painting your soul with the colors of my words (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
luxken27fics) wrote2015-07-12 06:44 pm
luxken27fics) wrote2015-07-12 06:44 pm
Sweet Valley Sophomores | 6: Hit Me with Your Best Shot
Title: Hit Me with Your Best Shot
Author:luxken27
Fandom: Sweet Valley High
Universe: Pre-canon (sophomore year)
Genre: Drama, Romance
Rating: T
Word Count: 4,615
Summary: Bruce Patman plays to win.
Author’s note: Written for the white diamonds prompt for my 2015 Summer Mini Challenge table. Further author's notes can be found here.
DISCLAIMER: The Sweet Valley High concept, storyline, and characters are © 1983 – 2003 Francine Pascal/Bantam Books/Random House. No money is being made from the creation of this material. No copyright infringement is intended.
~*~
Lila Fowler was loath to acknowledge another’s superior strength or skill, but she had to admit it: Bruce Patman was a better tennis player than she was.
It wasn’t much of a leap – Bruce was the star of the Sweet Valley High varsity tennis team, just as he’d been the star of the junior varsity team last year, and the intramural squad at SVMS the year before that. He had an easy, innate talent for the game that he loved to show off: a powerful serve, silky smooth volleys, an ease of moment around the court that made other players seethe with indignant jealousy.
He especially loved to make a point about how he’d grown up on grass courts – thus, in his estimation, learning a far superior version of the game. He loved to charge the net, his huge wingspan blocking passing shots from every angle, dinking back infuriating drop volleys that died the moment they hit the court. The Patman estate featured a grass court – and a groundskeeper who’d trained at Wimbledon, whose sole responsibility was to tend to that court – and it was one of the only grass courts in the entire state of California, which Bruce never failed to brag about whenever the chance arose.
Not that Lila was a bad player by comparison. She’d been taking lessons from a retired pro since the age of six, and her father had laid down a state-of-the-art hard court as one of her many birthday presents when she turned thirteen. Unlike the fabled Patman grass court, there was no pomp and circumstance surrounding Lila’s court – it was much more practical, in fact, made of concrete and rubber, not unlike most of the public courts that dotted the southern California landscape – not to mention the gated country clubs that lined the west coast.
Of course, Lila’s court was special in a different way – not because it required specially-trained maintenance staff, but because the surface itself was a custom shade of deep, royal purple. Purple had been her favorite color when she was in middle school, and though she had long outgrown her obsession with wearing clothing in that color every day, she still appreciated the crown jewel of the expansive back acreage of Fowler Crest. There wasn’t another court like it in the entire state – or, indeed, in the entire world, or so the architect had told her when he’d submitted the plans for her approval.
What was curious, perhaps, was that Bruce Patman’s game didn’t translate so well to the slower, truer concrete, with its high, consistent bounce that absorbed the wicked slice and heavy topspin he liked to employ. Lila was sure that he’d never play on her court again after she humiliated him during their first – and, to date, only – match, back when she was just a mere freshman at SVH and he’d just made the varsity team as a sophomore, but here he was, throwing down aces and slicing volleys off her flat return groundstrokes like he’d been playing on it all his life.
She had been surprised – and amused – when he’d shown up at her doorstep that morning, tennis gear in hand, and proclaimed that he wanted a rematch. She suspected that what he really wanted to do was show off his latest pride and joy, a sleek black Porsche 911 with personalized plates that he’d received for his sixteenth birthday. Everyone had ooh’ed and aah’ed over it at his birthday party, of course, but it was just Bruce’s way, whenever he received a new toy – he came up with the most ridiculous excuses to show it off.
She wasn’t sure why he’d thought she’d be impressed; after all, she didn’t follow him around like a lovesick puppy, in awe of his wealth or confidence or stunning good looks. The Fowlers had just as much money to throw around as the Patmans did, and George Fowler could spoil his only child with the best of them. Lila had never wanted for anything in her life, transportation included. She’d already chosen the car that would be hers upon turning sixteen, and it was far more glamorous than a mere Porsche.
Nevertheless, she’d decided to humor Bruce that morning, mostly because she was bored and didn’t have anything better to do. She’d invited him in so she wouldn’t have to feign interest in his car, had quickly changed into her tennis gear, and the two of them had proceeded to the garish purple court.
He must’ve had more on his mind than just his car (for once), because he didn’t make any cracks about her court, but had merely settled in for a competitive set of tennis. He was playing like he had something to prove, which provoked Lila’s curiosity.
After six games in the unrelenting summer heat, however, she was no longer curious about his motivations. She’d been going easy on him thus far, not wanting to shatter his fragile male ego (or disabuse him of the notion that he was, in fact, the world’s greatest tennis player), but he hadn’t been able to keep his competitive fire to himself for long. He kept whooping it up every time he hit a winner off of one of her returns, calling her by her last name like she was one of his putrid teammates, and teasing her for playing “like a girl.”
Bruce could be an interesting distraction when he wanted to be, but his default setting was arrogant jerk.
“Oh, come on, Fowler, is that the best you can do?” he crowed as her forehand lob sailed long of the baseline. He shot her a condescending look over his shoulder as he retreated to the deuce court. “And here I thought you’d make a worthy opponent.”
Lila gritted her teeth, clamping her hand around the fuzzy yellow tennis ball until her knuckles turned white. She’d rather be bored than insulted any day of the week – and besides, it wasn’t the best she could do.
You want to see what I have in my arsenal? she mused to herself, flicking her wrist so that her diamond tennis bracelet slid down to the relative safety of her forearm. She bounced around on the balls of her feet. Well, don’t say I never obliged you, Bruce Patman!
She settled into her serving stance just behind the baseline, glanced at her opponent across the net, and threw a slice serve down the T, which skidded away from Bruce’s almighty forehand. He frowned, but paced over to the ad court without offering a comment. She tossed in another slice, this time out wide, and smirked when Bruce flailed towards it but missed.
