Love in Straight Sets (12 page)

“Mistakes aren’t hard. They’re so easy that usually we don’t know we’ve made them until it’s too late.”

“Then I guess we’ve reached ‘too late.’”

“Not if we haven’t done anything wrong.”

She rolled her eyes. “Say what you have to say, don’t talk in riddles.”

Ben sighed, a hollow, depleted sound. “Walk out of here if you want. I won’t say another word about today, or Saturday night, or anything else that’s gone between us since the first day we met. You know how I feel. Now you’re in control.”

Regan stilled on the racket stringer, silently examining a callus on her hand as she waited to feel relief, satisfaction or even a hint of triumph. But there was only defeat, a staggering sense of loss and a sudden yet familiar tightening in her chest.

Her spine stiffening with worry, she slid down awkwardly from the top of the machine, carefully holding the hem of her tennis skirt even though Ben spent most days watching it flap around her hips to reveal the fitted shorts underneath. Her breaths were shortening and quickening, and she shook her head to clear it. She couldn’t possibly be on the brink of a panic attack now—it had to be the stress of this encounter. After all, she wasn’t in an enclosed space, there was nothing to make her feel confined or trapped, and until a couple of minutes ago she’d been happily making out with her super-hot coach. She still would be if she hadn’t let her stupid brain interfere with those annoyingly rational thoughts about her career, about the high stakes this late in the game, about—

Her head swam and her ears buzzed as a rush of dizziness made her clutch the racket stringer to stay upright.

The end was so close now and she’d been so unfocused. What if she’d already screwed it up? What if she lost the Baron’s? She would walk away with nothing—no Grand Slam title, no Ben to banter with all day, nothing to do but sit around in her empty house wondering if anyone could ever love someone as uptight and messed-up as she was.

Sharp pain throbbed where her knees slammed into the floor, followed by her palms. Blackness crept in from the edges of her vision as her lungs heaved, she couldn’t see, couldn’t breathe—

“Easy, champ.” Ben’s hands were on her waist, easing her into a sitting position, then on her ankles as he stretched her legs in front of her. He pressed on her back, easing her forward and down. “Head between your knees.”

She squeezed her eyes shut as the roaring in her ears gradually subsided, giving way to the rapid, echoing thump of her heart. Her breathing steadied, her whole body trembled and she wrapped her arms around her legs.

He rubbed firm circles on her back. “How do you feel?”

“Stupid.”

“That’s not very constructive. How about we skip the part where you beat yourself up about this and go straight to figuring out what triggered it?”

She sighed irritably, slowly raising herself to sit up. “Were you born with some annoying, perfect-person gene that makes you inherently reasonable? Or do you just try to piss me off?”

“It’s a conscious choice.” He grinned. “I should show you some of my early match footage sometime. I was a complete hothead. You wouldn’t even recognize me.”

“What changed?”

“Eventually I figured out that it was energy better spent on serves and volleys.”

“I wish I could find a way to do the same with all this anxiety.” She looked up at him. “I’ve never had it come on so suddenly. It’s getting worse.”

“I know.” He slung his arm over her shoulders and pulled her against his side. A platonic embrace, a coach reassuring his player, and Regan tried not to regret that as she leaned into him. “Don’t worry, we’ll get you through. Everything will be fine.”

She nodded feebly, her throat tightening. In a couple of weeks it would all be over. She was going to miss this—she was going to miss him.

“Regan?” The sound of her name had barely penetrated the door when it slammed open. Des stood in the square of light beaming from the corridor, squinting in the darkness before adjusting his gaze down to the floor. “What the hell—”

“Regan felt dizzy for a second,” Ben blurted, jerking away from her and bolting to his feet. She peered at him in confusion. Obviously she didn’t want Des to know about the panic attacks, and she preferred to keep their amorous slipup a secret now that it was decidedly behind them, but Ben’s bearing was excessively tense. What had gotten into him?

Des’s glance flicked between her and her coach. “Is that true? Are you all right?”

“I am now, yeah.”

“What happened?”

“I got overheated, I think.” She shrugged. “Pushing myself too hard, as usual. No big deal.”

Des returned his attention to Ben, and his glare was so heated she pulled herself to her feet, suddenly concerned she might have to intervene.

“What exactly were you doing to her that got her so
overheated
?” He sneered the last word as if it was distasteful.

