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locker-room atmosphere, and openly gay pro tennis players were few and far between.
    Until now, Ryan hadn’t thought twice about no-strings sex if it felt right with whoever he’d met, but he suddenly realized that, as he was becoming better known, he should make a decision about this. If he was going to be out, he’d rather do it himself than have somebody sell a story to a tabloid. And if he wasn’t going to be out, then he would have to be careful and discreet and make sure his partners were the same. He snorted. His partners. Right. Because he had such a good track record in that respect. He mostly seemed to meet guys on his yearly beach vacation. The whole living clean, training hard, and getting a good night’s sleep meant clubs were out of the question most of the year round. He wasn’t so sure they appealed to him anyway. Call him a hopeless old-fashioned romantic, but he’d rather have a conversation with someone before screwing them.
    Truth to tell, and this was definitely the alcohol talking, he’d rather have a relationship with someone than just a few nights of sex. Maybe one day he’d meet someone who didn’t have a problem with the way tennis took him round the world. Until then, he always had his right hand. His right hand that seemed to be bored of his brain going in circles and was helpfully getting on with matters right now.
    He knew it was a spectacularly bad idea to do this, because what happened if he had to play Josh one day, but Ryan was, as he kept reminding himself, only human. Thoughts of Josh Andrews’s ass, so clearly defined by those wet shorts, were just too tantalizing to resist.
    As were the thoughts of how things might have worked out if they’d been alone in the treatment room, and how willingly Josh would have gone face first against the wall for him, his breath coming fast and his cock hard in those wet shorts of his. How he’d have let Ryan do everything he wanted and how he would have loved it, moaning as Ryan’s hands explored under that see-through T-shirt of his, fingers teasing his tight nipples, and then he’d push backward in invitation when Ryan pulled his shorts down and started rubbing his cock tantalizingly over that perfect ass. And somehow, Josh was already slicked and ready for him and all Ryan needed to do was push in. If, as he came, long legs in faded jeans and a belt buckle were involved, well, Ryan wasn’t complaining.

Chapter 6

    T HE call from Brad Sweeney, tennis legend and now coach of the American Davis Cup team, had blindsided Ryan. Tommy had been forced to pull out of the upcoming tie against France due to a shoulder injury, and Brad Sweeney’s response had been to call Ryan to see if he could step up.
    Somehow, and he had no idea how, Ryan had managed not to gibber at Brad Sweeney as he’d graciously accepted the invitation to join the team. The Davis freaking Cup team, where he’d be representing his country. He’d double-checked he’d killed the call before dancing round his hotel room, snatching up a racket to perform a celebratory tango—including the sexiest dip ever— because he had the feeling that if Brad Sweeney could hear his whoops of joy, he might just change his mind.
    The short notice meant that in a matter of days he was at the training facility in Florida, which looked more like some sort of plush country club than somewhere where people actually sweated and worked. He’d dropped his cases in the room he was given, which wasn’t quite as plush as the downstairs areas but definitely expensive, and changed into training gear before making his way to the courts. And when he said courts…. This was tennis heaven. So many courts, so beautifully maintained, and so confusing when he tried to find the one where he was due.
    He finally found the right one by the simple method of spotting a familiar figure in whites. Josh Andrews was deep in conversation with Brad Sweeney on the edge of one of the clay courts. The French, as hosts