know my limitations? Fine. I’m more than happy to tell you.” She ticked them off on her trembling fingers, rage burning in her cheeks. “Since my twenties, I’ve had arthritis in my neck from a bad car accident. Around that time, my knees began hurting too, for no specific reason. Starting in my thirties, I’ve had persistent lower back pain because my stupid breasts are too damn big.” Her eyes met his, and she didn’t flinch. “Bottom line: Most days I’m in pain somewhere. But usually my knees, especially when I have to descend a lot of stairs or run. So yes, my knee hurt some after our last lesson, and it’s killing me after the steps today.”
His expression had softened as she spoke, his shoulders dropping. “Tess—”
She didn’t want to hear it.
“And before you tell me I should lose weight—”
He jolted. “I would never—”
“—yes, I know the knee problems might be due to my size, or at least exacerbated by it. But I promised myself I’d never be ruled by the scale ever again, knee pain or no knee pain. I won’t invite that obsession back into my life, no matter what you or anyone else says.”
He was watching her carefully, his eyes on her face.
She hated it. Her chest was heaving with each half-sobbing breath, and her eyes burned. Dammit, she’d lost control. Again.
“And don’t bother telling me strength and flexibility training might help my joints, because no shit, Sherlock.” She spat out the words. “But when I exercise on my own, I always manage to injure myself, and getting a trainer costs money I don’t have. Besides that, I’d need time and energy to train, and I work all the time, Lucas. All. The. Time. And when I’m not working, I’d rather read and watch movies and hang out with my friends than go to a gym or physical therapy. Sue me.”
“Okay.” He inclined his head. “It’s okay, Tess. Let’s—”
When he reached across the net for her hand, she backed away. “So don’t tell me to entrust myself to your care, Lucas. You’re a twenty-something athlete in the prime of his body and life, and you have no clue. No fucking clue.”
At that, all the sympathy glowing warm in his eyes vanished.
Her pulse echoed in her ears, and it was the only sound on the court. At least until he spoke, his voice thick and loud.
“Well, that’s some fucking irony right there.” He bared his teeth in a faux-smile. “Since you don’t know the first thing about me either.”
And whose fault was that? The man didn’t share anything of himself. Nothing real, anyway. “I just watched that display of serving machismo, so I think I have some id—”
“See these scars?” With a jerk, he raised his wrists to eye level. “Did you wonder how I got them?”
She had, actually, but she’d thought it both impolite and unwise to ask. They were both far beyond manners and wisdom now, though, so she figured she was about to hear the answer to her unasked question, like it or not.
To be honest, in her hurt and rage, she’d kind of forgotten about the scars. Shit.
She swallowed. “I thought—”
“Three surgeries. On my left wrist alone. It’s basically held together with twine and a prayer.” He rotated it for her inspection, his nostrils flared. “My backhand used to be a weapon. Now I can barely hit a seventy-mile-per-hour slice cross-court, and it hurts like a bitch every time that ball strikes the racket. The price of generating any power at all.”
Why did a tennis instructor need to hit more than seventy miles an hour?
What was she missing here?
The other wrist began a slow spin for her perusal. “One operation on my right. After I finished rehab, that wrist didn’t bother me anymore. Except when it did.” When he’d made certain she’d seen every millimeter of that pinkish-white scar, he lowered his hands. “Maybe we should talk about my left knee. I had surgery there too. Or we could discuss the other places I hurt when I play too much or too hard. The commentators said I had joints of glass, and they weren’t wrong.”
Commentators? What the—
Oh. Oh, fuck.
He’d been a professional. A professional tennis player.
Now he was helping sunburned tourists determine the correct grip size for their borrowed rackets.
Remorse swamped her rage, drowning it in an instant. “Lucas, I’m so s—”
He was beyond her apologies. “I’m sorry the lesson and our date today hurt your knee. But don’t tell me how I