Wildcard: Volume One

Chapter One

“Ryder, you’re becoming more well-known for your behaviour off court than your actual career. Do you have anything to comment on that?”

I raise my eyebrows at the reporter. Flashes from cameras are going off everywhere, as you’d expect in a post-match press conference—especially for a game I’d been very lucky to win.

“Not sure what you mean there, Stan,” I say, reading his nametag. It’s been less than two minutes, and I’m already sick of where this is going. “I came here to play tennis—that’s it. It’s a damn shame that reporters like yourself having nothing better to do than focus on what I do in my private time.”

“But is it private time when you’re out until three a.m. the night before a big match?” he persists.

I shrug, and wipe my mouth in an attempt to hide my smirk. “Players prepare for matches in different ways. I’m sure for some a good night’s sleep does the trick, but for me, I’ll take an evening of rough and sweaty sex over a quiet night any day of the week.” I ignore the glare of my manager, Matt, and nod at the next reporter.

“Ryder, do you think your pre-match actions showed disrespect for your opponent today?”

“How?” I fire back. “I treated the build-up to this match just the same as I would if I were playing Nadal or Federer. You all seem to want to focus on my life outside of the court. Does anyone here have any questions about my actual tennis?”

I cross my arms over my chest as Matt bows his head and sighs. A murmur rises through the crowd before someone puts their hand up. I nod, my eyes locking onto hers. She’s a pretty little thing with long, dark hair and stunning blue eyes. I can tell she’s feisty, and I find myself wondering if that attitude carries over into the bedroom.

“You play the number two ranked player in the world tomorrow, and your fellow 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 grab a quick shower and a change my clothes before I pull the hot journalist’s number from the pocket of my jacket. I grin as I punch the digits into my phone and wait for her to answer.

I know she will, because they always do.

“Anna speaking.” Just the sound of her voice makes my cock twitch.

“Hello, Anna,” I murmur. I help myself to the small bottle of scotch that sits on top of the fridge, pouring it into a glass along with three cubes of ice.

“Who is this?” Her voice is coy. She asks in such a way that I know she knows who it is, but I play along.

“You’re in the habit of handing out your number to random guys, are you?” I chuckle and take a sip of my drink, resting on the arm of the chesterfield sofa that faces the fireplace. “It’s Ryder. I was wondering if you had plans tonight.”

“I do have plans, I’m sorry. But I’m not busy right now,” she adds.

I smile. I know exactly where this is heading.

“I’m staying at the Royal, in room forty-six. Come over and we’ll go out. Or stay in,” I add for effect.

“Okay, give me half an hour and I’ll see you there.”

**

I’m standing in front of the door, half naked, when she walks in. I narrow my eyes, wonderi

ng how she got inside. I was sure I locked the door. She grins and holds up a swipe card.

“I convinced them that you had meant to leave a key out for me.”

I shake my head, not sure whether I should be feeling impressed or concerned.

She walks over to me, throwing her bag onto the couch as she passes it. “Are you dressing, or undressing?” she asks me.

I breathe in as her hands run over my bare chest.