Love. Set. Match. Read online

  Table of Contents

  Excerpt

  Love. Set. Match.

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  A word about the author…

  Thank you for purchasing

  Also available from The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

  “I’m sure Rob won’t hold your past…sparring matches against you. I can certainly see why they hired him. Between his pedigree and good looks, he could be a big numbers boost for them. So much more attractive than Bruno with all that golden Ashton hair and those lean muscles. He wouldn’t look out of place in one of Papa’s movies.”

  Emerson struggled to nod, the knot in her stomach dancing a polka—a really painful polka. Dera didn’t know the truth about her history with Rob. No one did, not even her long-time coach, Zoe, or her grandma. Only her grandpa had known.

  Dera was right about one thing—Rob’s movie star looks made him an ideal candidate for the job. If she pushed through the crashing waves of anger and worry and hurt, she couldn’t deny that the eye-candy factor was off the charts and ideal for a network more focused on gossip than the game. But that didn’t make the situation any better for her.

  Stepping onto the court tomorrow terrified her, more so now than it had when she woke this morning. Playing in her first tournament without Papa Vic broke her heart, but in the last few weeks she’d found a way to push past her grief and focus on the game.

  Love. Set. Match.

  by

  Taylor Lunsford

  Match Set Series, Book 1

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  Love. Set. Match.

  COPYRIGHT © 2019 by Taylor Lunsford

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  Contact Information: [email protected]

  Cover Art by Diana Carlile

  The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

  PO Box 708

  Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708

  Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com

  Publishing History

  First Champagne Rose Edition, 2019

  Print ISBN 978-1-5092-2753-2

  Digital ISBN 978-1-5092-2754-9

  Match Set Series, Book 1

  Published in the United States of America

  Dedication

  To Angela

  for always geeking out with me

  even if we have different favorite players

  ~

  And to Andy Murray

  for inspiring my love of tennis

  Chapter 1

  Thunk. Thunk. Thunk.

  The hollow rhythm of the bright ball hitting the taut racket strings had haunted Rob Ashton’s dreams for almost a year and a half. This time last year had been tough, but not this tough. At least then he’d been alone in his apartment with copious amounts of alcohol and no cameras around to watch him wallow in self-pity.

  Every year for twelve years, he’d stood on the tennis courts surrounding him, ready for the first Grand Slam—the four most prestigious tennis tournaments—of a new season. Now, in the cool early morning as the sun started to stretch across the sky, he watched on the sidelines as the tournament came to life. Ball boys and girls scurried down the paths to their assigned courts. Line judges and referees moved at a more sedate pace, wearing their years of experience like a second skin. The stage production of the Australian Open was about to raise the curtains, and he was stuck in the audience for good.

  But if the last eighteen months had taught him anything, it was that he couldn’t stay away from tennis for too long, or he’d go stark raving mad. He missed the adrenaline high of sitting in the locker room, preparing to step out there before the world in the first big tournament of the year. Someone who hadn’t played the game didn’t know how the anticipation and energy tugged at him until he thought he’d jump out of his skin if he didn’t grab his racket and wail on the ball for his first serve.

  But all that was gone for him. Finished. The career he’d worked for since age four, gone in a blink, and he was still trying to pick up the pieces.

  “Ah, the great Rob Ashton returns. I heard you were back, but I couldn’t believe my best friend would take a job on a third-rate network like Tennis World Wide without telling me.”

  Rob turned. A tall Spaniard decked out in Adidas workout gear stood off to one side, his hazel eyes harder than the surface of the practice courts in front of them. Cruz Guerra, the number one Spanish player on the tour, nodded to the older man behind him, his uncle and long-time coach, waving him off. “Estaré allí en un momento, tío.”

  “So on a scale of one to ten, how pissed are you?” Rob didn’t pull any punches because his friend wouldn’t either. They’d built their friendship on the bluntness of teenage boys away from parents, and that bluntness remained even as adults.

  Cruz’s jaw tightened. “Seis o siete. It’d be higher, but you did have surgery and a long recovery, so I give you some grace.”

  “That’s fair.” Rob’s shoulders sagged, and he loosened his tie. “I should have called. I’m an asshole and a shitty friend.”

  “Maybe. I’ll reserve judgement on that until I hear what the hell you were thinking going to work for TWW. You could have been a coach or a lawyer or anything. Why a reporter?” Cruz set down his travel mug of tea to pull out his racket and a spare ball. He bounced the ball, then tapped it with the racket, carefully controlling the ball’s motion. “You’ve got exactly fifteen minutes before I’m scheduled on the practice court.”

  “Coaching? With my shoulder? Besides, TWW’s not that bad. Except for Bruno.” He watched Cruz, a small twinge of envy ricocheting through him. Although he’d gotten most of his strength back, he still struggled with gripping a racket for more than a few minutes, and he woke up every morning with a dull ache in his shoulder.

