A/N: Part two, ahoy! Thanks so much for the encouragement last chapter. I'm really excited about this story.

Some things about Grand Slam mixed doubles: They don't begin until the second Monday. There are only 16 teams of two and only three rounds before the quarter-finals instead of four. Aces are not common in the slightest during doubles matches, for obvious reasons, but this is fiction and I'm calling artistic license. Rory Gilmore can serve some aces in a doubles match if she wants to.

I hope this chapter is to everyone's liking! And JohannaSC, I did not know Matt Czuchry played tennis in college! That makes this story so much more worth it.

A Game of Love | Let The Games Begin

Dreams were an odd thing for Rory Gilmore. They always had been. She imagined they were odd for everyone, but felt they were especially odd for her. Inside her sleeping mind, she knew she was dreaming. Understood that what she felt and saw weren't real—they were images strung together by her subconscious. A personal movie made especially for her by her own brain.

Since she was little, her grandfather urged her to comprehend how important dreams were. He explained their significance, saying the things she saw in her dreams were messages from another version of herself. He said dreams were a product of desire and that she should always take them seriously, no matter how ridiculous she perceived them to be.

So, when she found herself dreaming of the hotel swimming pool at night, stars shining gloriously above her, she was slightly confused. Nobody else was around as far as she could tell, but the water was rippling, reflecting the moonlight in gentle waves. Peering down at her body, she noticed she was clothed only in a two-piece bathing costume and decided this meant she was supposed to enter the pool. She went down the steps, surprised at the warmth of the water considering the time of night, and dipped her head beneath the surface.

Coming up for breath, Rory noticed a shadowy figure lazing on one of the chairs by the pool. They were clearly male, evident in their muscled, bare torso, and they wore lavender-coloured swimming trunks which blended well with their pale skin.

She called out to the man as she stood in the water, her arms waving to keep herself from drifting. He seemed to ignore her, so she called again, louder this time. It made no sense to her, but she felt this urgent need to get him to notice her. He needed to see her, to talk to her. The desperation she felt was unlike anything she had previously experienced. It pulled at her lungs, forcing her mouth to open and shout to the figure once more.

The man sat up slowly, and inch by inch it dawned on Rory who he was. Her face froze.

"What are you doing here?" she questioned, her voice sounding hollow as it echoed off of the water.

Logan Huntzberger headed her way, a smirk pulling at his lips. In the moonlight, he glowed. Rory had seen him shirtless before—after all, she Internet-stalked just about every single player at Wimbledon—but up close he looked more like a god than a human being. Remembering something, she looked at his hip hoping to get a better look at the mysterious tattoo, but as she had never seen it, there was only a black, faded blob. He crouched down by the edge of the pool.

She repeated her question, "What are you doing here?"

Still, he didn't answer. Instead, he crept inside the water, moving waves over Rory's chest and up her neck. He waded towards her, his insistent stare keeping their eyes locked.

Rory wanted to move away. There was a thought itching in the back of her mind—the reason she needed to move away—but she was stuck, as if the floor of the swimming pool had been painted with glue. When he reached her, however, all previous thoughts drifted instantly from her mind. His hands carefully took hers under the water, their fingers lacing together. He squeezed and Rory shivered in response.

"What are you doing here?" she whispered as he took another step towards her.

Logan smiled, a warm kind of smile that reached into Rory's soul. "Don't you know?" he said.

Rory shook her head. "Am I supposed to know? I feel like I'm supposed to know."

"You know," he told her, head tilting down gradually.

Again, Rory felt a nagging sensation, but soon enough Logan's face was so close to hers that for a moment she forgot she was dreaming. But he didn't kiss her. Logan's lips instead moved against her ear, his voice soft and thrilling.

"Tell me that wasn't fun," he said.

Just then, the sky broke open, pouring sunlight over the pair. Blinded, Rory lost of sight of Logan. She closed her eyes tight to protect them from the burning light, and when she opened them again moments later, sun still glaring above her, he had disappeared entirely.

Rory awoke what felt like only a few minutes later to the sound of her alarm blaring. Groggily, she fumbled out of bed and grabbed her phone to switch the noise off. She headed into the bathroom. She was in the middle of washing her face when it hit her: She and Dean were playing their first match that day.

