Part 6 (1/2)

Score. Dylan had actually made him reevaluate the sport while forcing him to contemplate the true meaning of- Dylan had actually made him reevaluate the sport while forcing him to contemplate the true meaning of- ”Is that Svetlana?”

Dylan sucked in her abs and panic-scanned the spectators below. It wasn't long before she spotted the blonde in her ultra-low V-neck LWTD. She was sidestepping her way across a row of bleachers, clueless to the tongues that wagged as she squeezed by. Stopping at the only empty courtside seat, she pinch-grabbed the warm-up jacket that had been intentionally left as a placeholder, released it to the ground, and sat. Once settled, she lifted the Aloha Open visor off her head and unleashed her flowing waves slow-mo style. What happened to the braid? And the straight hair? What happened to the braid? And the straight hair? Svetlana looked like Dylan Svetlana looked like Dylan before before the mind-numbing, four-hour transformation. And now it would be months before the chemicals wore off and her own curls popped back. Pure evil! the mind-numbing, four-hour transformation. And now it would be months before the chemicals wore off and her own curls popped back. Pure evil!

Svetlana's eyes scanned the crowd. A devious smile cracked its way across her taut face when she located the Daly box and realized J.T. was watching her. She winked her faux lashes at him and crossed her oil-slicked legs with slow determination, as though they were underwater.

J.T. exhaled longingly, leaving a steam cloud of desire on the gla.s.s.

Opposite of acceptable! Svetlana was ah-bviously doing this to mess with Dylan. Well, a quick shake of her LG should put a stop to that. And it did. Svetlana's shoulders dropped slightly. She put her visor back on, coyly lowered it over her blue-green eyes, and focused on the match.

Seconds later, the cheering crowd tipped Dylan off to a successful swing by Brady. ”That was some backhandler!” she shouted.

J.T. whipped around to face her.

Direct eye contact. Finally! She had his full attention now. She had his full attention now.

”Are you even watching the same match as I am?” His brow furrowed.

Nervous heat starting p.r.i.c.king under her pits, and Dylan hoped desperately that her freesia-scented deodorant would keep the crisis in check.

”Of course I'm watching the same match. Now shhhh shhhh!” she chided him, desperate to change the topic.

”You do know there's no such thing as a backhandler, right? It's called a backhand backhand.”

Outside, polite applause followed a loud tennis-grunt.

”I know know. That's just our nickname for them back at the Westchester Tennis Club.”

J.T. crossed his arms. ”You look look like you're really into tennis, but it seems like you don't actually know anything about it. I mean-” like you're really into tennis, but it seems like you don't actually know anything about it. I mean-”

Dylan forced herself to face his disapproving eyes. ”I'll show you how into tennis I am when Svetlana and I play later this week.”

J.T. gasped. ”Are you serious?”

”If by serious you mean stupid, stupid, then ah-bso-lutely,” Dylan wanted to say. then ah-bso-lutely,” Dylan wanted to say.

But instead she sigh-nodded yes and smiled awkwardly, the way love-struck girls often do.

KAPALUA SPA AND TENNIS CLUB.

SVETLANA'S BUNGALOW Thursday, July 2 4 P.M.

”This will only take a sec.” Dylan pushed past Svetlana and charged into the tennis phenom's humid bungalow that afternoon. An image of the athlete midserve, looking constipated, was frozen on the plasma.

”Ehmagawd!” Dylan giggled ”No wonder you didn't want me to come in. You were checking out your grunt face.”

”I admit nothing.” Svetlana held the remote over her white-robed shoulder and clicked the TV off.

”Whatevs.” Dylan helped herself to one of the Svetlana for Luna bars on the mahogany coffee table. ”Anyway, we'll be playing a match in five days, and I need you to let me kick your highly downloaded b.u.t.t.” She admired her blue and silver striped tank dress in the star-shaped wall mirror. The slight A-line was perfect for size sixes posing as fours.

Svetlana took a hearty gulp of green Gatorade. ”Ahhhhh!” She lobbed the empty jug into a wicker plant holder by the living area.

Gawd! Didn't Svetlana need to burp after a chug like that? What was it about s.e.xy blondes and their lack of gas? Maybe beauty wasn't skin-deep. Perhaps it ran deeper.

”So, are you in?” Dylan asked.

”Hmmmm.” Svetlana lifted the napping Boris out of the white-brick fireplace and began scratching his tiny head with her ultra-square acrylic tips. ”What is point of this deception?”

”J.T. will be watching. And if he sees me beat you, he will believe I am a tennis G.o.ddess.” She rubbed the dull ache in her shoulder.

”Svetlana has doubts.” She tucked a silky blond wave behind her ear.

Dylan tried to do the same with her stiff red braid. It was like trying to twirl raw spaghetti.

”I cannot throw a game.” She scratched Boris harder. ”Even for silly pretend match.”

”Cannot? Or will will not?” Dylan dared. not?” Dylan dared.

”Both. Is bad for career.” She stood firm, her unpedicured feet planted on the beige sisal rug.

”So is votive throwing in a meditation chamber.” Dylan waved her phone.

Svetlana closed her eyes and exhaled slowly. Dylan wiped her sweat-drenched palms on the side of her striped dress.

”Fine.” Svetlana hate-squinted, her taut lips flattened into a fine line.

Done! Dylan stuffed the phone back in her silver sequincovered tennis bag. Just as she was about to zip it shut, Svetlana tossed Boris on the bed and lunged at her with cougarlike ferocity. Dylan stuffed the phone back in her silver sequincovered tennis bag. Just as she was about to zip it shut, Svetlana tossed Boris on the bed and lunged at her with cougarlike ferocity.

Reee-oplaints complaints?” Dylan asked, a.s.suming Svetlana was still working on her three-syllable words. After all, compliments were the only only reason to work out. reason to work out.

”No. I mean compliments compliments.” Her nostrils flared slightly, showing that she meant business. ”None. Not one. Ever.”

Dylan suddenly remembered Winsome mentioning something about Svetlana and compliments, but the details were fuzzy. She'd been in a color-induced haze that day. She considered asking Svetlana why, but decided against it. The opportunity to spend the day with a gorgeous, athletic superstar and not have to feed her ego seemed like a real bonus. ”No prob. Now, do we have a deal?”

Svetlana flopped onto her bed and shoved Boris in the cubby of s.p.a.ce between her neck and chin. They both stared mournfully at the rattan ceiling fan. ”We have deal.”

Dylan smirked. She might not know a thing about tennis, but she was an expert at playing the game.

KAPALUA SPA AND TENNIS CLUB.