  “You could coach kids. You’d be amazing at it. And Bruno Watson spent all last season trying to convince the world that I was a—what’s the word?—manwhore. Any woman who I’d even smiled at after a match, he would try to get an interview with them.” Cruz continued to tap the ball, dark eyes flashing with temper. “He’s gone after Dera, Chessa, Owen, every top player, really, except for Naumov. That hijo de puta can do no wrong in Bruno’s eyes.”

  He opened his mouth to make a snarky comment when movement out of the corner of his eye caught his attention. He turned to watch a woman run past, her powerful legs telegraphing barely contained anger with every stride. Her ebony locks were shorter than he remembered and her skin more golden, but he’d recognize that compactly curvy body anywhere.

  Emerson Grace.

  It’d been almost two years since he’d seen Em in person, but he’d thought about her every day. He’d thought about her and the unanswered questions and the what-ifs that plagued his nightmares for seven long yea
rs.

  “She must have seen Kole’s interview with Bruno from last night,” Cruz commented, shaking his head in disgust. “Still can’t believe she dated him.”

  Nausea and rage mingled with the coffee Rob had hastily chugged down this morning before leaving his hotel room. He’d last seen the world number one when he faced the Serbian champ across the court at the US Open almost a year and a half ago. All it would have taken was one last point, and Rob would have won the title and the world number one ranking. Instead, all he won was blinding, gut-wrenching pain, a new shoulder, and a new career. And while he was recovering, Kole had apparently dated the one woman Rob thought he wanted to spend the rest of his life with.

  “Kole and Emerson? Seriously? What’s a nice girl like her doing with a jackass like Naumov?” Rob kept his words casual, not letting on what he really felt.

  “Nice girl?” Cruz raised one dark eyebrow as he switched to bouncing the ball in the air with an easy flick of his wrist. “Since when do you think Emmy’s a nice girl? You two fight to the death every time you get within five feet of each other.”

  “We do not,” Rob said, grimacing. Cruz was only slightly exaggerating. “We express our differing opinions and debate heatedly on occasion.”

  They used to do other things heatedly—for three incredible weeks seven years ago—but then he’d screwed things up and let her go. His anger simmered, thinking of Em dating a guy like Kole Naumov. The world number one had a reputation on the tour, both for ego and his numerous liaisons.

  “Right. I’m surprised she didn’t stop to slap you or something.” Setting aside his racket and the ball, Cruz pulled one of his arms across his chest, stretching out his triceps. “Well, Bruno’s been going after her pretty hard since the breakup. He’s taken some swipes at your sister too. You really want to work with a guy like that?”

  Shoving his hands through his hair, Rob sighed. “Bruno’s definitely a downside to the job, but I feel like this is something I need to do. We’ve spent years bitching about how awful the tennis coverage is, especially on TWW. I want to try to change that. Make it about the game and the players’ skills, rather than the behind-the-scenes gossip and intrigue.”

  “TWW’s all about the gossip,” Cruz argued, moving to stretch his quads. “Do you honestly think you can change the network’s tennis coverage as the junior correspondent?”

  Damn Cruz for giving voice to the worries Rob had wrestled with since he agreed to take this job three weeks ago. Every time he almost talked himself out of taking the job, he’d reminded himself this was his chance to try to protect his sister and his friends from the type of negative coverage TWW usually thrived on. “I don’t know. But I want to try. I missed being part of the tennis scene, and I’ll never play again, so this is the next best option.”

  Cruz shrugged. “It’s your life, amigo. I just hope you don’t expect this to be easy.”

  “I stopped expecting easy the second I felt my shoulder go, man.” He straightened his tie. “So are we good?”

  The Spaniard studied him for several minutes, dark eyes assessing as he braced his hands on his hips. Finally, he gave a small nod. “We’ll get there now that you’re out from under your rock. Just make sure you don’t fall into the muck with Bruno, or I’ll have to reconsider punching you.”

  ****

  Thunk. Thunk. Thunk.

  The echo of the ball hitting the sweet spot of her racket as she aimed it toward the backboard lulled Emerson, soothing some of her anger and grief, but not completely dampening it. Few people ventured this far out so early in the morning, but she enjoyed the solitude as the sun sent small tendrils of light into the Melbourne sky. This was what she was here for. Tennis. Her career. She couldn’t afford to forget that. Now more than ever, she needed to be on top of her game.

  Staying off tennis courts—even when she’d torn her MCL last September—wasn’t an option. The tennis court was the only place that gave her a modicum of peace, that made the rest of the world fade away. She could find her center, and for a few hours, nothing would exist but her, her racket, the ball, and her opponent. She’d clung to that feeling as she fought to get back in shape for this season, but she’d rejoined the tour at the Australian Open less than twenty-four hours ago, and already the outside world hit her like a battering ram.

  After a few minutes, the squeak of someone else’s athletic shoes echoed across the blue-paved court. Emerson didn’t turn toward the sound, keeping her eye on the fuzzy green ball that could be her greatest ally or her greatest enemy. With a furious backhand swing, she sent it hurtling at the backboard again. Unfortunately, the ball went wide, and she missed it.

