Chapter 2
"Turn it up to the intermediate setting," Evelyn said, her thumb hovering over the red button on the remote.
"Intermediate? She's three, Evie," Miles replied. "That setting fires at forty miles an hour."
"She has soft feet. She needs to learn to dodge," Evelyn said, her fair, rosy skin tightening into a malicious grin. "Do it, Miles."
"It's your funeral if Damon walks out," Miles chuckled, twisting the dial. "Alright. Trajectory set. Speed set."
"No, no, no!" Hazel shrieked, backing away from the service line. She tripped over her own sneakers, stumbling onto the bright green asphalt.
"If one ball makes her cry, give her the whole basket," Evelyn laughed cruelly, pressing the remote.
The ball machine hummed, a deep mechanical whir that vibrated across the court. A loud thwack echoed through the bright air. A neon yellow tennis ball shot from the barrel, streaking across the net.
It slammed hard into the asphalt just inches from Hazel’s feet, bouncing up and striking the soft pink fabric of her cardigan.
"Ow!" Hazel screamed, throwing her small arms over her head.
"Keep your feet moving, Hazel!" Evelyn shouted, pressing the button again. "Don't just stand there and take it!"
Thwack. Thwack. Thwack.
Three more balls fired in rapid succession. One struck Hazel’s knee, another grazed her elbow, and the third bounced violently around her ankles. The little girl curled into a tight ball on the ground, sobbing uncontrollably.
"She’s not even trying to dodge," Miles laughed, adjusting his tailored trousers. "What a pathetic display."
"Get up, Hazel!" Evelyn yelled. "You're embarrassing yourself!"
"Mommy! Daddy!" Hazel wailed, the sound muffled beneath her small, trembling arms.
Behind them, the heavy glass door of the VIP lounge swung open.
Damon Lockwood stepped out into the blinding sunlight. He stopped cold. He was deeply masculine, possessing an angular face with a high-bridged nose and a sharply defined jawline covered in extremely short, neatly trimmed stubble. His thick, slightly wavy hair was naturally slicked back, but a few loose strands fell over his forehead, giving him a dangerously charming look. His cold, sharp eyes instantly locked onto the court.
"What is going on here?" Damon’s voice was low, yet it carried across the court with terrifying clarity.
"Damon!" Evelyn gasped, her hand dropping to her side.
"Why is the machine on?" Damon asked, stepping onto the bright green court. His speech was slow. Measured.
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"We were just doing a few drills," Miles said quickly, holding his hands up.
"Drills," Damon repeated, his voice barely above a whisper. He looked at the neon yellow balls bouncing around his daughter’s cowering body. "You call this drills?"
