A/N: It's a shorter chapter, but have no fear! The reason it's two-thousand words less than the other two is because this chapter sort of ran away from me and became 8,000 words before I could stop it. So, I'm splitting it. Expect the next one tomorrow! Things are really heating up.

Enjoy!

A Game of Love | Aces, Man

Rory Gilmore was hot—boiling. Sweat ran from her forehead into her eyes. It pooled at her lower back, dripped into her shoes. Blinking the stinging sensation away, she brought up her wrist and swiped the sweatband over her cheeks and into her hairline. She let out a breath and adjusted her visor, ignoring the ringing in her ears and the painful swell of her right knee. Out of the corner of her eye, she watched Dean as one of the ball boys offered him two new tennis balls. He took them, tucking one deep into his short's pocket. The other he threw to the ground and bounced with his racquet.

Returning her attention to the players on the other side of the net, Rory spun her racquet in her hands and tapped the worn grass with the tip before taking her stance. She could feel Dean toss the ball in the air, and her whole body seized in anticipation of his serve.

One more point, she told herself. One more and we're through to the semis.

The court was silent—the only noise came from the sound of the ball as it whipped through the air. To Rory, it sounded as though it was in slow motion. As if God had pressed some button on his Universal remote and, as a result, they were all moving at snail speed.

But then Rory heard Dean's racquet come down hard on the ball, and God decided to press Play. The ball zoomed past her, rustling the strands of hair that had come loose from her braid. She brought her racquet up, prepared for the return by the Czech man, and slammed it into the ball, watching as it spiralled to the left. The Canadian woman couldn't reach it in time. Rory Gilmore held her breath, eyes glued to the yellow ball as it bounced just inside the line and off to the side.

Rory released her racquet, its muted thud onto the grass vibrating her feet. They had done it. They were going to the semi-finals at Wimbledon.

Exhilarated, Rory ran over to Dean and leapt into his arms to the sound of cheers. He swung her around as she squealed, setting her down and pressing a kiss to her lips. He tasted salty and tired, but she couldn't have been happier.

"I can't believe it!" she shouted, a wide smile yanking her mouth apart.

Dean beamed down at her. "Believe it, Rory. We're one step closer to winning this thing!"

—

Since the start of the tournament, Rory and Dean had been a part of a few press conferences. It came with the territory of playing at a Grand Slam regardless of what division you were a part of. Usually, there were only a few reporters and photographers there—they were mixed doubles players, unseeded; nobody, at the heart of it, really cared about them. The conference would last for maybe ten minutes, twenty if there was someone there who really loved her grandfather, and then she and Dean would be off again, not expecting to be mentioned in more than a paragraph throughout the magazines, journals, and various newspapers covering Wimbledon.

One can guess, then, how shocked Rory and her partner were to find at least twice the size of reporters and photographers when they entered the press room following their quarter-finals win.

For a second, Rory was terrified. The cameras were snapping and flashing, burning her already tired and sore eyes. The journalists were scribbling in their notebooks, the noise of their pens scratching sounding like nails on a chalkboard to the hypersensitive tennis player. Dean, his hand on her back, stiffened at the sudden intrusion, but led Rory to her seat like the gentleman he was, hand firmly pressing against her spine the entire time. He didn't remove it even after they sat down.

What were they doing there? Rory saw the familiar faces of those who regularly appeared at her press conferences, but there were so many more strangers than she could count. And she had her doubts their interest in her and Dean spiked merely from their win just a few moments ago.

Suddenly very nervous and sightly afraid, if she was being totally honest with herself, Rory sat on her hands to keep from jittering. Dean slid his hand from her upper back to her knee, but the contact of bare skin on bare skin only made her jump. Desperately, Rory's eyes sought out Luke in the crowd of newcomers, her heart immediately slowing in pace when she caught him talking and laughing comfortably with one of the photographers. If Luke wasn't alarmed, Rory decided she wouldn't be either.