Ben held up his palms. “Just training. Nothing out of the ordinary.”

“Maybe you and I need to have another talk about your methods.”

“Enough.” She stepped in between the two men and faced her manager. “It was my fault, I wasn’t rehydrating. Ben didn’t do anything wrong.”

“We’ll see,” Des muttered. “Are you done here? You have a phone interview in fifteen minutes.”

“We’re done.” She turned to Ben. “Thank you for today. For everything.”

He lifted one shoulder, barely meeting her gaze as he shoved his hands in his pockets.

“I’ll see you on Monday. Only one week ’til Tallahassee.” She repeated his daily countdown reminder with a tenuous smile, desperately hoping he was right—that they could find a way through this.

His troubled expression told her it sure as hell wouldn’t be easy.

Chapter Nine

The Tallahassee Invitational crowd hushed as Regan bounced the ball on the baseline, ignoring the trickle of sweat that ran down the side of her face. The spring weather had swung dramatically from unseasonably cold to unseasonably hot, and the sun beat down unrelentingly from a bright, cloudless sky.

She was up five games to her opponent’s four in the third set and she was exhausted. But while she wanted nothing more than to drag out this match point serve and give herself a few minutes to catch her breath, one glance at her competitor told her she had to move quickly.

“Tanya Nellis is a big Brit with a powerful arm,” Ben had said as she prepared for the final. He held her foot in his lap and tightened her fiberglass ankle support as he spoke, the words spilling quick and excited from his lips. “And she’ll be the one to beat at the Baron’s. But you’re faster and smarter, and she’s young and inexperienced. Keep her on the run, shut down the rallies and don’t overthink. You’ve never lost a final at Tallahassee. This is your house. Listen to your gut and let go.” He released her foot and sat back on his haunches, his smile so full of confidence that she was sure some of it overflowed into her.

“This is your home territory,” he reminded her. “The crowd is with you. And so am I.”

And so he was, sitting beside Des in the third row in the stand at her back, a couple of rows down from her parents, who’d driven out from Jacksonville. After every point she turned to find him, searching for the hat with her clothing sponsor’s logo that he wore low over his eyes. Protocol forbade too much exchange, but she’d grown to know Ben so well that the slightest curve of his lips or an almost imperceptible shake of his head broadcasted a hundred words’ worth of encouragement, advice and praise.

As he promised, he hadn’t mentioned their amorous lapses at the party or in the restringing room. He quietly redirected her when he sensed she was slipping too far into her anxiously cyclical thoughts, and she relied more and more on the steady anchor of his presence when panic seeped into the downtimes that bookended their training sessions. He was a good friend, a great coach and nothing else.

But she knew there was hungry, wanton desire lurking beneath his jovial reliability, and she had no idea what to do about it.

Because it stalked her too.

She could feel his eyes on her as she spun the racket in her hand. She could hear his voice telling her not to let Tanya get a moment’s rest, to keep pushing her around the court until her swing lost its muscle. She imagined him beside her, his relaxed posture and calm tone belying the unremitting way he dismantled her control and demanded her trust, day after day after day.

“In your own time,” he would drawl sarcastically, stifling a yawn. And she would want him and hate him all in the same instant, that fiery rush of unnamable emotion roaring through her veins and fueling her serve until the racket met the ball with such high-octane intensity that she was surprised sparks didn’t fly from the strings.

She bounced the ball one more time while she summoned that feeling. Wanting and hating. Desiring and despising. Needing and rejecting.

She tossed the ball and swung her racket, her feet leaving the ground with the speed of her swing.

Wanting.
Desiring.
Needing so badly it hurt.

She faltered at the last second and the angle of the serve softened. Tanya lunged to return it, grunting as she smacked it back over the net.

Panic tightened Regan’s chest as she darted for the ball, barely managing to reach it in time to lob it with a meek backhand. Tanya was the best rally player in the game, and although she was slower and more lumbering than Regan, her shots were hard and fast and devastatingly precise.

Regan ached to turn and look at Ben, to find a solution in his eyes, but there was no chance. Tanya fired the ball all over the court, and Regan had to race back and forth to meet it, leaving her no time to reformulate a strategy.

He’d told her to shut down the rallies—but how? Tanya heaved the ball at her with a fearsome groan, and Regan’s own squeaking exhalation in response seemed to foretell how this contest would end. They may have played cat and mouse until now, but sooner or later the cat always trapped the screeching rodent between its claws.

