Kitt paced through the office, picked up a magazine, impatiently turned a few pages and threw it down. It seemed ages before the secretary motioned to him to pick up a phone.
Jeff was not amused.
“What are you doing pumping my employees? I gave her orders to tell no one where I am.”
“Congratulations. I don't know where you are. I've been leaving messages since yesterday, and you haven't returned them.”
“So what is this urgent problem?”
“I ran into Trace Washington at the garage. He was supposed to be in college by now, but his scholarship was screwed up by your office. What's up with that?”
“Trace Washington. I don't remember any Trace Washington.”
“A four-year scholarship for tuition, fees, books, dorm fees. I checked back with you in May. You said it was a done deal.”
“Oh, that.”
“Yes, that. Now what happened?”
“I just didn't think you needed to be shoveling out the money as fast as it came in. You fall for every sob story.”
“Let me get this straight. You lied to me?”
“Well, maybe I should have told you. But I couldn't go along with another handout. Have you ever stopped to add them all up?”
“I take it there was enough left to put food on the table?”
“Someone has to save you from yourself. Our parents thought that should be me.”
“When I was twelve.”
“Your financial sense hasn't changed much.”
“I am not going to argue money with you. From my records, this shouldn't hurt. You may be my financial manager, but I still make decisions about my own money. We are going to go through with that scholarship.”
“Right now you can't do it.”
“What do you mean I can't do it? Why not?”
“I don't have time to go over everything right now. But your money's all tied up for the moment, so cash flow is low. You can't be doling out cash. That's just the way it is.”
“What do you mean by a low cash flow?”
“Don't worry about it. I had made investments in anticipation of money coming in—I had to patch some pretty deep holes. Now if you want to reconsider retirement—”
“Give it a rest, Jeff.”
“Well, then, adjust to the new realities.”
“So liquidate something. I certainly shouldn't have a problem coming up with fifteen or twenty thousand for this next semester. And I am going to need money for school for myself, so do whatever you have to do. We'll have to go over it and see what needs doing.”
“You intend to take over?”
“I intend to have an accounting. I'm not interested in money management or investments, but I want to know where I stand. Meantime, call me when I can have the money, will you? I need something concrete for Trace.”
What could he sell to shortcut this hassle with Jeff—of course, the cars! Raise some quick cash selling the excess vehicles. He'd won several at the majors, and others were gifts from his sponsors—a few luxury cars he'd never driven, a show-off sports car, and a futuristic contraption you had to climb in and out of with a can opener. They'd fetch good money.
Within weeks he'd sold the vehicles at prices that amazed him. The proceeds would more than adequately fund Trace's four-year scholarship and make a healthy dent in his own school expenses. He gave a passing thought to the priorities that put the value of several years of education at the price of a few showy cars, then shrugged it off and went to meet Trace. In Trace's small bedroom they talked till late that night, poring over his course catalog, making lists. It was after two in the morning before he drove home to his house outside the city.
Backing graciously out of lunch with Rick didn't work three times. Soon he'd be off to the main office at the East Coast again, so they went to a quiet place of Rick's choosing. Just right, Kitt thought sarcastically, as a backdrop for his sales pitch. Luxurious furnishings, a hushed atmosphere, soft music. An aura of money. He watched with amusement to see how the agent would get down to business, and smiled at how little time it took. He shook his head, smiling, when Rick laid out CMI's latest offer.
“Generous, very generous,” he conceded. “But the answer is no.”
“What is your bottom figure?” Rick wanted to know.
“This is not about money. I have all the money I need. I wanted out. I'm staying out.”
Rick glanced at the papers on the table, made no move to gather them up.
“You may not feel this way next week, next month, next year.”
“I think I will. But if I don't, I'll call.”
“It may be too late.”
“I'll take the chance.”
They lingered a little longer over the meal. During dessert Kitt was surprised to hear a familiar voice behind him, “Mind if I butt in?”
Dave pulled up a chair.
“Thought I'd drop in for some of that good pie they serve here.”
“I thought you'd be home in L.A.”
“Just a layover. Coming through from New York, and decided I'd lay over a couple of days, at Zack's house. Do a little trout fishing. You know he bought some property out here couple of years ago.”
“Yeah, I've been there. Nice chalet.”
