Dylan. Part 10

Dylan immediately backward-jogged to the sideline. But she wasn't fast enough. Svetlana grabbed a ball out of her skirt pocket and whipped it at Dylan's calf. Hard. Then Svetlana chucked another, and another . . .

Cameras started clicking, and reporters rushed the court. Resort security pulled up on golf carts, and Svetlana's mom-coach rose out of her chair. Still, Dylan managed a smile-done, done, and done! She danced around the court as Svetlana pelted her.

"Svet!" Lauren raced around the net to try and stop her, but Svetlana just grabbed Lauren's racket and used it to smash more b.a.l.l.s at Dylan. Luckily, the rainbow ball drill and a sixth-grade obsession with Dance Dance Revolution Dance Dance Revolution had taught Dylan a thing or two. had taught Dylan a thing or two.

When a ball came right, she'd jump left. When one came left, she'd jump right. Forward, back, side, side . . . it turned into a fun little spectacle that had the crowd cheering and the calories burning. The cameras turned to her again. But Dylan hardly noticed. She just kept avoiding b.a.l.l.s and giggling, feeling like her old self again.

"Svetlana, stop!" J.T. suddenly appeared, clutching Boris with one hand and trying to wrestle the t.i.tanium racket from her grip with the other.

Dylan's insides soared. He did did care about her after all. care about her after all.

"The match match . . ." he pleaded. "You're gonna blow it!" . . ." he pleaded. "You're gonna blow it!"

It took all of Dylan's willpower not to pick up one of the b.a.l.l.s at her feet and whip it at his face. Then she realized it had never been Svetlana she was competing with for J.T.'s attention. It was tennis tennis.

"Get offa me, Loserfan!" Svetlana swung around and smashed her racket into J.T.'s perfect face.

"OWWWW!!!" He dropped Boris. Blood began to gush from his nose, adding a much-needed splash of color to his boring white outfit. A swarm of paramedics raced to his side.

"Find my Boris!" Svetlana pleaded. But n.o.body tried to stop the gray kitty cat with the haunting blue eyes as he dashed off across the court in search of a normal life.

"SVETLANA!" Mom-Coach tried to grab her, but security arrived first. A cl.u.s.ter of stocky men in Hawaiian s.h.i.+rts and white slacks dragged her off the court.

Of course she kicked and screamed and threatened them in her mother tongue, but all they did was smile dutifully for the paparazzi, as if they were hauling Britney Spears back to Promises.

Dylan was looking on with pride when she noticed Svetlana squirm away from the guard and reach under her white tennis vest. In a flash, she turned back toward Dylan. Security tightened their grip, but it was too late. One last yellow ball shot out from her hand and hurled toward Dylan's brow bone. The crowd, the cameras, the anxious announcers . . . everything seemed muted. The only sound Dylan heard was the whoosh whoosh of the ball as it Matrix-sliced through the air. Without a single thought, Dylan opened her palm and caught it. of the ball as it Matrix-sliced through the air. Without a single thought, Dylan opened her palm and caught it.

"Aggghh!" It was like getting high-fived by a burning whip. The impact nearly took her wrist off.

The crowd erupted in cheers.

For her. Finally, they were cheering for her!

Dylan transferred the ball into her left hand and shook the pain away.

"Ball girl! Ball girl! Ball girl!" The chant grew.

As usual, Merri-Lee was barking orders at her camera crew. But instead of directing them toward Svetlana, she told them to focus on her daughter.

Dylan blew kisses. She waved. She smiled. She cried.

"Ball girl! Ball girl!"

Fans tossed flowers, teddy bears, and even a few phone numbers written on ketchup-stained Svetlana programs.

After a few minutes, the noise died down, but one voice kept chanting. It belonged to a boy.

A very, very cute one.

KAPALUA SPA AND TENNIS CLUB.

ALOHA OPEN: CENTER COURT.

Wednesday, July 8 4 P.M.

The arena was empty now except for Merri-Lee and her staff, who had built a charming little interview set in the center of Court One. The cleanup crew had been ordered to leave her daughter's flowers and teddy bears exactly where they landed, because Merri-Lee thought it added ambiance. Dylan happily agreed.

"This is Merri-Lee Marvil for The Daily Grind, The Daily Grind, coming to you live from the Aloha Open with this year's men's champion, Brady Erickson. He's an amazing player, and quite a heartthrob." Merri-Lee gave her audience a flirty wink. "Congratulations on your big win." coming to you live from the Aloha Open with this year's men's champion, Brady Erickson. He's an amazing player, and quite a heartthrob." Merri-Lee gave her audience a flirty wink. "Congratulations on your big win."

