Chapter Two

After she leaves, I order a room service meal of steak and chips, which I eat while watching the TV. My press conference comes on and I laugh as the journalist I’d just fucked the hell out of appears on the screen.

I set my plate down on the coffee table and stand up. The steak was overcooked, and the chips cold, but I’d been so hungry that all that is left is a thin layer of sinew. I shower again and dress casually in a pair of jeans and a fitted black t-shirt. I check my reflection in the bathroom mirror and I’m satisfied. My dark hair is cropped short and falls naturally into place. I run my hand over the light stubble on my jaw and wonder if I should shave. I smile, my deep brown eyes narrowing back at me.

Nah. Fuck it.

Most of the tennis crowd hung around in the same circle while on tour, and several of the more exclusive clubs pulled some major strings to get us players into their venues. I’m talking about things like V.I.P. access, free drinks, and in some cases “special attention” from women hired to make sure we were entertained. Of course there weren’t too many players who liked to party as hard as I did while still in a tournament. Most were pretty respectful to the sport they dedicated their lives to.

It isn’t as if I don’t respect the game—I do. I just see more to life than hitting a ball around. For me, tennis is a career. That doesn’t mean I want to live and breathe it.

I strut confidently through the foyer of the hotel, not oblivious to the attention I’m receiving from the opposite sex. Whether they recognize who I am or not, I always command attention. I know I’m attractive. My tennis keeps my body in fit, tight shape, and my boyish good looks seem to go down well with the ladies.

I smirk at a pretty blonde dressed in a black suit and heels, who stands near the door. She blushes and smiles back, lowering her head while still eye-fucking me. Maybe she’ll still be around tomorrow night.

Outside, I wave down a taxi and climb inside.

“Revolution, over on Montague, please,” I murmur, hoping he speaks English. He nods, and I relax. One thing I love about the French is their blatant disregard for the pervasiveness of the English language. I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve been told “You’re in France. Speak French!”

 

I whip out my phone and scroll through the several missed calls I have from Matt. A message from Josh pops up, asking me where I am headed tonight. I laugh. He knows me too well. I text him back.

Revolution. I’ll save you a seat.

I shove my phone back into my pocket and enjoy the rest of the ride through one of the world’s most beautiful cities. Paris. The romantic in me—and yes, there is one—can’t deny how sexy this city is. And don’t get me started on the women. Something about the way my name rolls off their tongues as they’re reaching orgasm . . . Ah, I can’t explain it, so I won’t bother trying.

My driver pulls up out front of the ritzy club. I hand him fifty Euros and tell him to keep the change. He smiles, gives me a nod, and then thanks me in French. I walk straight inside the club, ignoring the line of people waiting to get in. I nod at the man who stands at the door, recognizing him from last night.

“You’re back,” he says, in a heavy accent. “Should you not be at home in bed, getting your beauty sleep, no? You have big match tomorrow.”

“I’m beautiful enough, Pierre,” I say, slapping him on the back.

He laughs and waves the next two girls in line through, giving me a wink.

“Hello.” I smile to the beauty on my left. She giggles and then runs off with her friend, leaving me standing there alone. Not that I care. There are plenty of women in here who will be thrilled to be my entertainment for the night.

I swagger over to the bar and order myself a rum and Coke. Nodding at the barman, I take my drink and walk over to an empty table at the rear of the room. Here I can sit and scope out the talent.

I smile at a group of girls who are shamelessly staring at me. They blush and giggle, and I know right then that one of them will be coming home with me.

Or maybe all of them.

“Unusual to see you sitting alone.”

I look over as Josh slumps down in the seat next to me. I nod in the direction of my little fan club, and chuckle. “I don’t plan on being alone for long,” I say.

He rolls his eyes and laughs.

Josh is my best friend. He is as American as they come, and always makes me laugh. The thing I probably look forward to the most about the competition season is the amount of time I get to spend with him.

Outside of tour season, it’s just too hard. He trains in Florida, where he lives with his girlfriend, Charlotte. She’s a model, and they are great together. They’re like the perfect little couple—who’ll probably go on to have perfect little children. Hearing how happy they are makes me miss being in a relationship.