Gripping the sink until her knuckles burned white, Rory stared at herself in the mirror. That dream must have seriously muddled her brain. How could she forget that today was the most important day of her entire tennis career?

Practices had been rough all that week. Even her bones felt tired, which was a whole new sensation for her. Luke had been working her and Dean thoroughly, worried that because of their wild card entrance they were less prepared than the other doubles players. Rory felt he wasn't taking into consideration this was their first Wimbledon. Other than Logan and Paris—who didn't really count as they got a week of playing singles matches before the start of the mixed doubles rounds—every other doubles player had been to Wimbledon, or at least another Grand Slam, before. Of course she and Dean were less prepared.

Rory let go of the sink and sat on the edge of the bath, her breaths coming out quicker and harsher. Just what she needed. A panic attack the morning of her first Wimbledon match. Thankfully, before she could spiral too far into the attack, somebody knocked on the door.

Giving herself a couple of light slaps across the face, Rory headed over to the door and swung it open, revealing her mother and Luke behind it.

"Ah! It's tennis time!" Lorelai screamed, hugging Rory immediately.

"Oof," Rory grunted. "Hi, Mom. Luke."

Luke nodded at her as he untangled Lorelai from Rory. "Sorry about her. I looked away for two minutes to chat with an old tennis buddy and she managed to consume two double espresso shots and a triple chocolate muffin. She's a little hyper."

Her mother confirmed this by shaking her head enthusiastically. "Never leave me alone at a buffet fit for tennis players. I'll eat and drink everything I can get my hands on."

"What even is a triple chocolate muffin?" Rory asked after giving Luke a brief side-hug. She stepped out of the way and allowed the two entrance into her room.

Lorelai gasped. "You are no longer my child."

"Oh, God, how will I ever live?" Rory threw up her arms and landed on the bed. Sitting up, she looked at Luke. "Seriously though, what is a triple chocolate muffin?"

"It's a chocolate muffin filled with chocolate chips and topped with a chocolate drizzle," he supplied.

Rory's stomach grumbled. She licked her lips. "That sounds delicious."

"Oh, no you don't." Luke harshly interrupted Rory's daydream about that same chocolate muffin by throwing a paper bag at her. "This is your breakfast. Eat anything else and I promise you'll lose your match."

Opening the bag, Rory found a banana, a protein shake, and an energy bar. "Nothing in here is chocolate," she griped. She pulled out the shake. Vanilla. "Not even the protein shake."

"Yeah, well, this is what I always ate before I played a Grand Slam match and it never failed me," Luke defended. "Except for that time the milk in the shake had gone off, but that is completely besides the point. Now eat up. We're meeting Dean downstairs in twenty."

Rory took everything out of the bag and slowly ate as she talked with her mom, her eyes flitting between her mother's face and the clock on her bedside table. Her anxiety levels rose with each passing minute until it was finally time to meet Dean downstairs. Changing quickly—she had nabbed an Adidas sponsorship a couple of years ago, so she wore a white Adidas tennis tress and her brand new Adidas shoes (a free, pre-Wimbledon gift from Luke)—she followed Luke and her mother to the hotel lobby, her dream from that night lingering faintly behind her eyes.

Downstairs, Dean enveloped Rory in a big hug and kissed the top of her head. She hugged him back, trying so very hard to push Logan's face from her mind. She hadn't had any time to evaluate her dream yet, but she was determined to forget about it for now. Especially when Dean—her boyfriend—was rubbing her back up and down the way he knew helped calm her.

"Hey, how come he's allowed to hug you like that?" Lorelai asked.

"Because he doesn't try to suffocate me," Rory responded. "Admit it, Mom. You're like a python."

Dean laughed and let Rory go. "She's all yours, Lorelai."

"Actually, she's all mine," Luke said, causing Lorelai to pout. "I've got to get these two to the locker rooms. You can see them and hug them after they win."

Lorelai huffed and folded her arms. Feeling as if she hadn't given her mother enough love that morning, Rory snuck over to her and hugged her briefly.

"I love you, Mom," she said, fear suddenly gripping her throat.

"Oh, kid," Lorelai sighed, squeezing like Rory hoped she would. Her mother always knew—always—when she wasn't as okay as she was pretending to be. "You've been training for this since you were six-years-old. Grandma and Grandpa are up right now all the way back in America just to watch you compete in your very first Grand Slam. Make them proud."

