Had he scared her away? Had he been too much of a creeper watching her last night? Maybe it came down to the simple reason that she didn’t practice every day. Or, not at the same time every day. She very likely had a job, and depending on what she did for a living, her hours might not be the same every day. Although, he mused, regardless of whatever it was that she did for a living, he was sure that she should be playing tennis.
Why are you so pressed? She’s just a girl.
No. There was something about her. He just needed the chance to talk to her again. Okay, yes, if he was being totally honest with himself, it was in part because he wanted her, but he also wanted to find out more about her, and why she wasn’t playing the way she should. He couldn’t be the first person who knew about tennis to have seen her play.
“Where d’you think you’re going, gimpy?” A voice called from behind.
Bryce turned to see who’d spoken, and a foot shot out, kicking one of his crutches out from under him and sending him sprawling. Fuck. He landed on his bad knee. He writhed as the pain shot from his knee up his quad and down his shin. “Fuck, fuck. Motherfucker.” In the next moment, a man was on top of him with a switchblade in his face. All he could see was the knife, as sour, cigarette-scented breath fouled up his oxygen supply.
“I want your wallet and your keys,” the asshole demanded. “And if you even think about—”
But the guy’s words were cut off. His head bobbed forward. Something hit him again on the back of his head and he sagged on top of Bryce. He glanced up. Above them, Tami scowled at the guy, her grip on her mangled racket turning her knuckles white.