"Thanks, Merri-Lee." Brady swung the Aloha trophy like a beer stein with his beyond-ripped arms. His dark wavy ponytail was partially stuck to his salty, sweaty neck in that ah-dorable Gatorade commercial sort of way. And his chocolate brown eyes, which kept wandering over to Dylan, made her feel sauna-warm. They seemed kind and sincere and . . . honest-qualities she'd never sensed in J.T.'s flashy electric blues.

"This is your first time out of the juniors and into the men's draw. And you won. What's it like being the youngest male to take the Aloha Open?" Merri-Lee crossed her cocoa b.u.t.terslicked legs, revealing a pair of tanned calves that had obviously spent the better half of the week on a surfside chaise.

"I just got out there and made my shots. Cartwright played an awesome game. He had me on the run in that first set, but I just dug deep and came up lucky, I guess."

Modest.

"This puts you within striking distance of the tennis G.o.ds, Federer and Nadal. What's next?"

"Honestly?" He smiled with a trace of guilt. "I'd like to take a short break from tennis and enjoy Hawaii. Maybe even try one of those b.u.t.terscotch sundaes everyone is ordering by the pool." He licked his cherry-red lips.

Dylan slid off the director's chair and inched a little closer. Was this guy for real or just an Adam Brody look-alike robot with muscles that had been programmed to say all the right things?

She stared at him with shock and awe. He stared back, nodding, ever so slightly, a.s.suring her that her suspicions were right-he was was perfect. The intensity of the moment made her stomach lurch in a good way. perfect. The intensity of the moment made her stomach lurch in a good way.

"So, Brady Brady, what do you do in your free time?" Merri-Lee ech-hemmed, indicating this was not the first time she'd asked him.

"Oh, sorry," he snicker-blushed. Several of the crew smiled too. "I, um, I love hanging out with friends, eating, laughing, and rock climbing."

Well, three out of four isn't bad.

Re-glossing her lips, Dylan felt a surge of self-anger. If only she had noticed his hawtness earlier, she never would have wasted her time on . . .

She shook the thought away. It wasn't her her fault. She had always been a sucker for packaging. And J.T., with his caramel locks, was s.h.i.+nier. fault. She had always been a sucker for packaging. And J.T., with his caramel locks, was s.h.i.+nier.

Merri-Lee leaned into the tennis champ. "I can't let you go without asking this. You've been on the tour with Svetlana since you were both tiny tennis tots. Do you think the ITA made the right move in banning her from the sport until further review?"

Rubbing her still-sore hamstring where one of Svetlana's well-placed shots had nailed her, Dylan wished she she could answer that question. could answer that question.

He shrugged. "Last time I checked, tennis was not a contact sport, so yeah."

His publicist, a short-haired brunette with black plasticframed gla.s.ses and not enough makeup, folded her arms across her chest and huffed. Then she gave him a deadly I-canNOT-believe-you-said-that glare.

Brady shrugged unapologetically and mouthed, "Well, it's true."

Dylan was officially back in summer-crush mode-v. 2.0.

"One last question." Merri-Lee hooked a chunk of burgundy hair behind her diamond-studded ear. Then she winked at her daughter in a this-one's-for-you sort of way. "Is there a lucky girl who you'll be celebrating with at the ESPN party tonight?"

Gawd! How did her mother know? Was Dylan drooling? Panting? Foaming at the mouth? Not that it mattered. All she really cared about was his answer.

"Well, I'd be the lucky one if I could get the real star of the Aloha Open to do me the honor . . ." Brady extended his hand toward . . . Dylan.

Ehmagawd! Dylan wanted to freeze time. She needed to re-gloss, fluff her hair, nervous-puke, change into something with color, and call Ma.s.sie to brag. But all she could do was dry her clammy hands on her white skirt and join him under the bright klieg lights. Dylan wanted to freeze time. She needed to re-gloss, fluff her hair, nervous-puke, change into something with color, and call Ma.s.sie to brag. But all she could do was dry her clammy hands on her white skirt and join him under the bright klieg lights.

Where she'd known she belonged all along.

KAPALUA SPA AND TENNIS CLUB.

POOLSIDE ICE CREAM BAR.

Wednesday, July 8 5:18 P.M.

A wonderfully s.h.i.+rtless Hawaiian waiter wearing board shorts and a red and white striped ap.r.o.n slid a smile-shaped bowl down the polished mahogany bar.

"One b.u.t.terscotch sundae, two spoons," he announced.

Brady's brown eyes widened when the guilty pleasure stopped in front of him.