Her brain whirred with anxiety. Should she try to hit it into the opposite box? Or was Tanya leaning that way? How did she get so much spin on these shots? Look where her arm ended up after she hit. No wonder the ball flew so fast Regan could hardly keep track of it. But this was a waste of time. What was she going to do?

Here it came again. Thank goodness for that extra half inch on her racket. Ben was a pain in the ass, but he knew a thing or two about—

Ben. His name chimed in her head like a gong. What did he always tell her to do? Don’t overthink. Give in to her instincts. Let go.

As Tanya raised her arm to send the ball spinning back over the net, Regan emptied the air out of her lungs and forced the thoughts from her mind. When she inhaled again there was only the weight of the racket in her hand, the anticipatory jostle of her feet on the court and that bright yellow sphere hurtling toward her. No thoughts of trophies or sponsorships, no disembodied faces mocking her from the past, no burden of expectation for the future. Only the rasping air in her throat, the coiled tension of the muscles in her arms and the juddering impact as the ball smashed against the racket strings and reversed its trajectory, sailing away from her as quickly as it had come.

The ball bounced once, gently, and although Tanya threw herself across the court with all her might, when it hit the ground again she was nowhere near it.

The crowd erupted in cheering, nearly drowning out the umpire’s voice as he announced, “Game, set, match.”

The racket slipped from Regan’s hand as she held her fists aloft, allowing herself one single minute of pure, unabashed victory. It was only a warm-up tournament, and she’d won it before, but the finals match had been a hard slog and she deserved to indulge her triumph. She soaked up the warmth of the sun, the roar of the crowd and the knowledge that for today, she was the best. The champion.

When she opened her eyes Tanya was dragging herself up from where she’d fallen to her knees. Regan shook hands with the umpire and hurried to the net to meet her opponent. Tanya made her way over slowly, and Regan could see tear tracks cutting through the dust on the twenty-two-year-old’s cheek.

“Great match, Tanya.” Regan shook the younger woman’s hand. She remembered what it was like to be that age and always wanted to encourage younger players—as long as she could still beat them.

“Whatever,” Tanya muttered, her grip as limp and weak as a dead fish, before turning away. Regan stared after her retreating back for a moment, frowning at her lack of manners in their rigidly courteous sport, and then spun at the sound of her name.

Des and Ben were jogging down the steps at the side of the stands, rushing onto the court to meet her, her parents not far behind. Without processing what she was doing she broke into a run, sprinted toward the baseline and leaped into Ben’s arms the second his feet left the last step.

“Well-done, well-done, well-done!” He swung her off the ground and spun her in a circle, her feet flying out behind her. He dropped her back to earth and tightened his arms around her as she flung her own around his neck, practically in tears from the intensity of her joy and unspent adrenaline and her desperate need to be with him, to share this moment he had such a crucial part in building.

“I did what you said.” She buried her face in his shoulder, drinking in his clean, fresh smell. “I put everything out of my mind and let my instinct take over.”

“I’m so proud of you.” He took her face in his hands and planted a kiss on her cheek.

It was an innocuous gesture, one that Des did all the time, one that most of her previous coaches had done at one point or another—sometimes she even exchanged such kisses with opponents she knew well or particularly respected.

But when Ben’s lips brushed her skin, his hands framing her face, his eyes locked on hers above a faltering smile, that kiss became something different. Suddenly it was potent, intoxicating and full of promise.

She stared up at him as the noise of the tournament hushed and fell away. She didn’t care about the cameras snapping, the people jostling for her attention, or her own decision that Ben was off-limits, that she had to protect herself from her breathtakingly uncontrollable feelings for him. In that second, none of it mattered. He was gorgeous, she was a winner and she was going to kiss him until he gasped for air.

He whispered her name, half a question and half an incantation, as his eyes darkened with expectation and surprise. She slid her hands from his shoulders to his chest, flattening them where they stopped, rose up on her tiptoes and—

“Hey now, quit hogging my girl.” Des’s hands pried her away and in the next instant she was wrapped in his characteristic bear hug, so loving and familiar that she couldn’t find it in her to be annoyed. “Great job, lassie.” The glittering flashbulbs and fans’ excited shouts whipped her back to reality, and she sank into the embrace of the man who always took care of her—especially when it came to saving her from her own worst decisions.