Sitting on Dean's left, the woman conducting the conference asked everyone to be quiet so the interviews could begin. Shutters still clicked, but conversation went dry as the reporters all stuck their hands in the air. Dean chose first.

"Uh, yes," began an older looking man Rory had never seen before, "how does it feel to be coming so far in the tournament from your wild card entries?"

With ease, Dean answered the question. "It feels pretty good," he joked, sending the whole room up in laughter. He squeezed Rory's knee. "We were shocked when we got the news Wimbledon had accepted us, so to win the quarter-finals against two top-seeded players is an indescribable feeling."

The reporter looked at Rory, clearly expecting her to add something to Dean's comment.

"Um," she fumbled, forgetting momentarily that she too had to take part in this event. Taking a second, Rory gathered her erratic thoughts. "Um, yeah. What he said. Being able to say that we made it to the semi-finals at Wimbledon is surreal. I don't know how much further we can go after this, considering the options lying before us in competitors, but coming this far is more than a dream come true."

The reporter nodded and scribbled some things down in his notebook, opening up the floor for more questions.

Rory decided on a small woman sitting near the back.

"Congratulations on your win," she commended. "Do you think, Rory, that your personal relationship with Dean off of the court affects your game in any way? Positively or negatively."

Rory couldn't help but laugh. She and Dean had gotten this question so many times before the answer was practically rehearsed.

"Definitely. It definitely affects our game. Because of how well we know each other, it's almost unfair to other players. We've been together for three years now and in that time we've been able to really study each other's playing style. On the court this is key, because it means we know what the other person is going to do without even needing to look at them."

"Agreed." Dean jumped in, picking up where he always did with this question. "It's never been a negative that we're together when we put our racquets down."

"Not even after a fight?" the reporter added, not looking up from her notepad.

Rory shook her head. "Not even then. We don't really fight very often about non-tennis related stuff, and the arguments we do have are resolved almost instantly."

The reporter smiled at them, and it was off to the next question.

"This one's for Rory again. Your grandfather, is he proud of your accomplishment here at Wimbledon?"

Rory automatically smiled at the mention of her grandfather. "Oh, yeah," she said, "he's incredibly proud. He calls me up after every match to discuss the technical side of things no matter how early it is back in the States."

This garnered laughs from the crowd and Rory's mind eased. The adrenaline from their win was slowly easing, but the excitement surrounding it had hardly wavered.

"Another for Rory," said the next reporter, causing Rory's eyes to widen. She was surely popular. "Are you aware that Logan Huntzberger, when asked who he felt was the best player at this tournament in his previous press conference, stated, and I quote, 'Rory Gilmore is an absolutely fantastic player. I could say she has potential, but I think she's at the point in her game where she can't improve anymore. There's no more room for her to go up. She's already amazing on and off the court. I mean, have you guys seen her serve? Aces, man. Aces'?"

Rory's stomach twisted painfully. Forget butterflies, she had giant moths with rock-hard wings beating the inside of her belly. She had a feeling Dean's hand had left her knee, but couldn't be sure. It was as if her whole body was numb and on fire at the same time.

"Um—um," she stuttered, aware suddenly that everyone was staring at her, waiting for a response. "What—uh—what's the question exactly?"

"What do you think pushed Logan Huntzberger, who is playing his semi-final match later today and who won with Paris Geller in his own mixed doubles quarter-final match, to say that you—an unseeded wild card—were the best player in this entire tournament." Pause. "No offence."

Had he said that? Really? Logan Huntzberger had told the press—and she had no doubt in her mind there were three times as many people at his conference than there were at her and Dean's—that she, in his personal, seeded opinion, was the best player at Wimbledon. No. Just . . . no. There was absolutely no way in hell he had meant that to not be a joke. Although, the potential seriousness of his comments did explain her sudden rise in popularity.

"I'm sure he was being facetious," Rory offered, really not sure how to broach the question. "As far as I'm aware, he's never actually seen me play."