After hugging her mom for another few seconds, a teary-eyed, anxious Rory went with Luke and Dean outside to grab a cab ride to the courts. Dean sat next to her, holding her hand the whole way there.

Rory didn't know much about her father. Only that he was a deadbeat named Christopher who skipped town as soon as her mother announced her pregnancy. He hadn't even showed up for the birth, despite Lorelai and her parent's doing everything they could to track him down. She also knew her mom met him at the country club where he was an assistant tennis coach from out of town. His rich friend got him the job.

Despite the pain that pinched her heart every now and again, not knowing her biological father had never truly bothered Rory. With her grandfather and Luke by her side, she was want for nothing in the fathering department. As she stepped on that court, though, the spongey grass still green and lush beneath her feet, she wondered if he was up too, all the way in America, watching his daughter preparing for her first Grand Slam match, her boyfriend of three years walking just few paces behind her.

She hoped he was watching.

"We can do this, right?" she said to Dean as they sat down on their bench. She took a long sip from her water, already feeling dehydrated.

"We can do this," Dean assured her, nudging her knee with his own.

Putting her drink down, Rory unwrapped a new racquet and bounced the heel of her hand against the strings a few times. "Right. We can do this," she repeated. "Let's do this."

"I wish I could be there with you! It sounds like it's so much fun."

"Don't even worry about it, Lane. You've got twins to worry about."

"I could leave them with Zach and head over to London. Two weeks in the UK doesn't sound too bad, actually. I feel I deserve as much."

"Do you really think Zach would be okay for two weeks with just the kids?"

"No, you know what, on second thought, they'd probably die under his watch," Lane decided. "It's just so boring without you! Watching you play this morning was so thrilling."

Rory laughed into the phone. She was talking to her best friend back in Stars Hollow, a new mother to twin boys, while Dean gave her a relaxing foot rub. Those new shoes did a number on her poor feet.

Before Rory could respond, Lane screamed, startling the tennis player. "Oh, God, Rory I gotta go. Steve just threw up all over Zach. You played great today! Love you."

"Bye!" Rory called, but she had a feeling Lane had already hung up.

They had done it. Straight sets, taking it to a tiebreak in the first and coming out on top with 6-4 in the final. Rory had served the final ace that won them the match. She had been sure they were going to lose when their competitors won their sixth game in the first set, but they managed, somehow, to get ahead in the tiebreak. Without that first set, they definitely would have lost. But they didn't, and now they were heading into the second round against an Aussie man and a Spanish woman. She wasn't too confident they were going to beat them, but with this win pushing her forwards, she had to admit to herself there was a slight chance they could get through to the third round.

"Hey, I have to go meet John for dinner," Dean said, putting her feet down. He leaned over and pecked her on the nose, causing her face to pinch. "I'll see you tomorrow, superstar."

Before he could leave, Rory tugged on his arm. "Why don't you come to my room when you're done?" She tucked her head, blushing.

Dean laughed. "I can't. Luke's got me up early tomorrow for an interview. But I will see you for breakfast, okay?"

"Ugh, fine," Rory sighed, letting him go.

Still sticky and exhausted from the morning's killer workout, she chose to head to the hotel's pool. It was early evening and there weren't very many people in sight. She contemplated phoning her mother and asking if she wanted to join her, but she was probably with Luke and Rory did not want to interrupt whatever they were doing.

Rory sat by the pool with a book, only managing to get a few pages in when she remembered her dream from the night before. With everything that had happened since she woke up that morning it was understandable she had let it slip from her mind, but now that she was bored and coming off of her adrenaline high there was nothing to do besides obsess over its meaning.

She had only spoken to Logan Huntzberger that one time after he rammed that serve into the back of her head, but she had seen him a bit on the Wimbledon courts. Still, just seeing him shouldn't have warranted an entire dream about him. A slightly erotic dream at that. It took weeks of dating Dean before he was allowed in her dreams, and they remained solely G-Rated for at least a year.

She was Rory Gilmore. She didn't have dirty dreams about hotheaded tennis stars who weren't her boyfriend. She dreamt about puppy dogs and the smell of a freshly mown court.