“Game,” she announced perkily, tossing the tennis balls left on her side of the court towards him.
She walked over to the sideline and picked up her water bottle, taking a long, cool sip as she waited for Bruce to gather the balls – and himself. She couldn’t help but grin when she heard him grumbling to himself: “So she can hit a slice serve – so what? It’s not like it’s hard.”
She sauntered back to the baseline, digging in her heels as she crouched into her return stance. Bruce had been serving almost exclusively to her backhand thus far, earning blocked return after blocked return that he could easily cut off at net. She wondered if the mix up in her game would be met with a bit of variety in his.
She leaned toward her forehand side as he tossed the ball up, and lucked into a correct guess. She fired the return back, around the net post and down the line, and all he could do was watch it whiz past him as he scampered to net. He scowled at her, but she pretended not to notice, toying with the clasp of her bracelet as she walked to the other side of the court before crouching into her return stance again, ready for the next point.
Bruce kicked a heavy serve to her backhand, which she was able to send back with interest, pinning him at the baseline. They exchanged groundstrokes, and this time it was Lila who crept into net, slicing a high backhand volley just inside the sideline, one that spun away from Bruce’s waiting racquet.
“When did you get so good, Fowler?” he grunted, slinging his racquet against the net.
Lila stopped at the service line and turned to face him. “I’ve always been good,” she replied haughtily, tucking a lock of hair beneath her headband.
Bruce’s response was a sly smile. “Is that so,” he drawled, his eyes taking a blatant, leisurely stroll down the length of her and back.
Lila arched a brow as his gaze returned to hers. “Like what you see?” she sneered. “There’s more where that came from. I’ve been practicing with Jessica all summer.”
“Jessica?” Bruce snorted. “Jessica Wakefield?!” He shook his head. “I’m shocked, Fowler. Talk about a try-hard. Elizabeth, on the other hand… Now there’s a worthy adversary.” He smirked.
“Are you really comparing me to Saint Elizabeth of Sweet Valley – and finding me lacking?” Lila scoffed, planting her hands on her hips. “Now I really am offended. Don’t you know quality when you see it, Patman?”
His smirk stretched into a grin. “All I’m saying is, I like a good challenge,” he called out as he backtracked to the baseline.
Lila snorted. “Don’t flatter yourself,” she muttered, retreating to her own baseline. Jessica was the best tennis player she knew – even better than Bruce, and she was tempted to tell him that. Jessica would’ve killed her, though, because she had a huge, embarrassing crush on the soon-to-be-junior, and believed he was every bit as amazing as he made himself out to be.
Elizabeth, though she held the correct opinion of Bruce, was otherwise a complete snore. Just the idea of comparing herself to the nerdy Wakefield twin made her laugh – and the idea that Bruce would find her more of a worthy challenge than Lila herself made her seethe.
That’s it, she thought, turning back to the net and crouching into her return stance, forget you and your precious ego, Bruce Patman. Nobody compares me to Liz and finds me wanting!
They continued to play, with Lila’s blistering passing shots a solid match to Bruce’s serve and deadly volleys. Several of their service games went to deuce, but each of them managed to hold their nerve – and their serve – as the twelfth game approached. Bruce was serving to stay in the set and force a tiebreak, but Lila didn’t give him any slack, pounding her groundstrokes with greater confidence and authority. She’d succeeded in pinning him back, not allowing him to rush forward and finish points quickly, but he still got the best of her sometimes, forcing her into an occasional error, or sending a winner sailing past her.
Nonetheless, the game went to deuce several times, each advantage going to Lila. She finally managed to break the deadlock, slicing a delicate dropshot off of a routine backhand of Bruce’s, a surprise that saw him helplessly stuck in no man’s land between the baseline and the service line, unable to do anything but watch as her shot barely cleared the net, bouncing softly on his side of the court before falling out of bounds.
With that perfectly placed touch shot, she’d broken his serve and won the set.
Lila couldn’t help but gloat when Bruce sent her a murderous look as he stomped over to the sideline.
“So how does it feel to lose, Patman?” Lila crooned, picking up her water bottle again and taking a triumphant swig.
“I never lose,” he grunted, unceremoniously wiping the sweat from his brow.
“I believe the score is 7-5 in my favor,” Lila proclaimed with a smirk, “which means I win.”
“One set is hardly a proper match, Fowler,” Bruce shot back. He took a long drink from his water bottle. “Besides, I was going easy on you out there.”
Lila arched a brow. “If all that huffing and puffing and floundering around is what you call ‘going easy,’ then I’d hate to see you in full flight,” she returned, toying with her tennis bracelet. “You move like a cow on ice.”
“That’s because you have an inferior court,” he spat. “If we were playing on a real court – a grass court – then I’d wipe the floor with you, easily.”
“Aww, poor Brucey,” she teased, twining her fingers through his sweaty, slicked back hair. “Can’t even beat a girl at tennis, tsk tsk!”
Bruce grabbed her arm, yanking her hand away from his hair and giving her a hard stare. “Don’t tempt me, Fowler,” he growled, pinning her bracelet awkwardly against her wrist.
Lila pulled out of his harsh grip. “Geez, Bruce, lighten up,” she chided, rubbing her wrist where the clasp had dug into her skin. “It’s just a game, and you started it. You’re the one who came over and begged for my company this morning, let’s not forget.”
Bruce laughed. “Begged? Is that what you think?” he snorted. He shook his head, looping his towel around his neck and pushing his hands through his hair. “No, I don’t think so. The only person begging for attention around here is you.”
Lila narrowed her eyes, suddenly suspicious of him. “Then why are you here?” she asked bluntly.