That is, of course, if she wasn't counting that late afternoon training session they had a couple of days ago. Which she wasn't.

The reporter looked down at his notes. "No, he made sure we knew he was being truthful. Quote, 'And you can quote me on that. Rory Gilmore isn't an up-and-comer. She's already up there'."

"I'm not really sure what you want me to say." Rory removed her hands from beneath her thighs and wiped them on her skirt. She was going to need at least two showers and a bath after this interview. "He's very kind to say those things about me, but I hardly think he was being one-hundred percent honest. If anything, he's the best player here. I don't know what would make him say that I was."

The reporter nodded. He had the answer he desired. Rory breathed a sigh of relief, highly aware of how closed off Dean had become. He chose the next interviewer with a cold tone she didn't like the sound of at all.

Thirty minutes into the conference, somebody came in to say they would have to vacate the premises within the next two minutes before the next round of players needed to give their interviews. Luke came over to Rory and Dean and ushered them out, their bags clutched tightly in his hand.

Once they were outside and free from Luke, Dean took no time before confronting Rory.

"What the hell was that?" he demanded, hands on his hips. He sounded angry, which was new for him. Rory had obviously seen him jealous before, but this was jealousy on a whole new level. "Huh? What was that? Why did he say those things about you?"

"Dean, I"—

Before Rory could begin to explain—not that she even knew how to explain what had happened in that press conference—she spotted Logan Huntzberger coming their way, a chipper smile plastered on his stupidly pretty face. Great. Just what they needed.

Taking notice of Rory's distracted gaze, Dean looked over his shoulder. "Oh, wonderful. This is great," he exclaimed, marching over to meet Logan, whose smile immediately dropped. "What are you doing here?"

Rory followed behind Dean, tugging on his arm. "Dean, don't do this."

"Am I in trouble?" Logan pressed his palm to his chest, eyes flicking between Dean and Rory.

"No," Rory insisted the same moment Dean said, "Yes."

Reminding Rory of the day they met (which felt like a lifetime ago; she hadn't even played her first match yet), Logan looked at her with a hidden desperation swimming in his hazel eyes. Dean—three inches taller than Logan—was still looming over him, something Rory could only describe as a snarl lifting the corner of his upper lip.

Rory still didn't understand what had happened in that interview. Her mind was playing what that journalist had relayed to her over and over. To her, it didn't make any sense why Logan would say those things. Had he been studying up on her play the same as she had with him? And yes, thinking that he took time out of his own interview to . . . gush about her sent a thrilling tingle down her spine that managed to curl her toes, but she couldn't think about that at the moment. Not when she had to worry about her boyfriend—Yes, Rory thought, boyfriend. Dean—beating up Logan Huntzberger for his unprovoked comments.

Later. She would confront Logan later. On her own. For now, she would let him off the hook.

"You are not in trouble, Logan," Rory said. She pulled on Dean's arm again.

"What? Of course he is," Dean complained as Rory dragged him a step away from Logan.

Rory had never seen Dean like this in their entire relationship. Something about how defensive and plainly aggravated he was about something Rory didn't think was cause for such jealousy frightened her a little bit.

"No, Dean," she stressed. He peered down at her, and she was half-convinced she could see steam billowing out of his nostrils. "He's not. Leave it," she ordered.

Dean sighed, clearly on-edge. He gave in and put his hands up in defeat. "Fine."

"So," Logan said after a more-than-slightly-tension-filled pause, "probably a bad time to bring it up, but I watched you guys play earlier. Congrats on your win."

"You were there?" Rory asked.

"Yeah, I was there."

"That's got to be illegal," Dean chimed, wincing after Rory elbowed him in the side.

"He's actually got a point there, Ace," Logan said in Dean's defence. "But I promise I was not there to cheat. I was merely a fan enjoying a tennis match."

Blood filled the tips of her ears at the sound of her new nickname rolling off of Logan's tongue. She tried her hardest to suppress the smile that was threatening to split her jaw in half by biting down hard on her bottom lip until she was positive it would bruise.