What did it mean, then? Pulling out her mobile, Rory decided to look it up in the hopes the Internet would tell her it was absolutely nothing. No such luck. Each website she visited—there were ten in total—told her the same thing: Dreams are symbolic—obviously the guy you're dreaming about, who just so happened to be shirtless and wearing swimming trunks in your favourite colour, is your soulmate; either that, or you want to have sex with him.

Rory thought back to the dream. It had hazed over a little since the morning, but she could always remember her dreams better than anyone she knew.

Don't you know?

He had said that when she asked what he was doing there. Not at the pool, she knew the pool wasn't real because she knew she was dreaming. She had asked what he was doing in her dream, and then he had cryptically responded with those three words.

Did she know what he had been doing in her subconscious mind? Was it buried beneath the mountain of stress pent up over being at Wimbledon? He was attractive, she was allowed to admit that, and she admired his game a lot, but she couldn't think of any other reasons that would justify his appearance.

Clearly, whichever bit of her brain that controlled her dreams had malfunctioned. There, that it explained it all. She was sure of it.

Ten days into the tournament, Rory found herself working on her serve outdoors in the London sunshine. The Wimbledon club practice courts were quiet that morning. All of the star players were either resting or playing. She could hear shouts of excitement every now and again, but they were distant and muffled. Besides, she was far too focused on knocking down the empty tennis ball containers standing on the service line the other side of the court to pay attention to the other players' successes.

Against all odds—Luke would protest, but he wasn't there, so she could think whatever she wanted—Rory and Dean were knocking down their competition bit by bit. They had played their second match and come out on top, losing the first set, but managing to steal the second and third.

Rory was still in shock. People had showed up to that match with her name on their signs. They cheered, loudly, when she hit ace after ace. At the small press conference following the match, reporters and journalists asked her questions about her game and how she felt about being considered an up-and-comer in the tennis world. They asked about her grandfather and how much more special it was to be competing at Wimbledon with her boyfriend.

She had by no means made it, but she was definitely on her way.

Bouncing the ball on the grassy court, Rory eyed one of the tin cans to the far left, directly on the corner of the service line. She lined the ball with her racquet and tossed it in the air, her body coiling like a spring. As soon as she knew it was the right moment, she forced her racquet down against the ball and sent it flying over the net. With a satisfying ting, the container bent back against the grass.

"And another one! My God," somebody cried, causing Rory to jump and drop her racquet. She whipped her head around the court in search of the voice's owner.

"You've really got a good thing going, Ace."

Rory looked up at the level above the practice courts. Shielding her eyes from the sun, she recognised Logan Huntzberger standing against the railing. He wore Wimbledon attire—all white, racquet bag slung over one shoulder—and that same dazzling smile she had seen in a thousand different interviews.

"Can I help you?" she asked, trying to stop her throat from vibrating. Not only was she sweaty and tired, but just a few feet away from her was the main subject of a very strange dream she was unlucky enough to have. Something about that made her extremely nervous, which in turn made her extremely annoyed.

Logan shrugged boyishly. "Just admiring your serve."

Bending over, Rory collected her racquet.

"Could you admire it from somewhere else? You're distracting me."

"Awe, Ace. You're doing just fine. Pretend I'm not here."

Rory pulled her eyebrows together. "That's the second time you've called me 'Ace.' Is this some reference to that stupid Jim Carrey movie?"

"You think," Logan said, hopping gallantly over the guardrail and landing like some greek god on the court, "that my calling you 'Ace' is a reference to Ace Ventura—which, by the way, is an amazing film—and not a reference to your serve?"

Right. How could she be such an idiot.

Rory looked at the ground and scuffed the well-trodden grass. "That makes a little more sense," she offered. When she looked up again, she noticed Logan had crossed over to her side of the court and was starting to unpack his bag. "Um, what do you think you're doing?"

Pausing briefly, Logan narrowed his eyes. "Getting my racquet out."

"Yes. I can see that. But why? Don't you have somewhere you need to be?"

"Coach said I needed to work on my serve. I'm exactly where I need to be."

This was not going as smoothly as Rory had hoped.

"Can't you use another court? Preferably one that's a little further away from me?"

She didn't mean to sound rude, but Logan's presence had started doing funny things to her body. She felt considerably warmer since he announced himself. Looking down at her hands, she noticed how blotchy they had become. He needed to leave before she turned into a giant tomato.