He shrugged. “I was bored,” he claimed, “and I figured you were bored, too, so I thought – what the hell?” He met her glare with a challenge of his own. “Why not swing over to Fowler Crest and see if we couldn’t figure out a way to relieve our mutual boredom?”
Lila’s heart began to beat heavily in her chest as he continued to stare at her with that intense, fathomless gaze. Everyone who knew them thought they hated each other, but the truth was they actually got along quite well. Nobody else in Sweet Valley understood what it was like to come from money – at least, not the sort of money their families possessed. It placed them in a higher rung of society, above their friends and classmates, where tennis and yachting were the sports of choice, and brunch at the country club was something that only desperate people did. Their world was very small and isolated, and it wasn’t worth it to actively hate each other.
Not that it made them the best of friends, either, but they certainly appreciated one another.
Bruce smiled. “And then I remembered your ridiculous Unicorn-colored tennis court, and figured we’d have a friendly hit.”
They set off towards the house. “Have you ever considered ripping it up and putting a real court in?” Bruce asked as they ambled along.
“It is a real court,” Lila insisted. “The US Open is played on hard court.”
Bruce snorted. “The US Open,” he muttered, “is hardly Wimbledon.”
Lila rolled her eyes. “Because we all know the success you’ve had at Wimby,” she joked, referring to his less-than-successful attempt at winning the junior crown at his most coveted tournament. He’d made a big deal out of entering the draw when he was 14, bragging to everyone within shouting distance that he was going to win junior Wimbledon because he was, of course, the best grass court player in the world (in his own mind), only to crash out in the third round to some unknown Swedish player. He’d slinked home with his tail between his legs, complaining to anyone who would listen that he’d be robbed of his fair place in the quarterfinals, and beyond.
Bruce sniffed. “Winning a junior tournament is kid’s stuff,” he insisted. “The real challenge is at the senior level.” He glanced at Lila. “I could do it, you know. I could turn pro and win championships and Grand Slams, no problem.” He tugged at the towel draped around his neck. “That is, if I had the interest, of course.”
“Of course,” Lila echoed with a smirk. If there was one thing she knew about Bruce, it was that he hated to lose, and losing at junior Wimbledon two years ago had really crushed him – and probably his dreams of playing tennis professionally.
“What about you?” he mused. “You’re not half-bad, you know, and it’s not like the ladies’ game has any sort of depth.”
Lila ignored the barb, but considered the question. “Nah,” she finally replied, “I hate to sweat that much. Besides,” she added with a shrug, “Jessica’s better than me, anyway.”
“Jessica?” Bruce repeated incredulously, grabbing Lila’s arm and pulling her to an abrupt stop. “Get real, Fowler. She is not better than you.”
Lila stared at him for a long moment. “A better tennis player,” she clarified, flipping her hair over her shoulder.
Bruce shook his head. “I’ll believe it when I see it.”
Wouldn’t Jess just love to hear that, Lila thought sourly, conjuring up an image of her best friend’s expression whenever Bruce was around. “Lovesick puppy” didn’t even begin to describe it – her crush had grown to sickeningly embarrassing proportions over the years. Bruce was certainly handsome enough to have half their sophomore class chasing after him, but Lila had no idea what it was about him that inspired such hapless devotion.
“Hey,” Bruce said suddenly, breaking into her thoughts, “let’s go for a swim.”
“What?” Lila murmured as he steered her towards the vast, picturesque pool carved into the hillside beside Fowler Crest.
“It’s just what we need to cool off,” Bruce insisted, his strides lengthening as they drew closer to the pool house. “This heat is brutal.”
Lila couldn’t argue with that – the July sun was searing down on them from a perfectly blue, cloudless sky – but she didn’t feel like going through the laborious process of choosing a swimsuit and changing her clothes and finding her towel and suntan oil. Even just thinking about it made her want to curl up for a nap instead.
She slowed her pace, falling behind him though he still had hold of her elbow. “I don’t know, Bruce,” she hedged. “You don’t even have a swimsuit.”
He glanced back at her and grinned. “Who says?”
Her eyebrows shot up. “Do you?” she sputtered, eyeing his racquet bag dubiously.
He shrugged. “No,” he admitted, “but why should that stop me?”
Lila’s jaw dropped. How could he even contemplate something as gauche as swimming without a suit? That’s what poor people did when they couldn’t afford swimsuits, and didn’t have access to anything better than the ol’ swimming hole down at the creek. She shuddered at the very idea.
Bruce dropped his tennis gear beside the cabana just beyond the concrete skirt of the pool. He quickly kicked out of his shoes and socks before heading for the water. “C’mon, Fowler,” he called out, pulling his shirt over his head, “live a little!”
Lila had only just set her racquet down beside his gear when she suddenly felt two hands grab her around the waist. She shrieked when she felt his grip tighten around her as he took a running leap into the deep end of the pool, pulling her in with him and soaking her thoroughly.
“Bruce Patman, you jerk!” she screamed as soon as she broke the surface, pushing her wet hair out of her eyes. “How dare you!”
Bruce surfaced alongside her and burst out laughing. “Oh, come now, Lila,” he teased, “lighten up! It’s only water!”
“Only water!” she sputtered, shoving a wave of it at him. “These are my best tennis whites, and you just ruined them!” She made the mistake of looking down just then, and groaned in agony. “Oh, and my shoes!”
Bruce shrugged. “So just get Daddy to buy you some more,” he smirked. “I’m sure he can afford it.”
Lila gave him a venomous scowl. “Shut up, Bruce Patman,” she seethed. “I should make you pay to replace my things! After all, I’m sure you can afford it.”
Bruce just laughed and swam away from her, launching into a graceful freestyle stroke as he headed for the other end of the pool.
Lila bobbed over to the side, bracing her arms against the rough concrete and preparing to lift herself out of the water.
That was when she realized it was missing.
