Love Game

My agent’s face twisted in a scowl. “No one told me Brad would be here and he sure as hell wasn’t invited. I’ll go find out who’s not going to have a job tomorrow.”

He slipped into the crowd, and I felt Daisy’s hand on my arm.

“What’s that all about?”

“You see that douchebag over there?”

Daisy made a wry face. “You’re going to have to be more specific.”

I nodded my head over the crowd of about fifty guests. “That short, blond-headed weasel with the red tie?”

“I see him.”

“That’s Brad Finn. Ranked number four in the world in tennis and number one in being an arsehole.”

She stood on tiptoe to get a better look. “Why?”

“Lots of reasons. Primarily his tendency to remind me that my father was Samoan.”

Daisy frowned. “Why would that even matter?”

“It shouldn’t. But that sort of thing seems to matter to racist dickheads like him.”

Her bronze eyes darkened. “Ignore him. If he’s that unevolved this late in the game, then he’s not worth the energy.”

“Too late.”

Brad had caught sight of me and waved, a huge, fake smile plastered over his weasel-y face.

“Kai!” he called, and the crowd of photogs turned to follow him and document this moment between rivals.

Brad’s outstretched hand reached for me, his eyes darting to Daisy for a split second.

“Good to see you, man. This is quite the party.”

Conscious of the press snapping photos and listening, I endured his handshake. Then with a rough yank, I pulled Brad in for a “brotherly” hug.

“A party you weren’t invited to,” I said through my own fake, toothy smile

He pounded me on the back. “I had to see for myself who your Groupie-of-the-Day is. She’s a pretty little piece of ass.”

He pulled back with a hearty laugh before I could reply—or punch him in the throat. My blood felt like it’d turned to gasoline and he was the match.

He turned to Daisy. “You must be…?”

“Daisy Watson,” she said icily, and I had to physically keep myself from shoving him away from her.

Brad held her hand too long and his eyes lingered on her cleavage.

“Pleasure to meet you, Daisy,” he said. “When you’re tired of looking at this guy’s ugly mug, feel free to give me a call.”

“Hey, Kai! Brad! Let’s get a picture.”

The other photographers chimed in and Brad, his smile plastered on like the mask that it was, peeled his gaze away from Daisy. We stood side by side for the photogs, smiling as flashes went off and digital cameras clicked.

“I should take you out back and kick your arse,” I said through my teeth.

“Ah, there’s the island savage in you,” Brad said, and my jaw clenched so hard I thought my teeth would shatter. “Careful, Kai. The ATP is watching and you’re already in time-out. One more infraction, and they’ll just hand me the Australian Open trophy right now.”