My last relationship ended a long time ago, and not on good terms. Most of the time I’d be happy if I never entered another relationship again—the key words in that statement being most of the time.

“Man, I don’t get you. Any other night of the year, fine, but you’re in the final of the French Open. How come you don’t take this shit more seriously? You piss people off with your disrespect of the game. You piss me off.”

“And yet I keep winning,” I say pointedly, lifting my drink to my lips.

“Precisely why you annoy people.”

I laugh and set my drink down. How can I explain this to him? Nobody understands. Everyone assumes I’m just some cocky arrogant asshole, but that is so fucking far from the truth. Was it my fault if winning didn’t stimulate me anymore? Another final. So fucking what? Where’s the challenge?

“I’m not here to talk about tennis, Josh. I’m here to have a little fun. Are you with me?”

“I’m always with you, man.” He shakes his head and flags down a waitress. “Can I get a vodka and tonic, please? Do you want another?” he asks me.

I nod.

“And a rum and Coke for my friend.”

The waitress nods and walks off. I smile as my little fan club begins to edge closer to the table. The pretty brunette at the front meets my gaze. I wink at her, and watch as she approaches us.

“Mind if I sit down?” she asks, flipping her dark hair over her shoulder.

I motion to the vacant chairs opposite us. “Please. I’m Ryder.”

“Nice to meet you, Ryder. I’m Salli.” She giggles, and extends her hand to meet mine. She is completely oblivious to Josh sitting next to me, and I can see that amuses him. Not that he minds. He’s my wingman, but I know he’d never do anything to jeopardize his relationship. I admire that.

“So what brings you to Paris, Salli?” I ask. Her accent tells me she’s British, like me.

“A girls’ weekend.” She smiles again, and her beauty strikes me. Some would call me a player, but that’s not how it is at all. I just love exploring the sensuality of different women. Every woman has her own unique beauty, and discovering that can be an incredible experience.

Am I really that bad a man if I like to be thorough in my exploits?

“Really?” I raise my eyebrows and reach for my drink. “How long are you here for?”

“We go back home tomorrow night. After the tennis final,” she adds. Her eyes sparkle, and l laugh. She’s almost bursting with excitement, and I know meeting me has made her night.

“How would you feel,” I begin, my eyes penetrating hers, “about taking this party back to my room?”

She practically faints at the sound of my words. I can see Josh shaking his head out of the corner of my eye. “I would love that.” Her lips form a small pout. “But I promised my friends I wouldn’t leave them. Do you mind if they come too?”

I follow her gaze to her friends. They’ve moved away from us, and are now dirty dancing near the bar.

“If they want to come, then I’m more than happy to accommodate them,” I say with a grin.

“Give me a minute.” She giggles again.

The sound of her laugh is beginning to grate on me, but she’s stunning—and so are her friends—so I force myself to focus. And maybe not say anything that will make her laugh. I sit forward and watch her run over to her friends, shaking my head. Had a fivesome literally just fallen in my lap? Was a fivesome even a thing? Or was anything over three simply an orgy?

“How do you do that?” mutters Josh. He shakes his head in amazement.

I smile, not letting on that I’d forgotten he was even there.

“How the hell do you do that?”

“Man, I have no idea. I’m just being myself.” I shrug. 

And that is the truth. I have a friendly personality that attracts women—it’s as simple as that. If there is one thing I hate, it’s men that treat women like shit. That whole dickhead routine isn’t my thing. To be honest, I can’t be bothered dealing with women who lack the self-confidence to respect themselves.

“You know they just want you because you’re Ryder Stevens, right? Not that it’s a bad way to be used,” he adds.

“Why do you even care? Or have you forgotten about Charlotte?” I ask.

“I don’t care like that. It just shouldn’t be that damn easy for you,” he grumbles. “Everything is easy for you.”

I laugh and throw a few notes down on the table. “See you later. Buy yourself a drink or two. You’ll be in my box tomorrow, right?”

He nods and I grin.

“Good. Because it’s probably the closest you’ll ever get to the French Open final.”