“Oh, no,” she whispered, turning back and scanning the water frantically. “No!” She pushed off, back towards where she’d landed so unceremoniously in the pool, and cupped her hands as she reached down into the water. Tears sprouted in the corners of her eyes as her fingers swirled without resistance below her.
“Bruce!” she cried out. “Bruce, get back here!”
For once, Bruce Patman did as he was told, surfacing beside her within moments of her shout. “What?” he asked. “What’s going on, Lila?”
Her tears spilled over her cheeks the moment she saw him. “My bracelet is gone!” she wailed, “and it’s all thanks to you, you selfish jerk!” She shoved him, hard, hating herself for crying in front of him.
“What are you talking about, Lila?” he demanded. “How is it my fault that you lost some bracelet?”
“It’s not just ‘some bracelet,’” she sobbed. “It’s a white diamond tennis bracelet – ”
“Who the hell wears an actual tennis bracelet while playing tennis?” Bruce broke in, only to earn himself another rough shove in response.
“It was the last piece of jewelry my mother ever gave me,” Lila informed him angrily,” and it’s your fault that it’s lost, because you pulled me into the pool!”
“Oh,” he breathed, averting his eyes, his expression sobering. He took a deep breath. “Listen, will you just chill out for a minute?”
“Chill out?!” she shrieked. “Bruce Patman, I swear to God – !”
“All right, all right,” he cut in, “I get it. I’ll find your stupid bracelet.” He gave her a sidelong glance. “Now, seriously, chill the fuck out before you hyperventilate and drown, okay? I’m not up for an extended rescue mission today.” He paddled a small distance away from her before diving into the water, and Lila was momentarily amused to see that he hadn’t stripped out of his clothing completely.
Apparently even Bruce Patman demanded a modicum of decency in mixed company.
Lila shivered, hugging her arms around herself as she floated towards the wall. She didn’t want to leave the place where they’d landed when he’d hauled her into the water, but the water in the deep end was cold and dark, thanks to the unusual shape of the pool. She only ever ventured into it when swimming laps, preferring to spend most of her time floating on a raft in the brighter, shallow end, if she even bothered to get into the pool at all.
Time seemed to drag by as she waited for him to recover her bracelet. Tears still coursed down her cheeks, her heart beating a staccato rhythm against her ribs, an unbearable knot tightening in her stomach. She loved that bracelet, and she wore it everywhere. It was the last gift she’d ever received from her mother – it had come all the way from Paris, a birthday gift from when she’d turned twelve. It was absolutely breathtaking, a row of perfectly matched crystal clear diamonds set in platinum, and she never let it out of her sight.
And now, she thought miserably, thanks to Bruce Patman, it’s eight feet under, never to be seen again.
He surfaced once…then again… and then for a third time, his expression growing grimmer each time he prepared to dive back in. Lila turned away after the third time, her heartache too much to bear. She launched herself towards the side of the pool, folded her arms on the concrete, and sobbed – for the loss of the bracelet in such a stupid way, and for losing the final, tangible link to her mother, whom she hadn’t seen in years.
She was so lost in her own despair that she didn’t sense his presence until she heard the faint clink of something hard landing beside her on the ground. “Geez, Lila, way to have some faith,” Bruce said softly, his hand landing on her shoulder.
She opened her eyes and looked up, her heart skipping a beat when she realized that he’d found her bracelet after all. “Oh,” she whimpered, running her fingers along the length of it, as if she was trying to convince herself that it was real, that it hadn’t been lost forever.
She turned, surprised – and yet, not – when she realized just how close he was lingering beside her in the water. Without a second thought, she swept her arms around his neck. “Thank you,” she said softly.
“Mmm,” he murmured, wrapping his arms around her in kind, “maybe I should do good deeds more often.”
She chuckled. “Maybe you should,” she agreed, curling into him, resting her head on his shoulder.
She should’ve let him go then, but she couldn’t quite bring herself to do it. He was so warm and solidly built, and he supported her – and the weight of her thoroughly soaked clothing – with effortless ease. Yes, surely that was the reason why his hands had slipped down to cradle her backside, although when she felt her back come flush with the side wall of the pool, suddenly she wasn’t so sure anymore.
She lifted her head to question him, but when she found his fathomless, icy-blue gaze, any words she’d conjured up completely deserted her. The look in his eyes was unreadable, but she felt as though he was staring straight through her. Her mind went totally blank, and the world around them slowly drifted away, until she couldn’t remember that she was shivering in her tennis whites in the cold, deep end of the pool at Fowler Crest, her bracelet shorn from its usual spot on her wrist, her arms wrapped around the most arrogant, self-centered boy in Sweet Valley.
The intensity of his gaze made her flush, made her heart throb against her ribs, made the core of her being heat in delicious anticipation.
She hoped he couldn’t sense it, because nobody brought Lila Fowler to her knees, literally or metaphorically – but in that moment, in that instant, he could’ve done anything he’d wanted and she would’ve been putty in his hands.
He didn’t speak, and she didn’t speak; they simply gazed at each other – and then she felt his hold slide down over the backs of her legs as he leaned into her, and her eyes slipped shut as his lips brushed against her own, tentatively at first and then with more authority, and finally she understood what it was about this boy that turned her best friend into a simpering idiot whenever he was in range.
No one had ever dared kiss her the way Bruce was kissing her now, with such certainty and confidence and skill. He was not intimidated by her or in awe of her; he knew how to please her, and how to get what he wanted in return. It was reckless and thrilling and addictive, the feel of his mouth, his tongue, his body flush against hers. The air – and water – around them fairly crackled with electricity.
“Well, well,” he murmured against her lips, “who’d ever guess that Lila Fowler knew how to kiss?”
She smirked. “You’re not so bad yourself, Patman,” she returned.
