Matchpoint

Chapter 17:

Walking out of that change room felt like stepping out onto the court for a life defining tennis match. I'm way out of depth like this. The thought of posing for the camera is simply diabolical.

Fuck. Whose idea was this?

It's the heels, the short dress, the make-up smothered face that makes me feel like a fish out of water. Girls like me, we don't do this, we don't pose or look perfect. Maybe if I chose to continue my long, painful path down professional tennis, maybe then I would get the love of being in front of the camera.

I waddle my way over to where Dom stands, his back towards me, talking to the journalist and photographer. His gestures are broad, his back tense. He isn't happy about this arrangement.

Just as I'm about to turn and head straight back into the changeroom, a loud, overexaggerated whistle howls through the air. I freeze in place, uncomfortable by the sudden sound that erupts from Jayce's cocky little lips. Fuck, I hate that idiot. And just as I think that this couldn't get any worse, Dom's head tilts over his shoulder, and our eyes collide instantly.

Time doesn't slow, not like you think it would. My breath doesn't grow heavy, my eyelashes don't flicker, and there isn't an ounce of fear that courses through my veins. Because suddenly, in the light of Dom's eyes, I feel powerful.

Dom's body fully turns to me, and I watch his jaw slacken and eyes widen in shock.

"Never seen a girl wear anything other than a tennis dress before?" I mutter. Dom shakes his head, unable to maintain eye contact with me.

"Okay, perfect," the journalist claps in delight. "We'll get you two to head over here to start up some photos."

Dom and I walk in silence towards the bleachers that overlook the tennis court. Jayce stands with a smug smirk by the exit of the court, eyes flickering between Dom and I.

"Well, aren't you a handsome couple." Jayce chirps as we pass by him, and in response, Dom raises a very unprofessional bird in Jayce's vicinity.

Once we stop in front of the bleachers, the journalist begins asking Dom some questions, mainly about how he's feeling about Monte Carlos and what his components should keep in mind when going in to a match against him.

Then, the photographer ushers us towards one of the bleachers, situating us in a very uncomfortable pose. The lady smiles as she gets Dom to sit leaning forward, his hands clasped between his knees as his shoulders align with his knees. Without warning, the lady grabbed my hand place's it on Dom's shoulder, causing Dom to flinch ever so slightly.

I'm forced to lean my head in towards Dom, and I can't help but to feel like we're two like charged magnets trying desperately to repel each other.

The camera shutters, and it takes a lot of perseverance not to blink. Dom's a natural as per usual. He spares no movements, possibly not even an inhale. The silence isn't bearable. Usually, one of us has something, anything snarky to say to the other, but not this time. 

"Pout more girl." The photographer speaks over the shuttering of the camera. I let my lip jut out further, but it is almost too unnatural, and a small laugh escapes from my lips.

This catches Dom's attention, and he looks up at me, a small glint in his model eyes.

As soon as our eyes collide, at this close of a proximity, my world spirals down to the exact moment his lips met mine.

The rush that I may have felt. The anticipation dissipated between us so suddenly, yet, so inevitable.

After that night, he almost kissed me at his party, I had wondered, or maybe even been consumed by the thought of what it would feel like to actually kiss Dom. No games were being played. And there it was, last night, and, yet I couldn't help but to feel as if I was still caught up in this game Dom was playing. The one where he wraps every female around his finger until the adore him, just as he is doing with the journalist. Flattering her with compliments and his undeniable charm.