Invincible. Joan Johnston
to tell the headmistress what had provoked the fight. But there was no question of Flick staying after she’d blackened the left eye and broken the left front tooth of the Spanish ambassador’s daughter.
Kristin had faced not one, not two, but three serious traumas over the past week and managed to stay calm and collected. But Flick’s misbehavior, which had resulted in her ejection from school, had just handed Kristin the straw that might break the proverbial camel’s back.
On such short notice, she hadn’t been able to find a nanny or housekeeper she liked to take care of Felicity after school and on weekends while she was on the job. She was going to have to take time off work until she could get the help she needed. Which she didn’t want to do.
She didn’t want the Miami SAC to think she wasn’t able to handle the fallout from the shooting four days ago, which had come too closely on the heels of the shooting four months ago. And been equally disastrous.
You’re invincible, Kristin. Nothing can beat you.
How many times had her father spoken those words to her and her sister on the tennis court growing up? A hundred thousand maybe. She’d never quite believed him. Especially after her older sister, Stephanie, had died in a tragic auto accident at seventeen, leaving Kristin, four years younger, to bear the burden of her sister’s promise as a rising tennis star.
Their mother had long since left their father, because he ate, slept and lived tennis. Kristin had no choice but to try to please her father on the tennis court or be left out of his life altogether.
She hadn’t been as tall as Stephanie. Or as strong. And she didn’t have her sister’s fluid grace. Facts which caused her father endless frustration when he coached her. He was often disappointed in her performance and demanded that she practice to the point of exhaustion.
Which reminded her of the first time she’d met Max.
She’d been thirteen and had qualified to play at Wimbledon in the Girls’ Singles competition. She’d already won her first match, but her father wasn’t happy with her ground strokes. She had a day off between matches, so he’d insisted she spend time after her match practicing with a male hitting partner.
Her exercise clothes were sweat-soaked, despite the cool evening air. Her curly blond hair was bedraggled. She could barely swing her right arm to hit the ball. But until her father was satisfied, she couldn’t leave the court.
“Do it again, Kristin,” he ordered from the sideline. “This time, push through the ball with your whole body.”
“I’m doing the best I can,” she retorted as she slammed a ball down the line.
“That’s out!” he shouted. “By an inch. Keep the ball in the court, Kristin.”
She’d checked her grip and hit three more balls as hard as she could down the line. Every one landed just past the baseline.
“Damn it, Kristin. What’s the matter with you?”
“I’m tired, Daddy.”
“You stay here and work until you can get the ball in the court.” He stomped off and left her there.
Her hitting partner shrugged his shoulders and said, “Why don’t we call it quits?”
“You heard him,” she said. “I need to practice.”
“I didn’t plan to be here all night. You’ll have to find someone else to hit with you,” he said as he stuffed his racquet back into his bag.
Kristin stared at the teenage boy in disbelief. “My father is paying you—”
“Not enough,” the kid said. “See you tomorrow morning.”
Kristin stood on the court, her shoulders slumped, knowing she couldn’t head back to the locker room for at least another hour without getting grounded. That was her father’s favorite punishment, and it worked because she hated being confined indoors in some motel or hotel while on the road.
She heard someone behind her say, “Hey, kid. I’ll hit with you.”
She turned around and saw an older boy, with the most beautiful blue eyes she’d ever seen, standing on the opposite side of the court. It took her a moment to recognize him. “I know you. You’re—”
“In need of some hitting practice,” he said with a grin. He retrieved a racquet from his bag and dropped the bag on the sideline. “I was practicing my serve on the next court over. I couldn’t help overhearing your coach. Sounded like he was a little tough on you.”
“My dad just wants me to be the best I can be,” she said. “Aren’t you—”
A tennis ball was coming at her fast and with a lot of spin. She interrupted herself to hit it back. When the ball was on his side of the court she finished “—Max Benedict?”
“That’s me,” he said, whipping the ball back at her. “What’s your name?”
She could hardly believe she was hitting with one of the top five male players on the junior tour. A fifteen-year-old! She took a small backswing and slammed the ball back at him. Max Benedict was also a hunk.
“My name’s Kristin Lassiter,” she blurted. She felt a blush starting at her throat at just the thought of a boy as good-looking as Max being romantically interested in her. Which she knew was ridiculous. He dated older women. As opposed to barely teenage girls, like her.
“You’ve got great strokes, K,” he said as he tried to lob her.
She backed up to get the ball that had been hit high into the air and slammed it back down at him. “My name’s Kristin, not Kay,” she corrected.
“The letter K’s easier to say,” he replied as he ran for her overhead and snapped it back down at her.
Kristin struggled to get out of the way, so she could return the ball, but she was tired and her feet wouldn’t move. “Ah!” she cried as she swung and missed.
“Finally!” he said as he trotted to the net. “I was beginning to think you’d never miss.”
She crossed to the net, shoving flyaway curls off her face. “I miss plenty. Just ask my father.”
“You’re great, kid. Don’t let anyone tell you different.”
“You’re just saying that.”
“Why would I lie?”
She eyed him askance. “I don’t know. Why are you playing with me? I mean, you’re really a great player. And you’re two years older than me.” She flushed at having revealed that she knew his age.
“You remind me of my younger sister, Lydia,” he said, tucking a curl behind her ear. “She’s thirteen, too. I couldn’t imagine Lydia putting up with a tenth of what your dad put you through tonight. I’ve had my own problems with well-intentioned parents. I guess I wanted to help.”
Kristin rose to her father’s defense. “He just wants me to win.”
“There are more important things than winning,” Max said.
“Name one thing,” she challenged.
“Having fun. Enjoying the game,” he replied.
“It wouldn’t be much fun if I didn’t win,” she pointed out.
“Wouldn’t it?”
She made a face. “I don’t know. I’ve never thought about it much. I’ve been too focused on winning.”
“Next time you play, think about having a good time. And winning,” he said with a grin. “I’m sure you’ll do just fine. Gotta go.” He winked at her and waved a hand at someone behind her.
When she turned to look, she saw a female player—someone on the women’s tour, rather than the junior tour—waiting for him on the