His desire was obvious as he gazed at her with hooded eyes, and a little thrill shimmered down her spine when he squeezed the backs of her thighs. “I think,” he mused, nipping at her lower lip, “that this could be the beginning of a very beautiful friendship.”
Author:
luxken27Fandom: Sweet Valley High
Universe: Pre-canon (sophomore year)
Genre: Drama, Romance
Rating: T
Word Count: 4,615
Summary: Bruce Patman plays to win.
Author’s note: Written for the white diamonds prompt for my 2015 Summer Mini Challenge table. Further author's notes can be found here.
DISCLAIMER: The Sweet Valley High concept, storyline, and characters are © 1983 – 2003 Francine Pascal/Bantam Books/Random House. No money is being made from the creation of this material. No copyright infringement is intended.
Lila Fowler was loath to acknowledge another’s superior strength or skill, but she had to admit it: Bruce Patman was a better tennis player than she was.
It wasn’t much of a leap – Bruce was the star of the Sweet Valley High varsity tennis team, just as he’d been the star of the junior varsity team last year, and the intramural squad at SVMS the year before that. He had an easy, innate talent for the game that he loved to show off: a powerful serve, silky smooth volleys, an ease of moment around the court that made other players seethe with indignant jealousy.
He especially loved to make a point about how he’d grown up on grass courts – thus, in his estimation, learning a far superior version of the game. He loved to charge the net, his huge wingspan blocking passing shots from every angle, dinking back infuriating drop volleys that died the moment they hit the court. The Patman estate featured a grass court – and a groundskeeper who’d trained at Wimbledon, whose sole responsibility was to tend to that court – and it was one of the only grass courts in the entire state of California, which Bruce never failed to brag about whenever the chance arose.
Not that Lila was a bad player by comparison. She’d been taking lessons from a retired pro since the age of six, and her father had laid down a state-of-the-art hard court as one of her many birthday presents when she turned thirteen. Unlike the fabled Patman grass court, there was no pomp and circumstance surrounding Lila’s court – it was much more practical, in fact, made of concrete and rubber, not unlike most of the public courts that dotted the southern California landscape – not to mention the gated country clubs that lined the west coast.
Of course, Lila’s court was special in a different way – not because it required specially-trained maintenance staff, but because the surface itself was a custom shade of deep, royal purple. Purple had been her favorite color when she was in middle school, and though she had long outgrown her obsession with wearing clothing in that color every day, she still appreciated the crown jewel of the expansive back acreage of Fowler Crest. There wasn’t another court like it in the entire state – or, indeed, in the entire world, or so the architect had told her when he’d submitted the plans for her approval.
What was curious, perhaps, was that Bruce Patman’s game didn’t translate so well to the slower, truer concrete, with its high, consistent bounce that absorbed the wicked slice and heavy topspin he liked to employ. Lila was sure that he’d never play on her court again after she humiliated him during their first – and, to date, only – match, back when she was just a mere freshman at SVH and he’d just made the varsity team as a sophomore, but here he was, throwing down aces and slicing volleys off her flat return groundstrokes like he’d been playing on it all his life.
She had been surprised – and amused – when he’d shown up at her doorstep that morning, tennis gear in hand, and proclaimed that he wanted a rematch. She suspected that what he really wanted to do was show off his latest pride and joy, a sleek black Porsche 911 with personalized plates that he’d received for his sixteenth birthday. Everyone had ooh’ed and aah’ed over it at his birthday party, of course, but it was just Bruce’s way, whenever he received a new toy – he came up with the most ridiculous excuses to show it off.
She wasn’t sure why he’d thought she’d be impressed; after all, she didn’t follow him around like a lovesick puppy, in awe of his wealth or confidence or stunning good looks. The Fowlers had just as much money to throw around as the Patmans did, and George Fowler could spoil his only child with the best of them. Lila had never wanted for anything in her life, transportation included. She’d already chosen the car that would be hers upon turning sixteen, and it was far more glamorous than a mere Porsche.
Nevertheless, she’d decided to humor Bruce that morning, mostly because she was bored and didn’t have anything better to do. She’d invited him in so she wouldn’t have to feign interest in his car, had quickly changed into her tennis gear, and the two of them had proceeded to the garish purple court.
He must’ve had more on his mind than just his car (for once), because he didn’t make any cracks about her court, but had merely settled in for a competitive set of tennis. He was playing like he had something to prove, which provoked Lila’s curiosity.
After six games in the unrelenting summer heat, however, she was no longer curious about his motivations. She’d been going easy on him thus far, not wanting to shatter his fragile male ego (or disabuse him of the notion that he was, in fact, the world’s greatest tennis player), but he hadn’t been able to keep his competitive fire to himself for long. He kept whooping it up every time he hit a winner off of one of her returns, calling her by her last name like she was one of his putrid teammates, and teasing her for playing “like a girl.”
Bruce could be an interesting distraction when he wanted to be, but his default setting was arrogant jerk.
“Oh, come on, Fowler, is that the best you can do?” he crowed as her forehand lob sailed long of the baseline. He shot her a condescending look over his shoulder as he retreated to the deuce court. “And here I thought you’d make a worthy opponent.”
Lila gritted her teeth, clamping her hand around the fuzzy yellow tennis ball until her knuckles turned white. She’d rather be bored than insulted any day of the week – and besides, it wasn’t the best she could do.
You want to see what I have in my arsenal? she mused to herself, flicking her wrist so that her diamond tennis bracelet slid down to the relative safety of her forearm. She bounced around on the balls of her feet. Well, don’t say I never obliged you, Bruce Patman!
She settled into her serving stance just behind the baseline, glanced at her opponent across the net, and threw a slice serve down the T, which skidded away from Bruce’s almighty forehand. He frowned, but paced over to the ad court without offering a comment. She tossed in another slice, this time out wide, and smirked when Bruce flailed towards it but missed.
