A/N: Happy Sunday, everyone! Be honest, how many of you thought I'd given up on the story? Sorry if you had. As you know, I was in England for six weeks and then school started, so I've been busy and not really in the mood to write. Finally got this chapter done, though! That's exciting. This is the penultimate chapter. The last one should hopefully (fingers crossed my professors don't give me too much homework) be done and published by next week, so keep an eye out for the finale.

Thank you so much to everyone who's been reading and enjoying this story. It's been a lot of fun to write. To Rory and Logan!

A Game of Love | The Gloves Are Off

By the beginning of the third set, Rory's arms were tired. Beyond tired. They were dead. Nothing more than flimsy limbs hanging either side of her torso, barely capable of lifting her racquet. Heat filled her senses entirely, the London sun being uncharacteristically visible that afternoon. Its presence was making this match incredibly difficult. Sweat was a given during a tennis match, but Rory was no longer merely sweating. Perspiration was flowing through her pores as if someone had forgotten to turn off a faucet inside of her.

They were down a set. Mariano and Nardini snuck up on them during the second and managed to get the set 6 - 4. Something wasn't right, Rory could feel it bubbling inside of her chest. Her and Dean hadn't been as in synch as they typically were. She couldn't read him anymore. His body language seemed foreign, his footwork an unsolvable puzzle. They kept going for the same ball, nearly knocking into each other. She imagined the commentators were laughing at them. Luke must have been shaking his head in absolute disappointment, but Rory refused to look over at their box.

She was focused, she was. Her mind was wholly on the match. But lingering in the back of her head was the conversation she had last night with both her mom and Logan Huntzberger. Hard though it was, she kept pushing away the desire to forget about the match and pay attention to her personal problems. Unfortunately, she didn't seem to be doing such a great job. Playing with Dean suddenly felt like playing with a complete stranger, which wasn't good on several levels.

Why had Logan felt the need to spill his guts to her last night?

As Rory sat on the bench sipping her energy drink, waiting for the umpire to call time and send them back on to the court for the changeover, she began contemplating his motives. Idea after idea flitted through her mind, but she kept going back to the same conclusion: He needed to get under her skin so she would be frazzled enough during the semis to lose the match, thus securing his and Paris's spot as mixed doubles champions.

"Time."

Gulping one last desperate bit of her drink down, Rory capped it and stood, watching Dean take his place a few steps behind the service line. She was too embarrassed to look at him as she passed, too frustrated with herself for getting caught up with Logan Freaking Huntzberger. He was a scumbag player through and through. What on earth had made her think she was any different to his other conquests? By revealing all those secrets to her last night, he had gained her trust and made her think he was actually interested. And she had fallen for it hook, line, and sinker. She was such a cliche, it hurt her brain.

Behind her, Rory heard the familiar sound of a ball bouncing and shook her head, clearing her mind of all Logan-related things once and for all. She twirled her racquet, staring down April Nardini, and held her breath as Dean served the ball.

Rory gathered one last handful of water and splashed it over her face, scrubbing her cleanser-soaked cheeks until she felt they were clear of suds. Turning off the water, she stared at herself in the mirror. The image of a true loser, she thought to herself, noticing her defeated blue eyes and sunken cheeks.

She wanted to cry. More than anything, she wanted to curl into a ball and sob until she was able to fall asleep and forget about the day's horrific events. As she watched her reflection in the stained mirror of the women's locker room, she saw her lips tremble and her eyes well with tears. But she wouldn't let go here. Not now. She would be patient and wait until she returned to her hotel room before breaking down.

Luke wanted to see her. When the umpire called the match—game, set, match, Nardini and Mariano—Rory spotted him nodding his head at her slowly, his signal they needed a talk. His face showed no emotion, but Rory could only imagine he was angry and disappointed, much like herself.

It was her fault they lost. Her fault they were no longer heading for the final. Mixed doubles or not, Wimbledon had been her dream since she was six. Because of her own stupidity, her first opportunity to reach her lifelong goal had been slashed to bits. Now she had to wait another year. She had to put in more training, extra hours. Sacrifice just a little bit more of herself so she could get here next summer and really dominate. Maybe by then she'd be good enough for a chance at the singles title. Or maybe she'd never be good enough to return, not even for mixed doubles.