Logan finished pulling his racquet out and came to stand by her, so close the scent of his freshly-laundered clothes sunk into Rory's nostrils. "Nah, I think I wanna be here. Show me one of those kick-ass serves, Ace. I'm dying to know your secret."

"My secret shouldn't be of any concern to you," she told him, ignoring his third use of this new nickname. "You're what? Eight inches taller than me? What can I teach you that a taller, male player can't?"

Logan side-eyed her, his hazel gaze thoughtful. "Fine," he said. "Let's compete then."

"Compete?" Rory checked, baffled.

"Yeah, compete."

This man had clearly lost his head.

"Compete for what?" she asked. "You know, I've seen Paris Geller's serve. She could teach you a thing or two."

Logan twisted the white sweatbands locked around his wrists, his gorgeous, expensive-looking racquet tucked beneath his arm. She found herself staring at the way his arm muscles tensed and released as he adjusted the bands.

No, she reprimanded herself, looking away. Dean. Remember Dean.

"Yeah, well, Paris may be my partner, but she's not willing to play games," he responded.

"And I look like someone who's willing to play games?"

"I saw you the other day with that Dean guy. You know how to have fun."

Rory scoffed. Unbelievable. He was truly unbelievable.

"That Dean guy is my boyfriend. I don't even know you."

Turning his body to face her, Logan held out his hand. "Logan Huntzberger," he said before dropping his arm without giving her an opportunity to react. "But, see, we've already done this. You do know me."

"How do I know you're not here to scout out the competition," Rory said, crossing her arms. "I don't want to give away anything."

Logan bent at the waist and pulled a fresh tennis ball from his bag before tossing it next to Rory's. He set the ball on the face of his racquet and dribbled it a few times before throwing it in the air. Down came his racquet, and the ball shot over the net, crunching one of the tins on the other side.

He was showing off, the bastard. Maybe Dean was right—maybe he was just a flat-out asshole.

"I promise," he said, sounding as though a laugh was balancing on the tip of his tongue, "that I am not here to scout out the competition. I just want to have some fun and you seemed like the perfect person to have that fun with. Come on, Ace. Have some fun with me."

Logan nudged her with his hip, and the feel of his shorts brushing the thin, bare strip of her skin between her tank top and skirt caused her flesh to sizzle. This was dangerous. Stupid, even. But what the hell. She deserved a little bit of entertainment.

"Fine," she said, paying no mind to Logan's expanding smile. He was too damn happy for his own good it seemed. "But what are we competing for?"

"Easy." He collected another ball and offered it to her. Sighing, she took it. "Bragging rights."

Logan winked and stepped to the side, giving her enough room to complete her serve. Rory rolled her shoulders, trying to compress the buzzing in her stomach, and bounced the ball. He wanted fun competition? Well, that was exactly what she would give him.

—

"How did you get into tennis?"

Rory looked over the net at Logan, hand wedged inside the last of the empty cans as she tried to remove the dent for the eleventh time since Logan had called out to her. She had to admit it to herself, she was having fun with Logan Huntzberger. She didn't think she had laughed this much since arriving in London. Plus, it was always extra exciting to beat a guy at serving. Especially one as tall and confident as Logan.

Replacing the tin can on the line, Rory joined Logan on the other side. Mostly, their conversations had been full of nonsensical/teasing things. How does it feel to get beaten by a girl? I don't know, I'll tell you when that happens. How did you get into tennis? That was personal territory.

"Grandfather," she said simply. "Gave me my first racquet. You?"

"Same."

"Your grandfather, a world-famous golfer, got you into tennis?"

Logan laughed. "Look who's been doing some research on the Huntzberger family," he joked. "No, not my grandfather. Yours."

Shocked, Rory took a step away from Logan. "Mine?"

"Yeah," Logan said, nodding. "Your grandfather. Richard Gilmore. He didn't give me my first racquet or anything, but I met him at one of my dad's golfing things when I was younger. I'd seen him on the TV and had always liked the idea of tennis, but meeting him really cemented it."

"That's unbelievable," Rory breathed, eyes wide in disbelief. "My grandfather. Wow."

"I mean, it started as a rebellious move, to be perfectly honest," he admitted, picking at the fluff on the tennis ball in his hands. He squinted in the sunlight, but she still could see flecks of green. "My dad was so adamant about me becoming a golfer like every other Huntzberger in the world, but I just wasn't having it. Soon enough, though, it became pretty clear tennis was the way I was going to go."

