but you don’t know when to pull it in,” he says. The frustration in his voice is obvious. “Propositioning a reporter? Not a good move, Ryder.”
I laugh. It might not have been a smart move, but it hadn’t stopped her slipping me her number as I walked through the crowd.
“Settle down, Matt. Go out and watch some tennis or something. Don’t you have any other clients here you can hassle?”
“I feel like I need to watch you,” he grumbles, scowling at me.
I reach up and pat him on the back, a laugh escaping from my lips. As if that would make any difference to my behaviour. “Tell you what: just for you, I’ll head back to the hotel and have an early night, okay?”
“Yeah. Sure,” he mutters, shaking his head. “I’ll believe that when I see it. Just remember, it’s your career you’re fucking with. Not mine.”
I laugh again and walk off, leaving him standing outside the pressroom. He just doesn’t get it. Not many people do. With the exception of my little sister, Hailey, and my training partner, Josh, no one really gets me. This isn’t an act. I’m not trying to impress anyone; it’s just how I am. Why pretend to be someone I’m not?
I love tennis, I really do, but the fact that I’m good at it doesn’t mean I want it to consume my life. I’m smart enough to understand that I was born with a hell of a gift, and I’ve used it to my advantage. Because of it, I’ve built a life for myself and my family that most people could only dream of.
But there are a lot of people who think I’m wasting my talent by not reaching the level I can. I’m the fucking number one ranked player in the world. I have twelve grand slams under my belt, and I’ve lost count of how many titles. How much better can I really get?
That’s not meant to sound cocky, either—though I know I sometimes come across that way. Imagine your life is Monopoly, and that every time you play, you win. There has to be a point when you think why do I keep playing this when I know I’m always going to win? Where’s the incentive? Where is the drive?
The late nights, the partying—it’s all my way of pushing myself, believe it or not. If I can win with the world’s worst hangover, exhausted after God knows how many orgasms, then that’s gotta say something about my natural ability, right?
Leaving the stadium, I do go to my hotel—to
Similar Books