Without a single self-doubting thought, Dylan grabbed both spoons, loaded them up with gooey ice cream, and stuffed them both in her mouth. "Didn't you order one?" she managed through the onset of brain freeze.

Brady giggle-pulled one of the spoons out of her mouth and stuck it right in his. He didn't even wipe it off.

It seemed like everyone by the pool was envy-staring while Brady and Dylan swapped stories about their lives and friends back home. They were probably wondering what it was like to be highly attractive famous sports icons: BALL GIRL AND RACKET BOY: THE LOVE LOVE STORY. STORY.

"Is this what life without tennis is like?" He licked his lips and dug in deep for another taste. "It's enough to make me give up sports for good."

"Really?" Dylan beamed. "You'd do that?"

Before he could answer, Mom-Coach appeared, her rectangular head eclipsing the bright sun. Dylan groaned. It was a total Netflix moment-just as the movie was getting good, the DVD broke.

Dylan pulled her black chiffon wrap off the back of her bar chair and draped it over her berry red Juicy one-piece. For some reason, Mom-Coach's chilly stare made her feel exposed.

"Sign, please." The barrel-chested blonde-from-a-box troll slammed a doc.u.ment on the bar. She clicked a fake-gold Parker pen and handed it to Dylan. Everyone on the deck turned to stare.

"What's this?" Dylan inched closer to Brady's strong arms, just in case Svetlana was lurking.

"Confidentiality agreement," she said as though she were chewing chunky beef stew.

"Why would I sign this?" Dylan looked at Brady as if he might have the answer.

"I can have my manager look it ov-"

"No manager!" Mom-Coach stomped her yellow Crocs. "Read and you will understand."

Dylan took another spoonful of ice cream, removed her silver square-framed Marc Jacobs sungla.s.ses, and lifted the doc.u.ment to her heavily mascaraed eyes.

Brady leaned in. He smelled like peppermint from the complimentary special-edition Aveda sports soap in the rooms.

"Confidential!" Mom-Coach pushed him away. "Now read! I have international flight to catch."

Dylan did her best to focus on the confidential, eight-point font on the bright white letterhead. But it was hard, because Brady was inhaling the sundae, and she wanted to get back to both of them before they were gone.

For Dylan Marvil: Svetlana Slootskyia is sorry for damage caused to you (by her). She is going back to treatment facility to work on anger. When she returns to sport she will emerge with new name and hair color to signify fresh start. Ilana Bravya Slootskyia will be of brown hair with much patience and kindness. And she would like your help. This means no mention of the "episodes" you recorded (twisting wrist and smas.h.i.+ng votives). No interviews to talk about how she bashed you with tennis b.a.l.l.s. No bad words about her at all. If you do this, we will give you first dibs on all free clothing and merchandise she gets from sponsors for the next ten years. And American Boris when we locate him.X_________________________________(Dylan Marvil) Dylan put a big X through the part about Boris and signed. She knew she could probably ask for more, but why bother?

She had everything she wanted.

Now that you're clued in to the confidentiality contract, you're another step closer to being IN.

In the know, that is. . . .

SUMMER STATE OF THE UNION.

IN Purple hair streaks Confidentiality contractsEuro pop starsShark-tooth necklacesMa.s.sie & Claire in OrlandoOUTSummer secrets Five girls. Five stories. One ah-mazing summer.

THE CLIQUE.

SUMMER COLLECTION.

BY LISI HARRISON.

Turn the page for a sneak peek of Alicia's story. . . .

THE CLIQUE.

SUMMER COLLECTION.

ALICIA.

BARCELONA INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT.

CUSTOMS GATE.

Tuesday, June 8 1:45 P.M.

Alicia Rivera stuffed her purple-and-turquoise vintage Pucci silk wrap in the side pocket of her Louis Vuitton carry-on and wheeled it toward baggage claim. She could practically hear hear her mother scolding her for treating the delicate, wrinkle-p.r.o.ne fabric with such reckless abandon. But she opposite of cared. Nadia was back in Westchester and Alicia had just arrived in Spain. Thanks to an all-consuming lipo-gone-wrong trial, her attorney father and supportive mother had to stay home. And that meant her mother scolding her for treating the delicate, wrinkle-p.r.o.ne fabric with such reckless abandon. But she opposite of cared. Nadia was back in Westchester and Alicia had just arrived in Spain. Thanks to an all-consuming lipo-gone-wrong trial, her attorney father and supportive mother had to stay home. And that meant she she was parent-free for the first summer of her entire life. was parent-free for the first summer of her entire life.

And the rules were about to change.