A/N: Thank you for the reviews. I'm glad you guys like, and I hope you'll enjoy this next chap!
And about my lack of updating my other fics, all I can say is patience is a virtue … coughhiatuscough (I know, I know I suck). But I rather update when I have more time with a decent chap, instead of now with a crappy one. Anywayz, I've had this chapter written for a long time now, but didn't post it yet so here it is …
"You have to pressure her, Spencer. Don't let her get into that match. This girl's got game, but you're better. You just need to shut off that big mouth of hers."
Meet Glen. My coach/manager/brother. And no, putting 'brother' in last wasn't a coincidence.
Apparently he saw this chick play. I on the other hand, still haven't and I couldn't care less. I've come to the conclusion that her mouth's probably bigger than her game. She wouldn't be the first.
"I'm giving you 20 of my profits, for this kind of advice? We seriously need to revaluate that contract of yours."
"You give me 20 , cause I'm the one who brought you this far and keeping you here."
"Oh is that so? Last time I checked, I was the one who was winning the trophies."
"When are you gonna get off that high horse of yours and stop being a bitch?"
"When are you gonna stop being an ass?" I retort quickly.
I don't hate Glen. Well, not entirely anyway. But when you travel around the world with your brother, constantly breathing down your neck and watching your every move, you get pissed easily. That's why you should never mix family with business.
I do though.
Maybe I pity him. Maybe I just want a familiar face around once and awhile. But he's here with me, and he isn't going anywhere.
"Whatever."
"I have to get going. Did you prepare my drinks?"
"Yeah, they're in the kitchen of the playerslounge."
"Did you string my rackets?"
"Last time I checked, the stringer was still working on them. I'll send them to you once he's done."
"Good. I'm off. See you after the match."
Or maybe I just like bossing my brother around.
I'm well into my pre-match warm-up, when I hear someone enter the locker room. Glen already had sent in my rackets, so I was positive that the person that came in was my adversary of the day. I don't look back, but simply glance in the large mirror in front of me as I immediately intensify my previous movements.
I constantly look in the glass before me, desperately trying to finally spot this mystery challenger. I lower my gaze, after five minutes of waiting for her to make an appearance and end my warm-up with some leg-stretching.
I bend my right leg, until my right thigh is parallel with the ground while I gradually lower my body. I feel the stretch along the front of my left thigh and along the hamstring of my right leg. I can feel the pulling sensation, and it slightly hurts. But it hurts so damn good.
As I lift my head and turn to face the left, my gaze lingers for a moment in the glass in front of me.
And surely, there she is.
She stands about a feet behind me. Watching me with her chestnuts brown eyes, through the mirror, with a hypnotizing intensity. Her auburn curls are hidden neatly under her black bandana, that is draped with little white sculls. Her curvaceous body is clad in a black tank exposing her tan shoulders, and a barely there frayed jean skirt that exposes more skin then it hides . I want to look away from her, but I unexplainably can't.
I'm tongue-tied.
"Are you gonna stay in front of that mirror forever doing your goofy tricks, or you gonna move. Cause unlike you, I wanna look good when I'm on that court."
I scoff, turn around and continue stretching my left leg.
"Hey, superstar. I'm talking to you."
I stop my actions and twirl around abruptly, annoyed by her demeanour. I look her up and down before raising both my eyebrows.
"Like what you see?"
"You can't wear that. This isn't a fashion show, superstar."
"Oh, yeah than what show is this, exactly?"
I glance at her, hand her my trademark-smirk before I spin back around to face the glass.
"My show." I answer simply.
"Well sorry to ruin your parade than, but I wear what I want, when I want it."
"Look I'm just saving you from a trip back to the locker room once your on that court. No way the referee will let you play with that."
"Like, you care whether I have to return to change or not."
"I don't. I'd just like to get this over with as quickly as possible. I got more important stuff to take care of."
"Oh don't worry. It'll be over quickly. Your ass is mine Carlin." She taunts confidently.
"I'm scared shitless."
"Whatever. Just move out of my face already."
Growing tired of the hostile conversation, I stroll away from the mirror and head to a bench located in the middle of the room and proceed to straddle it.
"Oh, and for your information, I've been wearing this outfit the whole week and not a single umpire jumped my back. But I guess you're too absorbed in your own queendom to even notice."
"You know what, why don't you just shut the fuck up and let your game do the talking instead of that big mouth of yours."
"Oh I'm going to let my game talk alright, don't worry about that. Just don't go crying to mommy dearest once you get your ass kicked."
"See, I'm trying to figure out how a no name like you, who probably plays worse than my grandma on crack, is going to even remotely come close to beat me."
"Growing hostile, I see. I thought you were the calm one? Nothing bothers you, right? Well, that's what I heard on your ESPN-special anyway. What's wrong Carlin? You scared?" She continues taunting while, stepping closer and closer into my personal space.
"I … Just … You …" I rambled, not knowing what to make of this girl.
Just then, the door flies open as the head-referee steps inside.
"Five minutes, until the game starts. The ballgirls will come in shortly to lead you through the catacomb."
We nod our heads towards the middle aged woman, before she disappears through the door and leaves us in the agonizingly quiet locker room. We simultaneously head to our lockers, packing the last of our supplies in our tennisbags. We're both rapidly packed and silently continue waiting for the ballgirls to come. The tension is killing me, as I steal a couple of secret glances of the auburn haired tempest next to me.
After what seemed an eternity, two excited tweens enter the locker room and take our bags, before leading us through the dark and cool catacomb. We both saunter through the long pit and I can't help but notice the confident posture of the girl next to me. She's walking erect with her head held high. Chin up and shoulders rolled upwards. I can't help but gulp at the prospect of what may come.
The stadium-announcer pronounces her name through the mic, and wild cheers are followed from out the stands. She's about to step on the court, when she turns around to face me one last time and smirks.
"May the best bitch win."
