Free Dylan by Lisi Harrison Page B

Mom-Coach, or my country. But for all things I sacrificed along the way. Winning meant I didn’t give all up for nothing.”
    Dylan was starting to feel for the tennis star. And then her stomach grumbled. Suddenly, all she could think about was that banana split and how if she were eating it she’d be a lot more captivated by this
E! True Hollywood
moment.
    “I was
this
close to winning second year in row,” Svetlana continued, oblivious to Dylan’s hunger-rebellion. Her blue-green eyes darted back and forth as though she were watching the match in real time. “The ball had been served and I was in perfect position to slam.” Svetlana drew back her arm as though she were about to whack it. “Then, out of nowhere, random loserfan yelled, ‘Svetlana, you rock!’ I lost concentration. I missed ball. I lost Wimbledon.” Svetlana’s buff shoulders sagged. “And ball girl paid price.”
    “Is that why you don’t like compliments?” Dylan wondered, recalling her earlier conversation with Winsome.
    Svetlana sad-nodded yes.
    Dylan reached out to pat her hand. She couldn’t help herself—the athlete looked so upset and vulnerable. Until now, all Dylan had seen was Svetlana’s utterly enviable life—filled with trophies, endorsement deals, personal stylists, and zero-percent body fat. But now she knew better. Svetlana’s knuckle scars, compliment issues, and egg overdose made her Dr. Phil–worthy. And that meant she was just as messed up as everyone else. It was a total relief.
    “One question.” Dylan began nibbling on her pinky nail. “When you said we weren’t so different, were you talking about weight or—”
    “Not weight.” Svetlana pulled her hand out from under Dylan’s and dried her moist blue-green eyes. “We both have things we want. And we both work hard to get them.”
    “Yeah, but . . .” Dylan sighed. “There’s no way I’ll ever be good enough to convince J.T. I can beat you.”
    “Good point.” Svetlana tucked American Boris under her arm and stood up. “So then we drop this whole thing, ya?” She held out her palm, as if Dylan would just slap her LG into it like a bellboy’s tip.
    All four chambers of Dylan’s open heart slammed shut. If this sob story was just another attempt to get her hands on that video file, she was messing with the wrong girl.
    “We drop nothing!” Dylan threw off her duvet and cracked her non-bloody knuckles. It was time to get serious.
    Svetlana might have trained during the harsh Russian winters with Mom-Coach, but Dylan had studied under Massie Block. And that had prepared her for
anything
.
    Even tennis.
    KAPALUA SPA AND TENNIS CLUB
FITNESS CENTER AND SPA
    Saturday, July 4
    11 A.M.
    Dylan pored over the Svetlana Way™ pamphlet like it was a
How to Get J.T. for Dummies
handbook.
    Visualize.
    Actualize.
    Vocalize.
    The mental exercises made her feel a little, well,
mental,
but she was desperate. As the July 8 tournament date grew closer, the resort was bouncing with toned and tanned she-athletes. And Dylan knew if she didn’t score J.T. soon, someone else would.
    Reaching for a lemon yellow microfiber towel, she accidentally knocked the pamphlet to the ground. All she could do was grunt in frustration and swab her slick face. Still, sweat spilled over her arched auburn brows like the water that trickled down the spa’s pink travertine walls.
    She was hot. She’d never been this hot, and she had to concentrate on every breath or she’d faint.
In, out. In, out. In, out . . .
    Once she got a rhythm going, Dylan allowed her mind to wander.
    How hard would J.T. lip-kiss her after she creamed Svetlana? How open would he be to a four-thousand-mile long-distance relationship? Was he a texter?
    Throwing the towel aside, Dylan exhaled, utterly exhausted. It was taking every ounce of her will and concentration to keep from passing out. After a long sip of cucumber water, she decided to go for it. She reached and reached and reached . . . until her fingers