“Game,” she announced perkily, tossing the tennis balls left on her side of the court towards him.
She walked over to the sideline and picked up her water bottle, taking a long, cool sip as she waited for Bruce to gather the balls – and himself. She couldn’t help but grin when she heard him grumbling to himself: “So she can hit a slice serve – so what? It’s not like it’s hard.”
She sauntered back to the baseline, digging in her heels as she crouched into her return stance. Bruce had been serving almost exclusively to her backhand thus far, earning blocked return after blocked return that he could easily cut off at net. She wondered if the mix up in her game would be met with a bit of variety in his.
She leaned toward her forehand side as he tossed the ball up, and lucked into a correct guess. She fired the return back, around the net post and down the line, and all he could do was watch it whiz past him as he scampered to net. He scowled at her, but she pretended not to notice, toying with the clasp of her bracelet as she walked to the other side of the court before crouching into her return stance again, ready for the next point.
Bruce kicked a heavy serve to her backhand, which she was able to send back with interest, pinning him at the baseline. They exchanged groundstrokes, and this time it was Lila who crept into net, slicing a high backhand volley just inside the sideline, one that spun away from Bruce’s waiting racquet.
“When did you get so good, Fowler?” he grunted, slinging his racquet against the net.
Lila stopped at the service line and turned to face him. “I’ve always been good,” she replied haughtily, tucking a lock of hair beneath her headband.
Bruce’s response was a sly smile. “Is that so,” he drawled, his eyes taking a blatant, leisurely stroll down the length of her and back.
Lila arched a brow as his gaze returned to hers. “Like what you see?” she sneered. “There’s more where that came from. I’ve been practicing with Jessica all summer.”
“Jessica?” Bruce snorted. “Jessica Wakefield?!” He shook his head. “I’m shocked, Fowler. Talk about a try-hard. Elizabeth, on the other hand… Now there’s a worthy adversary.” He smirked.
“Are you really comparing me to Saint Elizabeth of Sweet Valley – and finding me lacking?” Lila scoffed, planting her hands on her hips. “Now I really am offended. Don’t you know quality when you see it, Patman?”
His smirk stretched into a grin. “All I’m saying is, I like a good challenge,” he called out as he backtracked to the baseline.
Lila snorted. “Don’t flatter yourself,” she muttered, retreating to her own baseline. Jessica was the best tennis player she knew – even better than Bruce, and she was tempted to tell him that. Jessica would’ve killed her, though, because she had a huge, embarrassing crush on the soon-to-be-junior, and believed he was every bit as amazing as he made himself out to be.
Elizabeth, though she held the correct opinion of Bruce, was otherwise a complete snore. Just the idea of comparing herself to the nerdy Wakefield twin made her laugh – and the idea that Bruce would find her more of a worthy challenge than Lila herself made her seethe.
That’s it, she thought, turning back to the net and crouching into her return stance, forget you and your precious ego, Bruce Patman. Nobody compares me to Liz and finds me wanting!
They continued to play, with Lila’s blistering passing shots a solid match to Bruce’s serve and deadly volleys. Several of their service games went to deuce, but each of them managed to hold their nerve – and their serve – as the twelfth game approached. Bruce was serving to stay in the set and force a tiebreak, but Lila didn’t give him any slack, pounding her groundstrokes with greater confidence and authority. She’d succeeded in pinning him back, not allowing him to rush forward and finish points quickly, but he still got the best of her sometimes, forcing her into an occasional error, or sending a winner sailing past her.
Nonetheless, the game went to deuce several times, each advantage going to Lila. She finally managed to break the deadlock, slicing a delicate dropshot off of a routine backhand of Bruce’s, a surprise that saw him helplessly stuck in no man’s land between the baseline and the service line, unable to do anything but watch as her shot barely cleared the net, bouncing softly on his side of the court before falling out of bounds.
With that perfectly placed touch shot, she’d broken his serve and won the set.
Lila couldn’t help but gloat when Bruce sent her a murderous look as he stomped over to the sideline.
“So how does it feel to lose, Patman?” Lila crooned, picking up her water bottle again and taking a triumphant swig.
“I never lose,” he grunted, unceremoniously wiping the sweat from his brow.
“I believe the score is 7-5 in my favor,” Lila proclaimed with a smirk, “which means I win.”
“One set is hardly a proper match, Fowler,” Bruce shot back. He took a long drink from his water bottle. “Besides, I was going easy on you out there.”
Lila arched a brow. “If all that huffing and puffing and floundering around is what you call ‘going easy,’ then I’d hate to see you in full flight,” she returned, toying with her tennis bracelet. “You move like a cow on ice.”
“That’s because you have an inferior court,” he spat. “If we were playing on a real court – a grass court – then I’d wipe the floor with you, easily.”
“Aww, poor Brucey,” she teased, twining her fingers through his sweaty, slicked back hair. “Can’t even beat a girl at tennis, tsk tsk!”
Bruce grabbed her arm, yanking her hand away from his hair and giving her a hard stare. “Don’t tempt me, Fowler,” he growled, pinning her bracelet awkwardly against her wrist.
Lila pulled out of his harsh grip. “Geez, Bruce, lighten up,” she chided, rubbing her wrist where the clasp had dug into her skin. “It’s just a game, and you started it. You’re the one who came over and begged for my company this morning, let’s not forget.”
Bruce laughed. “Begged? Is that what you think?” he snorted. He shook his head, looping his towel around his neck and pushing his hands through his hair. “No, I don’t think so. The only person begging for attention around here is you.”
Lila narrowed her eyes, suddenly suspicious of him. “Then why are you here?” she asked bluntly.
He shrugged. “I was bored,” he claimed, “and I figured you were bored, too, so I thought – what the hell?” He met her glare with a challenge of his own. “Why not swing over to Fowler Crest and see if we couldn’t figure out a way to relieve our mutual boredom?”