Gripping the basin, Rory clamped her eyes shut. Dean. Poor Dean. She had so badly let him down. He didn't deserve this send-off. God, the look on his face when she served that last ball into the net—it would haunt her nightmares, she was sure.

Rory sucked in a deep breath, shaking her head in a meek attempt to hold back the tears threatening to appear at the corners of her eyes. Letting go of the basin carefully, clenching and unclenching her hands to relieve a bit of the ache that had started during the match, the young tennis player backed away from the sink and turned towards her bags. It was time to change out of her sweat-soaked outfit and face Luke.

Once showered, Rory took her time getting her civilian clothes on. She strayed far away from anything white, sticking to dark colours. Luke was waiting for her, she knew, but the idea of having a talk with him was causing her stomach to twist in the severest ways. If it were up to her, she would never leave the locker room. But being there—where April Nardini came after her following her and Mariano's victory—reminded her just as much of her failure and she finally packed her bags and headed for the door. However, upon exiting the locker room, Rory wished she had stuck with her original plan to remain there for eternity.

Logan Huntzberger stood leaning against the wall opposite the women's locker room, arms folded, face pinched into a concerned expression. He was wearing his Wimbledon whites and his eyebrows were pulled together, forcing lines to appear on his forehead, and he was biting his bottom lip. Rory couldn't help but applaud his superb acting skills, he actually looked somewhat concerned.

"What do you want?" she heard herself demand, her own forehead contorted in a mixture of humiliation and rage.

Spotting her, Logan pushed himself off of the wall and took a step towards her. Rory immediately stepped back, her bags hitting the locker room door with an awkward clunk.

"I"— Logan paused, appearing suddenly to be unsure of himself.

"Well, isn't this a sight," Rory commended. "The great Logan Huntzberger at a loss for words. Have you come to beg forgiveness for your sins?"

Confusion washed over Logan. He ran a quick hand through his blond hair, causing it to rise in certain places. Rory refused to admit that he looked even remotely god-like.

"What are you talking about?"

Rory scoffed. "It's okay, Logan," she assured him, "I lost. You can tell me the truth."

"The truth?" he repeated, confounded.

"Yeah, the truth. You know, the truth about how you got close to me and all so I would lose focus on both my relationship and my game," Rory supplied harshly. "Congratulations, you butt-faced miscreant. It all paid off in the end."

Rory made to walk away triumphantly, but her bags had managed to get caught in the doorframe to the locker room. Ungracefully, the angry tennis player lunged forward, freeing her gear and smacking into Logan. The pair knocked against the wall.

This exit had turned from dramatic to ditzy far too quick for Rory's liking.

"Ow," she mumbled, stumbling away from her betrayer who was in the midst of rubbing the back of his head.

"Ace"— he began, but at the sound of that word, Rory forgot completely about the pain running through her shoulder and remembered at once how angry she was.

"No," she interrupted, winded. The day was catching up to her in full force. Everything that had gone wrong was bubbling to the surface. She was tired, beaten, and really didn't want to hear Logan's excuses. "You are not allowed to call me that. I told you, you won. Your position as champion of the tennis world is secure. Now leave me alone."

Rory re-shouldered her bags and tried to move passed Logan, but he grabbed her arm.

"Let go of me," she ordered.

Logan shook his head. "No. Not until you tell me what the hell is going on."

She really didn't want to be there anymore, especially not when Logan was pleading with her using his stupidly gorgeous eyes, but there was a determination in his tone Rory knew not to test.

"You know what I'm talking about."

"Really, I swear to God I don't," Logan insisted. "Please," he pleaded, "just tell me what I did wrong so I can fix it."

"Last night!" Rory boomed, at the end of her rope. She couldn't take this anymore. "Last night, when you were telling me all those wonderful things about yourself to gain my trust. To get in my head. It worked. You got in there, and now me and Dean are going home and you are Paris are heading for the championships. Would you get out of my way now?"