"Excuse me, Ace?"

Rory shot Dean a don't-start-now look, surprised at his willingness to leave the subject alone. "Well, thank you for coming. I hope you and Paris are prepared for us. We plan on seriously crushing you in the finals."

"That's if you can beat Jess Mariano and April Nardini," Logan retorted.

Rory's breath hitched, the realisation that they—she and Dean—had made it to the semi-finals at Wimbledon whacking her hard over the head. It felt the same as when Logan's tennis ball had rocketed off of her skull at 150 miles per hour. They were wild cards and they were actually going somewhere. Sure, it was just in mixed doubles—winning (not that she really thought they could, especially if they made it to the finals against Paris and Logan) only got them a few hundred points towards their individual ranks—but it meant something. Not just to her, but to other tennis players who were struggling to gain traction in the sport. Even being the granddaughter of the great Richard Gilmore didn't gain her many favours. Her status was all dependent on her play, and she was finally being taken seriously.

"Look." Logan interrupted Rory's inner monologue, hand waving between her and Dean. "I came to find you guys to invite you to my match later in the day."

Dean scoffed, arm snaking around Rory's shoulders. "We're busy."

"No, we're not. Luke gave us the rest of the day off." Rory side-eyed her boyfriend, wishing he would stop acting so hostile towards Logan. He wasn't a threat. Rory wouldn't allow him to be one. "We'd love to come."

That now-famous, over-the-moon smile returned to Logan's face. "Great. And afterwards, Paris and I were going to have dinner, so if you'd also like to tag along, we'd love to have you with us." Logan winked at Rory as he walked by, causing her heart to lurch against her ribcage. "See you later, Ace. Dean."

Dean's grip on Rory's shoulder tightened protectively, his eyes following Logan until he disappeared from view, and Rory extricated herself before he could crush her. She stood before him, arms folded.

"What was that?" she asked.

Dean looked almost offended. "What?"

"You were acting like such an ass just now."

"What? I was acting like an ass. He was the one flirting with you!" Dean defended, running a frazzled hand through his hair. "You're always so oblivious to it, Rory."

Rory stepped back, affronted. True, she had always been a little slow to pick up flirtatious remarks directed towards her, but Logan hadn't been flirting. No, maybe he was. In the back of her mind, she knew he was one-hundred percent flirting with her. He had been seconds away from kissing her the last time they saw each other—not that she'd ever mention to that to anybody. Ever. But he was a flirt. It was almost a part of his job to toy with the hearts of unsuspecting females.

"He's like that with everyone," Rory said. "And it doesn't affect me in any way. You should know this."

She was lying—she could feel it in the pit of her stomach. Logan's words did affect her. How else could she explain forgetting about Dean for over an hour during their competitive training session together. Admitting that, however, was dangerous. Three years of her life had been spent with Dean. A stupid crush (she wasn't even sure if it was a crush; it could have been nothing more than a minute infatuation with a successful tennis player who had decided to take pity on her and pay attention to her) shouldn't ruin that.

"Do you want to go to his match?" Dean asked, sounding tired. He pulled Rory into his arms, resting his head atop hers.

Meekly, Rory nodded. "It'll be fun. It's the men's semi-final. Everyone knows they're the most exciting matches."

Dean sighed and kissed her forehead. Rory's eyes closed instinctively.

"You can go," he decided in defeat. "I'll join you guys for dinner."

"You trust me?"

"Oh, I trust you," Dean said, which made Rory's heart sink a tiny bit out of what she believed what some sort of guilt. "It's him I'm worried about."

"Don't worry about him, Dean. Please. He's not worth it," Rory begged.

Mulling over her request, Dean sighed again. Deeper this time. More pained. "Okay, okay. I won't worry."

Head still against his chest, Rory kissed him through his shirt, ignoring how sticky and . . . wrong it felt to put her mouth on his sweaty uniform.

"Thank you," she said as she wiped the dampness from her lips.