“It's super. You getting anywhere with this kid?” he asked Rick, half-joking.
“What makes you think I'm trying to?”
They all laughed, and after a few minutes of small talk Rick excused himself.
“Be right back, guys.”
Dave looked at Kitt.
“Sorry I went off the other day, on the phone. I was still dazed.”
“It's okay.”
“Any second thoughts?”
“None.”
“This time last year we were getting ready for the Master's Cup. You'd won the U.S. Open series. Big money on the table this time of year.”
“I know. I won a lot of it.”
“Could be winning more.”
“Lay off, Dave. We've been over this.”
“So we have, so we have. It's pathetic just the same.”
“The tour won't collapse without me.”
“Kitt, you don't know what you're doing.”
Kitt said nothing.
“Talked to MacMillan the other day. He'll be number one as soon as you drop off the rankings, but Zeller's moving up. I think he'll wind up at two or three.”
“May the best man win.”
“The best man's not trying.”
“I have my own battles keeping up in school.”
“If you screw that up you'll have blown two careers in one year.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence.”
“You can still make it on the tour if you wait till the Aussie Open. I'd get you back in championship shape. You could finish your semester and hold out till the French and be on top of the Champions’ race by Wimbledon, maybe sooner.”
“Dream on.”
“The public wants you. You can get the contracts and the endorsements back. You can still get them six months from now if you want.”
“Maybe. But I am signing up for school.”
“What are you trying to do, make me beg?”
“This is not about you.”
“Don't be stupid, Kitt! You won't make it out there. In a year you'll come begging for wild cards, scrambling to catch up with the top guys. We always catered to you because you brought in the cash, but the world out there isn't going to cut you any slack. They'll eat you alive!”
“You and Rick playing good cop–bad cop?”
“What you don't understand is that you were good because we made you good.”
“Seems like I've been surrounded by creative genius. Maybe the lot of you should divvy up the copyright.”
“You're making a huge mistake.”
“So noted. Now we either drop the subject or I'm out of here.”
“Kitt, listen to me! You can have it all. I can—”
Kitt took a de
ep breath.
“I'm not going back. But if I ever did, it would not be with you. You get me?”
“You'd get another coach?”
“I'm not going back. But if I ever decided to, yes, I'd want another coach!”
Dave gritted his teeth and his grip on the table rattled the dishes. Almost detached, Kitt wondered how he could have been so wrong about this man.
“You arrogant jerk—you think you can make it without me, don't you? I, you get me, I made you! I made a winner out of you, and I can take somebody else, somebody off the street, and coach him and in one year he'd beat the crap out of you! I can—”
“Whoa, whoa!” Rick came hastily to the table, looking nervous and worried. “Dave, calm down. Now what's going on here?”
Kitt shrugged and got to his feet.
“I've had it up to here with people who want to run my life. Okay, Dave, you've proved to me you and I should never have been on the same team in the first place. Rick, thanks for lunch. See ya.”
Rick walked to the door with him.
“Don't let him get to you, Kitt. You know how he is.”
“I'm finding out fast.”
“Kitt, he figured on another six years or so. He's still counting on you to come back.”
“Believe me, if I came back, it wouldn't be to him.”
“What about another coach?”
“Rick, read my lips. The answer is no.”
The fall sunshine failed to warm him as he drove home.
To Kitt's surprise, Wynne breezed into town and coaxed him out to dinner and dancing. She was easygoing and happy. “I'm done pouting,” she told him, laughing. “You can be what you want to be. I decided it's your choice.”
Her surrender was almost too smooth, but the stress between them eased and by the second day he relaxed. She met him for lunch and again for dinner, walked the campus with him and showed interest in his classes.
At times he was dizzy with excitement. The university had accepted him on probation, with a block of classes starting in October to bring him up to speed for the spring semester starting at the end of January. Wynne lured him onto a tennis court for a few games. She was a good amateur player, and although she presented no challenge to him on the court and he spotted her his serves and the doubles alley, the game was fun. Afterward they stretched out in the grass in the mild fall sunshine reminiscing about some of his great matches.
“Sorry I can't give you a real match,” she laughed.
“You're okay, for a club player.”