Lila’s heart began to beat heavily in her chest as he continued to stare at her with that intense, fathomless gaze. Everyone who knew them thought they hated each other, but the truth was they actually got along quite well. Nobody else in Sweet Valley understood what it was like to come from money – at least, not the sort of money their families possessed. It placed them in a higher rung of society, above their friends and classmates, where tennis and yachting were the sports of choice, and brunch at the country club was something that only desperate people did. Their world was very small and isolated, and it wasn’t worth it to actively hate each other.
Not that it made them the best of friends, either, but they certainly appreciated one another.
Bruce smiled. “And then I remembered your ridiculous Unicorn-colored tennis court, and figured we’d have a friendly hit.”
They set off towards the house. “Have you ever considered ripping it up and putting a real court in?” Bruce asked as they ambled along.
“It is a real court,” Lila insisted. “The US Open is played on hard court.”
Bruce snorted. “The US Open,” he muttered, “is hardly Wimbledon.”
Lila rolled her eyes. “Because we all know the success you’ve had at Wimby,” she joked, referring to his less-than-successful attempt at winning the junior crown at his most coveted tournament. He’d made a big deal out of entering the draw when he was 14, bragging to everyone within shouting distance that he was going to win junior Wimbledon because he was, of course, the best grass court player in the world (in his own mind), only to crash out in the third round to some unknown Swedish player. He’d slinked home with his tail between his legs, complaining to anyone who would listen that he’d be robbed of his fair place in the quarterfinals, and beyond.
Bruce sniffed. “Winning a junior tournament is kid’s stuff,” he insisted. “The real challenge is at the senior level.” He glanced at Lila. “I could do it, you know. I could turn pro and win championships and Grand Slams, no problem.” He tugged at the towel draped around his neck. “That is, if I had the interest, of course.”
“Of course,” Lila echoed with a smirk. If there was one thing she knew about Bruce, it was that he hated to lose, and losing at junior Wimbledon two years ago had really crushed him – and probably his dreams of playing tennis professionally.
“What about you?” he mused. “You’re not half-bad, you know, and it’s not like the ladies’ game has any sort of depth.”
Lila ignored the barb, but considered the question. “Nah,” she finally replied, “I hate to sweat that much. Besides,” she added with a shrug, “Jessica’s better than me, anyway.”
“Jessica?” Bruce repeated incredulously, grabbing Lila’s arm and pulling her to an abrupt stop. “Get real, Fowler. She is not better than you.”
Lila stared at him for a long moment. “A better tennis player,” she clarified, flipping her hair over her shoulder.
Bruce shook his head. “I’ll believe it when I see it.”
Wouldn’t Jess just love to hear that, Lila thought sourly, conjuring up an image of her best friend’s expression whenever Bruce was around. “Lovesick puppy” didn’t even begin to describe it – her crush had grown to sickeningly embarrassing proportions over the years. Bruce was certainly handsome enough to have half their sophomore class chasing after him, but Lila had no idea what it was about him that inspired such hapless devotion.
“Hey,” Bruce said suddenly, breaking into her thoughts, “let’s go for a swim.”
“What?” Lila murmured as he steered her towards the vast, picturesque pool carved into the hillside beside Fowler Crest.
“It’s just what we need to cool off,” Bruce insisted, his strides lengthening as they drew closer to the pool house. “This heat is brutal.”
Lila couldn’t argue with that – the July sun was searing down on them from a perfectly blue, cloudless sky – but she didn’t feel like going through the laborious process of choosing a swimsuit and changing her clothes and finding her towel and suntan oil. Even just thinking about it made her want to curl up for a nap instead.
She slowed her pace, falling behind him though he still had hold of her elbow. “I don’t know, Bruce,” she hedged. “You don’t even have a swimsuit.”
He glanced back at her and grinned. “Who says?”
Her eyebrows shot up. “Do you?” she sputtered, eyeing his racquet bag dubiously.
He shrugged. “No,” he admitted, “but why should that stop me?”
Lila’s jaw dropped. How could he even contemplate something as gauche as swimming without a suit? That’s what poor people did when they couldn’t afford swimsuits, and didn’t have access to anything better than the ol’ swimming hole down at the creek. She shuddered at the very idea.
Bruce dropped his tennis gear beside the cabana just beyond the concrete skirt of the pool. He quickly kicked out of his shoes and socks before heading for the water. “C’mon, Fowler,” he called out, pulling his shirt over his head, “live a little!”
Lila had only just set her racquet down beside his gear when she suddenly felt two hands grab her around the waist. She shrieked when she felt his grip tighten around her as he took a running leap into the deep end of the pool, pulling her in with him and soaking her thoroughly.
“Bruce Patman, you jerk!” she screamed as soon as she broke the surface, pushing her wet hair out of her eyes. “How dare you!”
Bruce surfaced alongside her and burst out laughing. “Oh, come now, Lila,” he teased, “lighten up! It’s only water!”
“Only water!” she sputtered, shoving a wave of it at him. “These are my best tennis whites, and you just ruined them!” She made the mistake of looking down just then, and groaned in agony. “Oh, and my shoes!”
Bruce shrugged. “So just get Daddy to buy you some more,” he smirked. “I’m sure he can afford it.”
Lila gave him a venomous scowl. “Shut up, Bruce Patman,” she seethed. “I should make you pay to replace my things! After all, I’m sure you can afford it.”
Bruce just laughed and swam away from her, launching into a graceful freestyle stroke as he headed for the other end of the pool.
Lila bobbed over to the side, bracing her arms against the rough concrete and preparing to lift herself out of the water.
That was when she realized it was missing.
“Oh, no,” she whispered, turning back and scanning the water frantically. “No!” She pushed off, back towards where she’d landed so unceremoniously in the pool, and cupped her hands as she reached down into the water. Tears sprouted in the corners of her eyes as her fingers swirled without resistance below her.