Unable to help herself, Rory sniggered. She immediately slapped her hand over her mouth and uttered an apology, but the damage was already done.

"You laughing at my tennis story, Ace?" Logan chucked the ball at her, narrowly missing her knee.

Eighth time.

"No," she insisted. "I promise. It's just . . . the idea that choosing tennis over golf was a rebellious move in your house."

Logan smiled, but something about it was off. "Believe me, it was a total rebellious move. In the months following, it was like I had declared war on golf. My dad didn't talk to me for over a year. Not really, at least. He still doesn't come to any of my matches."

And that was the perfect thing to say to completely ruin the mood.

Rory's face sobered. She bit her lip and stared at the ground.

"Sorry," she murmured, her cheeks flushing. "I—I didn't know."

She spotted Logan's shadow approaching her. Glancing upwards, her breath caught in her throat. He was standing dangerously close.

"It's fine, Ace. I'm over it," he said, but it sounded so much like a lie. "I plan on winning this whole event," he swept his hands around, "to prove that I don't need his support to become something great."

Ninth time.

"That's actually kind of beautiful," Rory acknowledged, tongue dry. "Poetic, almost."

Nodding, Logan allowed a creeping, small smile to tug at the corners of his lips. His hand came up near Rory's face, and she froze as his thumb brushed a strand of hair from her cheek.

"I'll take that as a compliment," he said.

Rory cleared her throat and took a step back. "You, uh, you should."

"Right, boyfriend," Logan said, dropping his arm. "Sorry, Ace."

Tenth time.

"No, that's fine. It's fine. We're fine. We didn't do anything," she rambled. "You didn't do anything. It's fine."

Except it wasn't fine, because for the past hour she had completely—utterly, wholly, one-hundred percent—forgotten about Dean.

As if God was punishing her, Rory suddenly heard her name being called. Looking up where she had previously spotted Logan, Rory found her mother waving at her.

"Rory! You were supposed to be back at the hotel twenty minutes ago!" Lorelai hollered.

Guilt sunk like the heaviest stone to the bottom of her stomach. She was a terrible person.

Finding Logan again, who had started packing up his things, Rory tapped his back. He looked over his shoulder at her, and the sight of him, for some reason, made her heart leap into her throat.

"Look, I've got to go," she said. "Sorry."

Before she could escape, Logan stood up and held out his hand once more. Ignoring that voice in her head that was screaming so very loudly that this was a horrible, terrible mistake, she took his outstretched limb.

"Go, it's alright," he said, lowering his head ever so slightly, "now, tell me that wasn't fun."

Rory got a sudden flashback to her dream from a few nights ago.

Tell me that wasn't fun.

Dream Logan had said that.

Rory peered up at him, lips parted in disbelief. "Right," she whirred, brain humming. "Fun."

Releasing her hand, Logan took off in the opposite direction from her mother. He didn't look back.

"Who was that?" Lorelai asked when Rory reached her.

Inhaling a discreet breath in a lame attempt to gather her haywire thoughts, Rory shook her head. "Nobody of significance."

"Are you sure? He looked kind of significant."

"Well, he isn't," Rory snapped, immediately regretting her tone. She sighed. "Sorry, Mom. He's nobody, really. Just another tennis player."

"Hey, it's none of my business," she said, but Rory knew her mother. She had an opinion on everything. "Dean's been worried about you."

The mention of Dean's name stabbed Rory like a sharp knife. "I know. He's always worried about me."

Lorelai placed an arm around Rory's shoulders and matched their strides. "It's okay, kid. You're doing fine."

They walked the rest of the way to the hotel in silence. It was just over a mile away, but the sunset was so gorgeous Rory barely felt like she was moving at all.

She would need to evaluate the evening's events soon, though. And she would have to revisit that dream. But for now, she laid her head on her mother's shoulder and tried to remember every detail she could about Dean's face, mentally whacking herself with a tennis racquet each time one of Logan's features popped up.

A/N 2: So, it's definitely looking like this will be a bit longer than I had originally anticipated. And I know it seems like Dean's perfect and Rory's totally in love, but I promise there is danger ahead. Thanks for reading!