Chapter 3 SERVE.

RAINE.

A girl walking past pointed me west when I asked. So I ran that way.

Wrong direction.

Another guy pointed me straight back toward the entrance I just came from.

"Oh my God," I yelled at the sky, threw a thanks over my shoulder and kept moving.

This campus was huge. Who needs this much grass between a person and a tennis court she was supposed to be on fifteen minutes ago? My lungs were on fire. My legs felt useless. No matter how fast I ran, the courts stayed far away.

Then I saw a motorcycle.

That was my only chance.

I stepped right in front of it and threw my hands up.

The bike screeched to a stop so hard the front wheel jerked sideways.

"Are you insane?" he shouted.

"Tennis," I managed to say.

"What?"

"Tennis court. I need to —" I bent over, hands on my knees, trying to breathe. "I need to be there."

"Then walk."

I looked up at him, annoyed.

Was everyone here rude?

"And you don't think I thought of that?" I snapped, everything coming out in one rush.

I couldn't see his face because of the helmet, but I could tell from his voice he was a guy. And tall. Even sitting on the bike, he towered over me.

Seeing that he was wasting time and hadn't moved a muscle, I walked to the back of his bike.

With my racket still strapped to my back, I climbed on behind him and grabbed his jacket with both hands.

I was desperate. I wasn't thinking straight. Worst thing that could happen? He shoves me off.

"Okay, you are officially insane!" He twisted around to stare at me.

"I am. Now drive. Tennis court. Or I will put you in the back and ride this thing myself," I threatened.

I waited for him to push me off and speed away. He didn't. He laughed. A long, tired laugh that shook his whole body.

He pulled the spare helmet off the front of his bike and pushed it into my hands.

"Put this on," he said. "I have never met a girl this crazy before."

I chose to take that as a compliment.

I shoved it on crooked.

"You can let go of my ribs," he said over his shoulder.

"I'm not."

"You're squeezing."

"I'm trying not to die."

"We're going twenty miles an hour."

"Feels like eighty."

He didn't argue further, just gunned it, and the wind ripped past my ears while the courts finally, mercifully, grew from a smudge into an actual building with bleachers and people.

He skidded to a stop at the entrance. I peeled myself off before the bike fully settled, legs numb, and bolted.

"Thank you!" I yelled.

"You forgot your—"

I was already ten feet away. "What?"

He held my racket bag up over his head, half my books still visible spilling out of the top.

I stopped dead. Stared at it. Stared at him.

"Right." I jogged back, grabbed it, and kept running before I could feel as stupid as I probably looked.

The sound hit me before I even reached the gate.

Thwack.

Shoes squeaking against hard court.

Thwack.

Someone shouting a score. A scattering of applause.

I slowed as I turned the corner, because the energy of the place changed the second I saw it.

Bleachers half full. A scoreboard glowing on the far wall. Players moving with clean, sharp precision. This wasn't college fun tennis. These were athletes who had been doing this since childhood.

And here I was. Jeans, ruined hoodie, hair stuck to my face, chest heaving, textbooks sticking out of my racket bag.

Eyes glanced in my direction. Some stayed and began whispering while others looked away

I straightened my spine anyway. My mother didn't raise a girl who shrinks.

I walked to the nearest table. Two judges sat there, a man and a woman, clipboards and stopwatches in hand, unimpressed looks on their faces.

"I'm here for the mixed-doubles trial," I said, breathless.

Silence.

One judge lifted his eyes to mine. "Who are you?"

"Raine Rhodes. Transfer student."

He checked his watch, glanced at his clipboard, then at the scoreboard clock, then back at me.

"You're late, Miss Rhodes."

I opened my mouth, then shut it. Being right wouldn't get me on the court. Being polite might.

"I know, sir. Got lost on campus. Ran here." I held up my bag. "I came a long way for this. Please."

The male judge didn't look up. He had the face of a man who had heard every excuse twice and stopped caring.

The woman next to him put her pen down and looked at me. Not mean. Just deciding.

"Walter. We've seen eleven girls today."

"And?"

"None of them made me sit up. One more won't hurt."

Walter blew air through his nose, like I had just ruined his whole day.

"Fine." He glanced at me. "You plan to play in that?"

I looked down at myself. Jeans. Ruined hoodie. "Yes, sir."

He shook his head, as if I was no longer his problem.

"Nothing in the rules says you can't." He tapped his clipboard. "You're last on the roster. Rhodes."

"Thank you, sir. Thank you, ma'am." I was already moving, grabbing my racket, dumping my bag by the fence.

The last girl that must have just played walked past me on her way out. Tall. Blonde. Put together. She looked me up and down.

"You think you have a chance?" She glanced at my clothes. "That spot was practically mine before you walked in."

I didn't answer. No breath to waste on her. She was acting like the spot was her birthright.

The court noise changed when I got to the edge. Tighter. A crowd sound. I followed it and saw why.

A guy stood there. He had his back to me, toweling off. Black compression shirt, soaked down the spine, name stitched small on the shoulder. Built like the shirt was made for him. He grabbed his water, drank half in one go. Every girl by the fence went quiet watching him.

He lifted one hand, a lazy wave over his shoulder to someone in the stands, and three girls near me forgot how to close their mouths.

My stomach twisted. I refused to call it jealousy.

Diane's voice came over the mic. "Last trial of the day. Transfer student, Raine Rhodes."

I looked toward her.

"Since this position requires compatibility with the female player you'll be partnered with, the captain, who's the male player, will conduct the final assessment for the last candidate."

A few murmurs moved through the bleachers.

Diane continued, "Xavier, test her serve, return, movement, and ability to read a partner's game. You know exactly what we're looking for."

Xavier.

The name hit my chest before my head caught up.

The Xavier Lazzaro? The one everyone won't shut up about?

Wow. Okay. Let's see what he's got.

He put his bottle down. Turned around slow, easy, on his own time.

My jaw dropped. I felt it and couldn't stop it.

Him. The insane asshole that rammed into me and ruined my bicycle. That one! So, he'd been the famous Xavier Lazzaro? And also the captain of the tennis club?

Damn!

I was facing him. And that face was staring straight at me, confusion turning sharp.

He recognized me too. I watched his eyebrows pull together.

My hand found my racket grip and squeezed.

Every bit of excitement I walked in with turned into something with teeth.

"Bring it on," I muttered.

I had to get this no matter what. My housing depended on this evening if it was against him.

Xavier just tilted his head, like he was recalculating, and picked up his racket off the bench. Calm. Like he'd never lost on this court.

"Positions," Diane called. "We'll start with serves and returns," Diane called. "Xavier, don't go easy on her. Raine, show us what you can do. You have ten minutes. After we see your serve, return, net game, and movement. Then you'll play three games alongside Xavier. We want to see how well you read each other.”

I walked to the baseline. Legs still shaking from the run, lungs raw, hoodie soaked and anger flaring every muscle in me. Behind me I could hear chattering and cheers. Obviously for him.

I caught a glimpse of smirk across his face.

Xavier bounced the ball twice, eyes on me the whole time, deciding how fast he wanted to end this.

Then he served.

The ball came hard and flat. My legs were still heavy from the sprint across campus, and I was a half-step late. I got my racket up anyway, but the return sailed wide.

Fifteen love.

He didn't gloat. Didn't need to. He just looked at me across the net, and for one second his eyes flickered. Not arrogance.

A warning.