Invincible

Her hitting partner shrugged his shoulders and said, “Why don’t we call it quits?”

“You heard him,” she said. “I need to practice.”

“I didn’t plan to be here all night. You’ll have to find someone else to hit with you,” he said as he stuffed his racquet back into his bag.

Kristin stared at the teenage boy in disbelief. “My father is paying you—”

“Not enough,” the kid said. “See you tomorrow morning.”

Kristin stood on the court, her shoulders slumped, knowing she couldn’t head back to the locker room for at least another hour without getting grounded. That was her father’s favorite punishment, and it worked because she hated being confined indoors in some motel or hotel while on the road.

She heard someone behind her say, “Hey, kid. I’ll hit with you.”

She turned around and saw an older boy, with the most beautiful blue eyes she’d ever seen, standing on the opposite side of the court. It took her a moment to recognize him. “I know you. You’re—”

“In need of some hitting practice,” he said with a grin. He retrieved a racquet from his bag and dropped the bag on the sideline. “I was practicing my serve on the next court over. I couldn’t help overhearing your coach. Sounded like he was a little tough on you.”

“My dad just wants me to be the best I can be,” she said. “Aren’t you—”

A tennis ball was coming at her fast and with a lot of spin. She interrupted herself to hit it back. When the ball was on his side of the court she finished “—Max Benedict?”

“That’s me,” he said, whipping the ball back at her. “What’s your name?”

She could hardly believe she was hitting with one of the top five male players on the junior tour. A fifteen-year-old! She took a small backswing and slammed the ball back at him. Max Benedict was also a hunk.

“My name’s Kristin Lassiter,” she blurted. She felt a blush starting at her throat at just the thought of a boy as good-looking as Max being romantically interested in her. Which she knew was ridiculous. He dated older women. As opposed to barely teenage girls, like her.

“You’ve got great strokes, K,” he said as he tried to lob her.

She backed up to get the ball that had been hit high into the air and slammed it back down at him. “My name’s Kristin, not Kay,” she corrected.

“The letter K’s easier to say,” he replied as he ran for her overhead and snapped it back down at her.

Kristin struggled to get out of the way, so she could return the ball, but she was tired and her feet wouldn’t move. “Ah!” she cried as she swung and missed.

“Finally!” he said as he trotted to the net. “I was beginning to think you’d never miss.”

She crossed to the net, shoving flyaway curls off her face. “I miss plenty. Just ask my father.”

“You’re great, kid. Don’t let anyone tell you different.”

“You’re just saying that.”

“Why would I lie?”

She eyed him askance. “I don’t know. Why are you playing with me? I mean, you’re really a great player. And you’re two years older than me.” She flushed at having revealed that she knew his age.

“You remind me of my younger sister, Lydia,” he said, tucking a curl behind her ear. “She’s thirteen, too. I couldn’t imagine Lydia putting up with a tenth of what your dad put you through tonight. I’ve had my own problems with well-intentioned parents. I guess I wanted to help.”

Kristin rose to her father’s defense. “He just wants me to win.”

“There are more important things than winning,” Max said.

“Name one thing,” she challenged.

“Having fun. Enjoying the game,” he replied.

“It wouldn’t be much fun if I didn’t win,” she pointed out.

“Wouldn’t it?”

She made a face. “I don’t know. I’ve never thought about it much. I’ve been too focused on winning.”

“Next time you play, think about having a good time. And winning,” he said with a grin. “I’m sure you’ll do just fine. Gotta go.” He winked at her and waved a hand at someone behind her.

When she turned to look, she saw a female player—someone on the women’s tour, rather than the junior tour—waiting for him on the sideline. He dumped his racquet in his bag, stalked over to the woman and kissed her on the lips.

He never looked back.

That was all it had taken for Max Benedict to capture her heart. A few minutes hitting tennis balls together. A considerate word of encouragement. A stray curl tucked behind her ear. A wink as he walked off the court. She’d loved him from that moment on.

Kristin grunted with disgust, then realized she was standing in an airport waiting area full of people who might wonder what she found so disgusting. She grimaced and crossed to stare out the windows at the traffic crawling by. What a fool she’d been all those years ago. She’d been well aware her feelings of love weren’t mutual. To Max, she’d been a substitute for the little sister he apparently missed while traveling on the tour.

He’d often come to hit with her on the practice court during that summer at Wimbledon, at times when her father wasn’t around.

Max made her believe in herself. He made her believe she could have fun on the tennis court. He made her believe she could win.

She became invincible.

She won the Girls’ Singles Championship that summer at Wimbledon and the next two years, as well. She won at Roland Garros in Paris. And she was the Girls’ Singles U.S. Open Champion at thirteen, fourteen and fifteen. She was the bright future of American tennis. The public was fascinated by the tall, honey-blonde phenom, a killer without mercy on the tennis court—who looked like an angel off of it.

Her tennis career ended abruptly at age sixteen, when she lost in the Wimbledon Girls’ Singles Championship match to the rival she’d beaten the previous two years. When she’d discovered, with frightening, daunting clarity, that she wasn’t so invincible after all.

Kristin heard a commotion and turned around.

“Mom?” Felicity burst into tears as she bolted out of the doorway from customs.

Kristin barely had time to take two steps and open her arms before her daughter threw herself into them. She could feel Flick trembling and felt her insides clench at the sound of her daughter’s wrenching sobs. She tightened her grip to offer comfort. Why was Flick so distraught? What was going on?

“Mrs. Lassiter?” the chaperon who’d accompanied Flick through customs inquired. The elderly woman was small and compact and wore a tailored wool suit that might have been comfortable in Switzerland but looked out of place in Miami.

“I’m Special Agent Lassiter,” Kristin said, to avoid having to explain that it was Ms. not Mrs., since she’d never been married.

“There was an incident on the plane—”

“It wasn’t my fault!” Flick protested. “I told them I didn’t want anything to eat, but they wouldn’t believe me.” Flick was tall for her age, and because her vocabulary was so grandiloquent—Flick’s own description of her extravagantly colorful speech—she was often mistaken for a child far older than she was.

Kristin could imagine the rest. “I’ll be glad to pay for any damages.”