I remained in my seat for a couple of seconds, utterly stunned, as Travis Connolly’s grand slam victory was announced. He’d done it! In spite of his accident, his hard work had paid off and he was now racing off the court and toward his team—Peter, Marie, Austin, Samuel and a few others. I was a few rows back, which was perfectly understandable given that the only link I had to Connolly was the fact we shared the same training facility. Though looking at him now, he probably didn’t need Los Carlos any more. He was back on form, the world at his feet once more. Hopefully, if I worked hard, I’d be in his position one day. Not winning the men’s title, of course, but I, Virginia Miller, could be another British tennis champion.

I had a long way to go, obviously. I wasn’t even seeded yet, never mind in the upper echelons. But I was determined, if nothing else.

Shaking my aspirations from my thoughts, I carefully pushed my way through the excitable crowd to get down to the group from Los Carlos. I knew I was lucky to be there in the first place. As someone so low down on the sporting career ladder, I should really have been back at the academy, working my arse off, but apparently Austin had been feeling generous and thought I should have first-hand experience of a major tournament. I hadn’t had the heart to tell him I’d been to Wimbledon a couple of times already. It had practically been on my doorstep back in London, and a visit at an early age had sparked my love of the sport in the first place. Plus there was no way I was going to turn down the chance to visit a foreign tournament. Especially since Nadia was playing. And she’d gotten right through to the final.

Nadia chuckled. “Of course not. He may be coaching Travis Connolly and Rufus Lampani for the US Open, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to clean up his mess.” She pointed with her chin over to the machine Peter had just vacated. “Come on, V, I’ll show you how I’m going to deal with this.”

I followed her, grinning. Her tone told me that it was going to be something fun. Well, for us, anyway. Probably not for Peter.

Sure enough, when she returned from the room off the side of the gym, she had a pad of paper and a pen in her hands. Deliberately shielding the pad from my view, she wrote something down, then pulled off the top sheet. Folding it, she then propped it on the sweat-slicked seat so the writing was on view to anyone who happened past.
When I’d read and absorbed the words, I turned to Nadia, impressed. Her smile lit up her face, showing dimples in each cheek, and her brown eyes gleamed with amusement.

It was in that moment that I decided I had the serious hots for Nadia Gorlando.

The sign read,

PLEASE EXCUSE THE STATE OF THIS MACHINE. PETER ROSS, TENNIS COACH SUPREMO, “LOST TRACK OF TIME”.

Nadia Gorlando and I had just gotten off the exercise bikes in the gym when one of the academy’s coaches, Peter Ross, headed over to us, all smiles.

“Hey, Nadia,” he said, his all-American grin widening and his blond hair flopping down over his forehead, “I need a huge favor.”

I flicked my gaze to Nadia. She raised one of her perfectly shaped eyebrows and waited for him to continue. He did.

“I totally lost track of time just now and I have an appointment with Travis Connolly. Would you mind wiping down my machine for me? Or maybe stick a note on it saying it’s out of order? I don’t want to leave it all sweaty for someone else. You’ll be doing me a real solid. I’ll owe you.”

My jaw almost hit the floor.

Now Nadia rolled her eyes, looked over at the offending machine, then back at Peter. “Sure, I understand,” she said, as cool as ice. “The world’s number one can’t wait. Go right ahead—I’ll fix it for you.”

He babbled a load of thanks, then jogged out of the gym.

I gaped at her. “You’re not going to do it, are you?”