Des released her as her parents appeared, and after she embraced them in turn, the reporter for the national network broadcasting the tournament approached, looking for her live, moment-of-victory sound bite. Regan glanced at Ben as she turned toward the journalist. His brow was furrowed, his expression clouded and, as their eyes met, he shoved his hands in his pockets and looked away.

“Congratulations, Miss Hunter. Can we get your coach in the shot? This won’t take a second.” The reporter, Vivian Evans, was a retired, relatively unknown player more successful in the commentator’s box than she’d ever been on the court, and in Regan’s experience she was friendly and unthreatening. Des reluctantly stepped aside as she motioned for Ben to stand next to her.

Regan tried to keep her expression neutral as they set up the shot. She was pretty sure that including Ben was Vivian’s producer’s way of emphasizing her diminutive height to add drama to her win, ignoring the fact that most women would look tiny beside Ben’s long frame. Remembering his disinclination to face the press at her birthday party, she hoped he was only there for visual impact and the reporter wouldn’t ask him any questions.

Ben said nothing as he positioned himself to Regan’s left, but she could sense the hum of his anxiety. She longed to give his hand a reassuring squeeze and murmur that she had this under control, but she hesitated, all too aware of the hundreds of lenses pointed in their direction.

The cameraman signaled that they were live. Vivian gave a quick introduction, asked how Regan felt and held out the microphone.

“Thanks, Vivian.” She put on her carefully practiced delighted-yet-humble smile. “It was a tough match. Tanya is a great competitor and definitely one to watch. Luckily the odds were on my side today. The crowd here at Tallahassee is always fantastic, and there’s nothing like winning so close to home.”

“And I understand this is your new coach, Ben Percy, himself a past winner of the Baron’s Open. Ben, how are you leveraging your Grand Slam experience to help Regan finally win one of her own?”

“His training methods are really innovative, different from any I’ve encountered before,” Regan interjected hastily, causing Vivian to whip the microphone back to her. “If anyone can get my name onto that trophy, it’s this guy right here.” She offered what she hoped was a big, interview-concluding grin.

Vivian tilted her head to the side, evidently being fed an instruction through her earpiece. “Uh-huh. Back to you for just a second, Ben. How does it feel to be working on the professional circuit again after such a long absence?”

Regan glanced at him nervously, but although she could read the tension in his face, when he spoke he sounded calm and relaxed.

“I’m much better off the court than on it, and working with such an outstanding player as Regan has been an absolute privilege.” He put his hand on her back, smiling through his evasive answer. “She put in an amazing performance today. She’s working hard, and I can’t wait to see what she has in store for the Baron’s.”

“And neither can we.” Taking the hint, Vivian turned back to face the camera. “Thanks so much to Regan Hunter, champion of this year’s Tallahassee Invitational, and her coach, former Baron’s Open-winner Ben Percy. We’ll be back after the break with more coverage, plus a sneak peek at tomorrow’s men’s singles final.”

The cameraman signaled that they were off the air, and Regan drew a breath to excuse them with the usual pleasantries when Vivian broke into a wide grin and gave Ben a playful punch on the arm.

“Ben Percy, of all people. You won’t remember, but I was at the Baron’s the year you won it. Knocked out in the opening round, so I had plenty of time to watch the rest of the tournament. You were just a kid, but you played like you’d been winning for fifty years.” She shook her head incredulously. “Have you ever thought about playing exhibition matches? I bet the Baron’s organizers would pay a fortune to get you on the bill.”

“I’m retired,” he said firmly. “The only match I care about at the Baron’s is the one that gets Regan’s name on the trophy.”

Vivian shrugged. “Well, it was nice to see you again anyway. Great win today, Regan.”

Regan nodded her thanks and moved toward where Des was already warming up the next waiting reporter, but Ben hung back.

“I’ll let you handle the rest of these on your own. I don’t want to distract from your win any more than I already have.”

She knew he would duck out of the publicity parade as soon as he could, but she was surprised at her disappointment now that he actually said the words. It felt good to have him by her side as she celebrated her triumph. It felt right.

“Are you sure? I know this isn’t your favorite part of the sport, but you handled Vivian like a pro. You contributed to the victory today, and you deserve some attention if you want it.”