Losing at Love Read Online Free PDF

decide, you still need to train.”
    “What are we working on today?” she asked.
    “Full workout and then backhands, Jas. Backhands for the rest of your life. Whatever you decide, no coach in their right mind is going to let you get away with that crap you call a backhand.”
    She groaned, but a smile crept through. There was the Dom she’d known her whole life, barking orders and not letting good enough ever be good enough. “I’m going to start having nightmares about backhands soon.”
    “Good, maybe then you’ll keep your shoulder in.”
    “Yeah, maybe.”
     

Chapter 3
     
    June 15th
     
    Alex Russell’s Townhouse
    Egerton Crescent, Chelsea
    London, England
     
    Penny Harrison gripped the side of the mattress, tentatively pressing her foot against the soft area rug beneath the bed. A sharp pain immediately flew up her leg and made her entire body tense. “Damn it,” she muttered to herself but felt the bed shift behind her. A warm hand slid up her bare back, tangling into the bottom of her hair.
    “Alright, love?” Alex asked, voice still rough with sleep. The morning light was just barely creeping through the shades over the windows and the sound of people leaving their homes, car doors closing, engines rumbling down the street signaled the start of the day as well. The taupe walls made the room warm and cozy, despite the floor-to-ceiling windows, white molding outlining each one, and high ceilings, the same glossy white crown molding surrounding the room. The dark, nearly black, wood of his bed and furniture gave the room a distinctly masculine air. This was unmistakably his space, her luggage and some of her clothes strewn on the floor, the only feminine touches allowed.
    She looked over her shoulder, blowing a lock of dark brown hair out of her eyes. He was leaning up on one elbow, dirty blond hair sticking up in all directions, the navy blue sheets pooling around his waist.
    “Still hurts when I put pressure on it,” she mumbled, leaning back into the bed and pulling the sheet around her as well.
    “Doc said it would,” Alex reminded her, his arm snaking around her waist, drawing her closer to him. “A couple more weeks at least, until you’re at full strength.”
    “I know, I was just hoping…” she trailed off, then sighed. “I wanted to play in Birmingham and that’s not going to happen.”
    The scruff lining his jaw rubbed against her shoulder, soothing in its roughness, before he kissed the skin gently. “Doc said that too. Grade two ankle sprain, four to six weeks, minimum.”
    “You never know, I could wake up one of these mornings and all the pain could be gone. Besides, he said it was between a grade one and grade two, the teeniest, tiniest tear.”
    “Very tiny,” Alex agreed, sliding his fingers underneath the chain around her neck, pulling the old British penny from it’s usual home against her skin. He rubbed his thumb over the metal, his eyes suddenly far away.
    “It’s not really Birmingham I’m worried about,” she whispered, her hand resting over his, stopping the motion and drawing his eyes to hers.
    “I know, love, I know.”
    Wimbledon was just a few weeks away. Her ankle might be just fine by then, but there was a good chance it wouldn’t be and even if she healed up in that time, she’d have to miss weeks of training leading up to the tournament, the most important one of her life. After beating Zina Lutrova in the quarterfinals of the French Open, even with her ankle barely holding her weight by the end, the entire tennis world expected her to pick up right where she left off. She went into the French Open expected to do well, but she would be going into Wimbledon with everyone expecting her to win. The injury couldn’t possibly have come at a worse time, right in the middle of the shortest break between Grand Slams. She’d been at the top of her game at Roland Garros, but instead, she had to watch someone else hoist the trophy from the stands with an