This is not mine, it’s owned by Nora Roberts, the characters of SON are not mine, they are the properties if Tom Lynch. If you don’t like that, don’t read it. If you don’t mind, enjoy!

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 “Advantage, Davies."

Isn’t it always? Spencer mused. For a moment the large arena held that humming silence peculiar to sports events. There was an aroma of roasted peanuts and sweat. The overhead lights heated the scent somewhat pleasantly while the crush of bodies added enforced camaraderie.

Seated several rows back at mid-court, Spencer Carlin watched Ashley Davies – her former lover. She thought again, as she had several times during more than two hours of play, that she’s changed. Just how wasn’t completely clear. More than three years had passed since she’d seen her in the flesh. But she hadn’t aged, or thickened, or lost any of her characteristic verve.

Rarely over the years had she watched a televised match – it was too painful. Too many faces were familiar, with hers the most strictly avoided. If Spencer had chanced to come across a write-up or picture of her in the sports pages or in a gossip column, she had immediately put it aside. Ashley Davies was out of her life. Her decision. Spencer was a very decisive woman.

Even her decision to come to the U.S Open championship had been a cool-headed one. Before making the trip, she had carefully weighed the pros and cons. In the end logic had won. She was getting back into the game herself. On the circuit, meetings with Ashley would be unavoidable. She would see her now, letting Ashley see clearly that there was nothing left of what had been three years before. She hoped fervently that she would see.

Ashley stood behind the baseline, prepaing to serve. Her stance was the same, Spencer mused, as was her sizzling concentration. She tossed the ball up, coming back and over with wicked serve that had become synonymous with her name, a Davies.

Spencer heard the explosion of her breath that forced the power into it. She held her own. A lesser player than the Frenchwoman, Garnier, would never have gotten a racket on the ball. Her return was quick – force meeting force – and the rally began.