In the midst of her explanation, Logan had released her wrist, but he was still blocking her exit. Eyes wide, the blond boy stood motionless, mouth half-open. Rory was flushed with anger and embarrassment and exhaustion. All she wanted was for Logan to move so she could pack her things and go home to Stars Hollow. She missed Paul Anka, her fluff-ball of a dog who was currently being watched over by the neighbour. She missed Lane. Her bed. Her coffee machine. It had taken this long, but homesickness had finally snagged her. London had worn her down.

"You think I said those things last night just to mess with you?" Logan clarified, voice soft and almost broken. He frowned now, deeper than when she had stepped out of the locker room. More harsh and betrayed than concerned. "You think it was all just some ploy to get the stupid mixed doubles title? Rory, how could you think that?"

Rory's head was two seconds from exploding. Suddenly, she didn't know what to think.

"It's true, isn't it?" she said, watching the floor. "You're the star tennis player who can get any girl he wants. I don't fit in with you at all."

"Rory."

Snapping her head up, Rory blinked. Logan was standing in front of her, peering down at her. Instead of looking guilty—or even proud—he looked warm. Tender. Again, he took her wrist and Rory was transported back to the practice courts last evening. His touch was hot, nearly burning her sweaty skin.

"Ace, I promise you there was no ploy." He cleared his throat, a small smile toying at the corners of his mouth. "There is no ploy. I wasn't lying last night. I'm not some evil mastermind. Everything I told you was the truth."

"Why should I believe you?" Rory asked, throat tight. There was still so much going on—Luke, the plane-ride home, Dean—but Rory pushed it all away and kept her focus on the problem at hand.

"Why shouldn't you?" he countered. Rory opened her mouth to respond, but was cut off by Logan's huffed laugh. "No, never-mind. Don't answer that. Just—you should believe me because I'm asking you to. I don't have a great track record, I know, but trust me when I say that meeting you has changed everything. Because really, it has changed everything."

Maybe it was her tiredness catching up with her, or maybe it was simply the undeniable sincerity in Logan's words. Either way, Rory found herself closing her eyes and leaning into Logan, resting her forehead on his chest. She breathed in, caught up in the scent of his laundered clothes mixed with what she assumed was just him. A peace washed over her as she stood there. She couldn't help her smile as Logan dropped her wrist and gathered her in his arms, his chin gently placed on the top of her head.

Logan's bemused question broke the calm moments later. "Butt-faced miscreant?"

Looking up at him, Rory grinned—she couldn't help it, she needed to grin—ready to explain her insult. Before she could, though, loud, stomping footsteps assaulted her ears. Extracting herself, she saw Dean rushing their way. His was face was streaked red with fury and his eyes were locked directly on Logan.

"Dean"—Rory started, holding her hands up protectively.

He didn't seem to hear her. He pushed through, separating Rory from Logan even further. His back was to Rory, and, thanks to the one foot height difference between them, she could no longer see Logan.

"Dean," Rory said once more, poking her index finger hard between his shoulder blades. Dean's blazing eyes met hers. He looked more fiercely angry than she had ever seen him. It frightened her. "He didn't do anything."

Dean sneered, a humourless laugh dripping from his lungs. "Is that so?" he asked rhetorically. He looked back at Logan. "I came to find you. We were supposed to meet with Luke immediately after the match. Now I see why it's taken you so long to get there."

"Whoa, buddy, I don't know what you're insinuating"—Logan was interrupted by Dean's sardonic, bitter tone.

—"Oh, you don't? I'll tell you. I'm insinuating that you and Rory have been having an affair behind my back since we arrived in London. There. Clear enough for you?"

"What?" Rory blanched. This was unbelievable. "How dare you. I would never"—

—"You wouldn't?" Dean said, focusing on her. "Something's been off, Rory. Ever since this guy hit you in the back of the head with that ball. Don't lie to me."

Logan's hand clasped on Dean's shoulder, tearing him away from Rory. It happened too quickly for Rory to do anything. Dean's arm drew back, his fist clenched. There was the resounding crack of broken bones—whose, Rory couldn't be sure—and Logan fell back, hitting the floor with a loud thwack that echoed down the hallway. Rory fell with him to her knees, watching as blood gushed from his nose and ran through his clothes. The crisp, white uniform turned the colour of a deep wine before Rory's eyes.