“Bruce!” she cried out. “Bruce, get back here!”
For once, Bruce Patman did as he was told, surfacing beside her within moments of her shout. “What?” he asked. “What’s going on, Lila?”
Her tears spilled over her cheeks the moment she saw him. “My bracelet is gone!” she wailed, “and it’s all thanks to you, you selfish jerk!” She shoved him, hard, hating herself for crying in front of him.
“What are you talking about, Lila?” he demanded. “How is it my fault that you lost some bracelet?”
“It’s not just ‘some bracelet,’” she sobbed. “It’s a white diamond tennis bracelet – ”
“Who the hell wears an actual tennis bracelet while playing tennis?” Bruce broke in, only to earn himself another rough shove in response.
“It was the last piece of jewelry my mother ever gave me,” Lila informed him angrily,” and it’s your fault that it’s lost, because you pulled me into the pool!”
“Oh,” he breathed, averting his eyes, his expression sobering. He took a deep breath. “Listen, will you just chill out for a minute?”
“Chill out?!” she shrieked. “Bruce Patman, I swear to God – !”
“All right, all right,” he cut in, “I get it. I’ll find your stupid bracelet.” He gave her a sidelong glance. “Now, seriously, chill the fuck out before you hyperventilate and drown, okay? I’m not up for an extended rescue mission today.” He paddled a small distance away from her before diving into the water, and Lila was momentarily amused to see that he hadn’t stripped out of his clothing completely.
Apparently even Bruce Patman demanded a modicum of decency in mixed company.
Lila shivered, hugging her arms around herself as she floated towards the wall. She didn’t want to leave the place where they’d landed when he’d hauled her into the water, but the water in the deep end was cold and dark, thanks to the unusual shape of the pool. She only ever ventured into it when swimming laps, preferring to spend most of her time floating on a raft in the brighter, shallow end, if she even bothered to get into the pool at all.
Time seemed to drag by as she waited for him to recover her bracelet. Tears still coursed down her cheeks, her heart beating a staccato rhythm against her ribs, an unbearable knot tightening in her stomach. She loved that bracelet, and she wore it everywhere. It was the last gift she’d ever received from her mother – it had come all the way from Paris, a birthday gift from when she’d turned twelve. It was absolutely breathtaking, a row of perfectly matched crystal clear diamonds set in platinum, and she never let it out of her sight.
And now, she thought miserably, thanks to Bruce Patman, it’s eight feet under, never to be seen again.
He surfaced once…then again… and then for a third time, his expression growing grimmer each time he prepared to dive back in. Lila turned away after the third time, her heartache too much to bear. She launched herself towards the side of the pool, folded her arms on the concrete, and sobbed – for the loss of the bracelet in such a stupid way, and for losing the final, tangible link to her mother, whom she hadn’t seen in years.
She was so lost in her own despair that she didn’t sense his presence until she heard the faint clink of something hard landing beside her on the ground. “Geez, Lila, way to have some faith,” Bruce said softly, his hand landing on her shoulder.
She opened her eyes and looked up, her heart skipping a beat when she realized that he’d found her bracelet after all. “Oh,” she whimpered, running her fingers along the length of it, as if she was trying to convince herself that it was real, that it hadn’t been lost forever.
She turned, surprised – and yet, not – when she realized just how close he was lingering beside her in the water. Without a second thought, she swept her arms around his neck. “Thank you,” she said softly.
“Mmm,” he murmured, wrapping his arms around her in kind, “maybe I should do good deeds more often.”
She chuckled. “Maybe you should,” she agreed, curling into him, resting her head on his shoulder.
She should’ve let him go then, but she couldn’t quite bring herself to do it. He was so warm and solidly built, and he supported her – and the weight of her thoroughly soaked clothing – with effortless ease. Yes, surely that was the reason why his hands had slipped down to cradle her backside, although when she felt her back come flush with the side wall of the pool, suddenly she wasn’t so sure anymore.
She lifted her head to question him, but when she found his fathomless, icy-blue gaze, any words she’d conjured up completely deserted her. The look in his eyes was unreadable, but she felt as though he was staring straight through her. Her mind went totally blank, and the world around them slowly drifted away, until she couldn’t remember that she was shivering in her tennis whites in the cold, deep end of the pool at Fowler Crest, her bracelet shorn from its usual spot on her wrist, her arms wrapped around the most arrogant, self-centered boy in Sweet Valley.
The intensity of his gaze made her flush, made her heart throb against her ribs, made the core of her being heat in delicious anticipation.
She hoped he couldn’t sense it, because nobody brought Lila Fowler to her knees, literally or metaphorically – but in that moment, in that instant, he could’ve done anything he’d wanted and she would’ve been putty in his hands.
He didn’t speak, and she didn’t speak; they simply gazed at each other – and then she felt his hold slide down over the backs of her legs as he leaned into her, and her eyes slipped shut as his lips brushed against her own, tentatively at first and then with more authority, and finally she understood what it was about this boy that turned her best friend into a simpering idiot whenever he was in range.
No one had ever dared kiss her the way Bruce was kissing her now, with such certainty and confidence and skill. He was not intimidated by her or in awe of her; he knew how to please her, and how to get what he wanted in return. It was reckless and thrilling and addictive, the feel of his mouth, his tongue, his body flush against hers. The air – and water – around them fairly crackled with electricity.
“Well, well,” he murmured against her lips, “who’d ever guess that Lila Fowler knew how to kiss?”
She smirked. “You’re not so bad yourself, Patman,” she returned.
His desire was obvious as he gazed at her with hooded eyes, and a little thrill shimmered down her spine when he squeezed the backs of her thighs. “I think,” he mused, nipping at her lower lip, “that this could be the beginning of a very beautiful friendship.”