Luke smiled with practiced ease. “My pleasure, Amber. Hey, which court is Jesse McAllister playing on?”
Amber checked a schedule on her desk. “Oh, he’s over on court number two. Do you know the way? I can show you—”
“No, that’s okay. I know the way.” He smiled again before hurrying off.
Jesse was nowhere to be found, and Luke eventually tried the locker room. He spotted a flash of blond hair, and his mouth went dry as he saw Jesse, naked except for the towel he was drying his back with. His ass was high and round and damn spectacular. Luke thought about what it would be like to—
“Hey, aren’t you Luke Rossovich?”
“Huh? Yeah, yeah I am.” Luke cleared his throat and stuck his hand out to the man who had just entered the locker room. They shook hands and made small talk while Jesse, who had whirled around when he heard Luke’s name, yanked on his clothes as fast as possible. Luke watched him from the corner of his eye, and finally his admirer went on his way.
“Jesse.”
Jesse plastered on a fake smile. “Hey. How’s it going? I was just leaving.”
Luke blocked his path. “I wanted to talk to you.”
Jesse looked around and leaned in, lowering his voice. “There’s nothing to say. I thought you were…look, I made a mistake. So let’s just forget about it and not say anything more.”
“Jesse—”
A group of men entered the room, laughing and talking loudly. Jesse used the distraction to bolt for the door, and Luke was about to follow when one of the men slapped him on the back. “Luke Rossovich! Hey, guys, look who it is!”
Luke swore under his breath and let Jesse go, turning to the men with a smile that probably bore more resemblance to a grimace. When he escaped, he looked for Jesse in the clubhouse, but he was long gone.
As he drove home, Luke sped along the freeway until red lights flashed in his rearview. He pulled over with a muttered curse and rolled down his window, waiting for the cop to amble over. “Good afternoon, Officer.”
“License and registration.” Great, the cop didn’t seem to be in the mood for small talk. Luke fished his paperwork out of the glove box and handed it over with his license.
The man looked it over and peered closely at Luke. “You the tennis player?”
Luke smiled sheepishly. “Yeah, that’s me. Sorry if I was going too fast. There was a good song on the radio and I guess I just got carried away.”
The policeman’s mouth curved into a small smile. “You know, I won two hundred dollars on your last Wimbledon title.”
“Yeah, I beat the odds on that one.” Luke grinned.
“You think I could get an autograph for my wife? She’s a big fan.”
“Sure! My pleasure. If you give me your address, I’ll send her an autographed picture.”
The cop scribbled down the info on the back of his pad. “Her name’s Nora. I wrote it down for you. Her birthday’s coming up; it would be a nice surprise for her.”
“No problem, I’ll send it off tomorrow.”
“Now, you were going about twenty miles over the limit, Mr. Rossovich.”
Luke waved his hand. “Please, call me Luke.”
“Okay, Luke. I’ll let you off with a warning, just this once.” The cop winked.
“Thanks, Officer …” He consulted the paper in his hand. “…Johnston. Much obliged. And I’ll be sure to keep to the limit from now on.”
“You do that, Luke.”
Luke smiled again, nodding goodbye. His celebrity certainly came in handy at times; he couldn’t complain. When he arrived home, he went to his office to dig up a glossy headshot to send to Nora Johnston. He made a bad joke about speeding and signed it with a flourish.
As he got up to leave, his eyes wandered over to the bookshelf in the corner. A row of DVDs lined one of the shelves—footage from the best moments in his career. He ran his fingertips across the labels, which were starting to yellow a bit. Night was falling and the living room was almost in darkness. Luke flicked the TV on and played one of the DVDs.
He sank to the floor in front of the couch, looking up at the big TV. Suddenly there he was on court at Wimbledon. It was the second year that he won, when Phillipe Robichaud took him to five sets. He fast-forwarded. The blue light of the TV flickered, casting long shadows across the room.
He watched the final game, which he ended with an ace up the middle at almost a hundred and thirty miles an hour. He sank to the grass onscreen, throwing his hands up in the air. The camera cut to the friend’s box, where his mother sat with his coach. Nikolai was standing up, shouting with joy, pumping his fists. He’d been beautiful—tall, ebony-black hair, sculpted muscles. He had a warm smile, a gentleness to him.