Challenging the Center (Santa Fe Bobcats #6)(42)

Assholes. He was surrounded by them.

“I’m going to say this once because you’re a good guy, Matt. I know you’ll respect me when I tell you this.”

Matt leaned closer, eyebrows raising in curiosity.

Michael scooted in until their heads were nearly touching and lowered his voice to just above a whisper. “If you ask her out, I will rip your heart out through your throat, stuff it up your ass, and kick your lifeless carcass into next week.”

Matt cracked up, standing and slapping a hand on his shoulder. “Roger that, oh wise mentor man. Lambert’s got it baaaaaad,” he sang softly, shuffling away in his shower shoes toward his own locker.

Assholes. Assholes everywhere.





Chapter 12





Kat walked into the tennis center, prepared for anything. And yeah, okay, nervous as everloving hell. Michael had loaned her his SUV, which had shocked the hell out of her when she realized it in the morning. Driving a car that didn’t belong to her had been intimidating.

But more than that, she was worried about what was to come. It had been a long time since she’d gone coach shopping. Even temporarily, she was hoping this person could give her an edge on the court beyond what she’d already learned at this point. Peter had sounded… skeptical when he’d called with the information. But she also got the impression that beggars couldn’t be choosers, and she should take what she got.

Since she hadn’t clicked with the conditioning trainer he’d found for her, she was cautious, at best, about this. And more than that, why had Peter sounded so unenthusiastic about this pairing?

“You Kelly?”

Kat squinted into the darkness of the lobby, but her eyes weren’t adjusting fast enough to make out more than the general shape of the speaker. “Yes, Kat Kelly. I’m here to meet—”

“Me.” An older gentleman walked around from the desk and approached. As her eyes finally adjusted, she took note of him. He wore a Hawaiian-print shirt with sailboats all over it, simple khaki shorts, and white athletic socks that went halfway up his calves to go with his tennis shoes. If he was younger than seventy, she’d have been shocked. “Gary Brustover.” He held out a hand, and after a quick second of surprise, she shook.

The older man’s hand was curled oddly in hers, almost as if he couldn’t fully straighten it. When he took it back, she realized that he actually couldn’t.

His eye caught the path of her gaze, and he held up the hand. “Arthritis, carpal tunnel, God knows what else. The hands don’t work like they used to. But this…” Gary tapped one curled finger against his temple. “This doesn’t forget. And my eyes are as sharp now as they were when I was twenty. Carrots, you know.”

“Huh, really,” Kat said because she had no clue what else to say.

“No, not really! Gullible people are a pet peeve of mine.” Gary narrowed his non-carrot-enhanced eyes at her. “Gullible people are a nuisance. You gullible?”

“I’m here, aren’t I?” she muttered, which made him laugh instead of offending him.

“Right, well, I’m probably not your coach’s first choice. Or his third or fifth.”

“I believe you were second to last, just above Donald Trump.”

That set him off laughing again. Kat hitched her bag over her shoulder.

“Look, I get that my coach wants to humble me, and that’s fine. But I’m in a do-or-die sort of situation now, so if this is a big joke, then—”

“Who said we were joking?” Gary stopped laughing suddenly as if cut off at the pass. “Tennis is serious business. But you more than anyone should know you can have a little fun on the courts.” He turned to walk back toward the desk. “Or was that not you I saw online, dancing with one of the ball boys between sets at Wimbledon? Or doing the chicken dance in formal wear in someone’s pool?”

“Chicken fight,” she muttered. Kat’s face burned, and she turned toward the Plexiglas that separated the lobby from the courts. A foursome of older gentlemen who looked to be Gary’s age were playing doubles on court two, and a man in his twenties was giving a semiprivate to two teenage girls who looked ready to drop into faints at how cute their instructor was on the closest court. The other courts—she counted five others from this angle—were unoccupied.

“So I have some fun,” she said quietly. “I still take my training seriously.”

“You’re not scared of losing, I’ll give you that.”

“How do you know?” She let her bag fall to the floor. If they weren’t going to play, she’d rather not heft the weight around. “Maybe I’m terrified of losing. Who doesn’t hate to lose?”

“Hating to lose and being scared of it are two different things. What I saw, in the few matches of yours I could find, was not a player who was scared of losing. Not the way you played. That wasn’t your problem.”

The way she played wasn’t working. Kat shrugged and watched as the young tennis instructor on court one demonstrated a two-handed backhand for his pupils. The girls just giggled.

“Ninnies,” Kat muttered.

“Yes, they are. If we had another female coach, I’d have given them to her. Then maybe they’d get something done.” Gary smiled a little. “That’s my grandson, Thomas. He’ll be helping me when we work. They’ll be done in a few minutes.”