"Rory, I . . ." Dean's voice faded.

"Not now, Dean," she fumed, hand cupping Logan's cheek. "He's not waking up. Call 999."

"Rory"—

Rory's head jerked up. "Dean. 999. Now."

He was going to be fine. No fractures or breaks, just a bad bruise. He would have trouble breathing for a little while and it would hurt badly, but he was going to be fine. His coach had already been to the hospital, asking Logan to reconsider playing tomorrow. Despite the pain he must have been feeling, he merely laughed and said of course I'm playing. Nothing was going to take the Wimbledon Championship trophy away from him.

Rory sat on Logan's hospital bed with a wet cloth in her hand, wiping away at the remainder of the crusted blood around his nose. He winced every now and again, but otherwise kept quiet. Mostly, he was smiling. A gentle smile, barely visible. Still, it went straight through Rory, warming her insides and sending her pulse soaring.

"Someone should be coming by soon with a change of clothes," Rory told him when she was finished. She plopped the pink flannel in a bowl of water by the bed and brushed her forefinger down the swollen bridge of his nose, watching as his eyes squinted. "It's already starting to bruise."

"Hey." Logan clutched her hand, causing her breathing to stop short. "I'm fine."

Rory nodded. "You might be, but I don't think he is." She whispered the word he. "I need to go see him."

"Yeah, I think you do," Logan agreed, releasing her hand.

Standing, Rory gave him a discreet, sad smile before retreating to find Dean. He was at the opposite end of the ward. The doctor was just leaving as Rory approached.

"What's the prognosis?" she asked quietly, spotting a cast wrapped around Dean's right arm. It ended just below his elbow. A fresh wave of vexation spiked Rory's veins.

"Broken in three places," Dean explained tightly. "If I work hard and go to physical therapy, the doctor says I should be able to still play."

Rory kept her place at the end of the bed. She stared at the cast. "What the hell were you thinking," she said. She moved her eyes to Dean's. "Really, what the hell? What did you think you could achieve by hitting him?"

Dean shrugged. "Why am I the one being attacked here?"

"Because you're the one who decided to punch somebody who didn't deserve it the day before his big match. And look what it did. You might be done with tennis now because of your stupidity."

"Don't call me stupid," Dean spat. He leapt from the bed, towering over Rory. "I was justified in my actions. That bastard deserved it."

Rory pressed her open hands on Dean's chest and pushed him back. "God, no he didn't!"

"You've fallen for him, Rory," Dean argued. "I can see it. And he's eating it up. How long, huh? How long have you two been screwing around behind my back?"

Rory shoved him again, so hard he landed on the bed, arms flailing. "I would never cheat on you. Never. Do you understand me? Never. We've been through so much, Dean, why would you think I'd do something so cheap."

Silence surrounded the pair for a moment. Rory could hear her heavy breaths as they exited her mouth.

"But you like him."

Rory sighed, a sliver of guilt rising in her belly. "Yes. And I'm sorry for that. I am."

"Please, Rory. Save it."

"No, I need to explain"—

—"You really don't. I get it. Look, I don't think we should play together anymore. I'll tell Luke when he stops by that I want out."

Things hadn't been right between her Dean for a while, she understood that. Since she met Logan Huntzberger, Rory had been flipping through their three-year relationship. It was easy now to spot the glaring red flags that she once was so blind to. He was controlling and distant, jealous and needy. Inconsistencies Rory could never entirely wrap her head around. Still, hearing Dean call it, after everything, made Rory's tongue feel heavy and her eyes burn. Blinking, Rory coughed to clear her throat and jolted her head up and down once in agreement.

"We never fought," she murmured, picking at the blood beneath her nails.

"I know," Dean conceded. "You can leave now."

So that's it, then, Rory thought to herself, three years of my life, gone. Just like that.

Rory backed away and gripped the curtain surrounding Dean's bed. She looked him over. "Good luck," she said as she exited. "With everything."

A/N 2: I do not like version of Dean very much. Just putting that out there.

Hope this chapter wasn't too OOC. It's one of my fears that I'm not writing these characters properly. Too late now to really change anything, but I'm still slightly worried.

Thanks again!