  She turned to follow it and found her best friend, Dera Calvet, retrieving the ball with long-legged grace, her soft brown skin gleaming in the fresh light, her hair a wild mass of curled braids spinning from her high ponytail.

  Instead of trying to talk, Dera picked up Emerson’s spare racket and nodded toward the court.

  Before long, the two were hitting the ball back and forth as fiercely as they had in every one of their matchups for the last ten years. They played all out, making trick shots when possible and trying to ace every serve.

  When the ball finally sailed past her on a carefully crafted angle, the French woman waved her racket. “Enough.”

  “Oh, come on, Calvet. You can do better than that,” Emerson teased.

  “Not all of us have been here for two weeks getting ready, Mademoiselle Energetic. Some of us didn’t see our beds until the early hours of the morning for the last two nights.” Dera made her way to the chairs that held their bags and dug out a bottle of water.

  Emerson shrugged, a smile tugging at her lips. Dera was usually a morning person, but the start of the tour always left her cranky. Getting used to the grueling schedule of press appearances, practice, and matches took some time.

  “Some of us know how to get ready to kick ass and take names,” Emerson said, the bravado in her voice false even to her own ears. She didn’t know if she could really do this. The weight of anxiety over the upcoming season, the anger of her recent breakup, and the grief of losing her grandfather in November threatened to bog her down. She’d thought coming down here right after Christmas and avoiding the lead-up tournaments would be enough to get her into shape, but now the Australian Open, the first of the tournaments that earned a tennis player the most points toward world-wide ranking, the most money, and the most prestige of the year, was starting, and she couldn’t get her head on straight.

  “Even with little sleep, I still predict I will have a shorter first round match than you,” Dera teased. “My bracket is easy until fourth round. The benefits of being number two in the world.”

  “Why is it your father’s arrogant side only comes out when we trash talk?”

  “Come, you know my arrogance comes from them both. Maman’s supermodel blood helps me look so stylish when I kick your ass on the court.” Dera set the racket back in Emerson’s bag and turned to study her. “You saw it, didn’t you, cherie?”

  In the way of best friends, Dera could always read Emerson’s moods. She was also one of the only ones who knew the whole story behind the end of Emerson’s relationship with Kole Naumov, current men’s number one tennis player and world class asshole.

  Emerson had spent the last six weeks avoiding any form of media, focusing only on her game. Letting the world in meant acknowledging that her Papa Vic was really gone, that she was starting her first tennis season without her grandfather by her side. He’d been so proud when she and her brother turned pro, but he hadn’t lived to see either of them reach the ultimate goal—winning a Grand Slam.

  “When did he start saying I cheated on him?” Emerson asked, grabbing the spare ball from the pocket of her bright-yellow skirt, tossing it from hand to hand, unable to stay still.

  Dera sighed. “Kole’s been a complete conasse since the breakup, but he started to amp up the nastiness over the last few weeks. For the first month, h
e claimed you were merely on a break, but when you stayed under the radar too long, he started to pull out the daggers.”

  “Damn it. Why couldn’t he be an adult about this?” Emerson tossed up a serve and took a vicious swing at the ball, ignoring the slight twinge in her knee. She should have wrapped it before she started hitting the ball, but she’d been too worked up to think of practicalities.

  “You hurt his pride, choosing your family over him.” Dera took a seat on a nearby bench, stretching her legs out in front of her, her neon-blue shorts gleaming in the sun. “Watch yourself with him. I’ve never seen him so…wounded. He’ll continue lashing out until he feels better.”

  Emerson set her racket aside. “Great. Just great. So I’m mature and don’t tell the world he threw a diva-level tantrum when I wanted to go be with my dying grandfather instead of him, but I’m the one who gets painted as the bad guy in this?”

  Dera held out a water bottle for Emerson. “Men are idiots. Surely you know that by now. They have their uses, but there’s a reason I prefer to date women. They’re usually so much more logical, especially when it comes to emotions.”

  “Speaking of idiot males, was that Rob Ashton I saw talking to Cruz on my way over here? Last I heard, he’d disappeared. Even Maren’s barely seen him since his shoulder surgery, and she’s his little sister.” Emerson bent at the waist, going through a few stretches her physio had given her for when her knee started to ache. She’d had eighteen months of peace and quiet since his shoulder injury forced him to retire. No sniping matches in the players’ lounge, no crossing paths on the practice courts. And absolutely no memories of her heart being ground up in a blender by him.

  After seven years, she shouldn’t care what he did or where he was. Except that every time she saw his strong jaw and silver-gray eyes, every time she took in that tall, lean frame of his, she couldn’t help but feel that old flutter. The flutter was the ghost of a naive girl’s first crush, she told herself. She’d kissed Prince Charming, and he’d turned out to be a frog. Twice, it seemed.