That's the number of women I've shagged in the last twelve months.
I'm Ryder Stevens.
Don't pretend you don't know me. I'm a god.
I'm hot, I'm British and I take what I want. I'm also the number one ranked tennis player in the world. But it's my off court antics that gain the most attention. I cruise through life, running from one scandal to the next. Hell I can't even take a piss without the world knowing about it.
Rules? Who gives a shit?
Rules are there to be broken and I'm the king of breaking them.
But even the king can be bought to his knees. I'm sidelined with an injury that changes everything.
Maybe my life isn't so perfect after all...
“Ryder, you’re becoming more well-known for your behaviour off court than your actual career. Do you have anything to comment on that?”
I raise my eyebrows at the reporter. Flashes from cameras are going off everywhere, as you’d expect in a post-match press conference—especially for a game I’d been very lucky to win.
“Not sure what you mean there, Stan,” I say, reading his nametag. It’s been less than two minutes, and I’m already sick of where this is going. “I came here to play tennis—that’s it. It’s a damn shame that reporters like yourself having nothing better to do than focus on what I do in my private time.”
“But is it private time when you’re out until three a.m. the night before a big match?” he persists.
I shrug, and wipe my mouth in an attempt to hide my smirk. “Players prepare for matches in different ways. I’m sure for some a good night’s sleep does the trick, but for me, I’ll take an evening of rough and sweaty sex over a quiet night any day of the week.” I ignore the glare of my manager, Matt, and nod at the next reporter.
“Ryder, do you think your pre-match actions showed disrespect for your opponent today?”
“How?” I fire back. “I treated the build-up to this match just the same as I would if I were playing Nadal or Federer. You all seem to want to focus on my life outside of the court. Does anyone here have any questions about my actual tennis?”
I cross my arms over my chest as Matt bows his head and sighs. A murmur rises through the crowd before someone puts their hand up. I nod, my eyes locking onto hers. She’s a pretty little thing with long, dark hair and stunning blue eyes. I can tell she’s feisty, and I find myself wondering if that attitude carries over into the bedroom.
“You play the number two ranked player in the world tomorrow, and your fellow countryman, Jason Dillard. Will you be having an early night tonight?” she asks. Her full, red lips curve into a grin, and I can feel myself harden.
I shift in my seat and lean forward, resting my elbows on the table in front of me. “Well, that depends.” I smirk.
“On whether or not you’ll give me your phone number.”