She made a surprise lunge that toppled him forward, and with one leap straddled his back and began to tickle him. He tensed his muscles, uncoiled as he swung around and threw her off, catching her shoulders to ease her fall. They rolled around laughing till they lay limp and spent.
“Oh Kitt,” she sighed. “I have missed you. “
”So drop in more often.”
“I may just do that.”
Thor looked disappointed when they came home and didn't go for a run. To make amends, Kitt took a block of imported cheese from the refrigerator and cut him a big slice. The dog's teeth snapped together as he caught it in midair and devoured it in seconds.
“Your mutt has gourmet tastes now?” Wynne raised her eyebrows.
“It's the only cheese I had in the house. He loves it. Strangest thing for a dog. Likes cheese better than meat.”
They sat on the couch for a while, and Wynne contentedly curled up beside him, squirming about till she was comfortable. She laid her head on his shoulder, and for a while they sat silently, soaking up comfort. Finally, she looked up at him.
“Kitt—are you happy?”
“A few wrinkles to iron out. But I'm excited about my life. It's going to work for me.”
“You don't miss the excitement, the thrill of winning, the crowds?”
Smiling, he shook his head.
“Not that. I guess what was most exciting was the struggle against myself. I'm still doing that. What I do miss a little is the all-over gratification of a tough match. The highs that come with absolute exertion. Getting a ball that can't be gotten. Hitting it with a little more power than last time, a little more precision. The ultimate control of your abilities.”
“So you do miss it. The highs.”
He sat up and rested his elbows on his knees, his eyes narrowing in thoughtful concentration.
“I've had that experience sometimes, those peaks that seem to lift you above yourself. Asked myself what makes it happen, what it means. All I come up with is absolute focus. You sense no limitations. Like you can fly.”
“And you give that up, just like that?”
“It's a transferable skill,” he said wryly.
After a while, he said pensively, as though talking to himself, “I'm stoked. Getting that focus and that sense of—I don't know what it is. Enlightenment, maybe. It's hard to describe—a physical sensation and then somehow a spiritual connection. I felt it sometimes on the court, and I feel it when I am reading about something or concentrate with all I've got. You get that feeling of a breakthrough—you've crossed some line, lifted your game to a new level. Or your thinking. I can't explain the thrill of it.”
The soft lights on the piano gave the room dim illumination. She turned toward him, touching his face, drawing him closer. He felt almost for the first time since he had known her the impact of her physical beauty. Flawless skin, exquisitely chiseled features, a shape that could be described only in superlatives, a way of moving somewhere between grace and seduction—there was a devastating perfection about her. He searched for a word to anchor down the feeling that swept over him, and he was disturbed to find himself cold and detached. It hit him like a physical blow, and he took his arm off her shoulders and rested his elbows on his knees, perplexed.
“What's the matter?”
“Nothing, nothing at all. A mood, I guess.”
Her hand touched his knee.
“Hold me, Kitt.”
She laid her head on his shoulder. His muscles tightened and she stroked his hands and arms, then his shoulders, pulling his head down to hers. He was surprised to see the tears.
“What is it, Wynne? Did I do something, say something?”
“I've just missed you so much.”
He was silent.
“Do you know you‘ve never told me you love me? So I'll say it. I love you, Kitt. I love you.”
“Don't, Wynne. Please don't.”
“I have to. I have loved you for a long time. I love you and I want you.”
He squeezed her shoulders for a moment, and stood up, staring somberly out of the window. She came to stand by him, nuzzled his shoulder.
“You didn't just leave the tour, Kitt. You left me, too. I came here to fit in with what you want.”
“I didn't ask you to, Wynne. I don't want you to be something you're not to please me.”
“I can't stand not being part of your life anymore. Everything's wrong with you off the tour. I want you back, Kitt.”
“I can't come back. I've moved on.”
“You were brilliant in our world. There was nothing more magnificent than you flying above that tennis court with all that power. It was a thing of beauty. It was magic. You belong there, in front of the crowds, because no one can touch you and no one can even come close. Please, please, Kitt, come back.”
“No.”
She turned away then and he saw her shoulders come up in a silent sob. He stood helpless, trying to think of something to say. She swung around.
“Don't say that to me. Promise me you will at least think about it, about us. Please, Kitt!”
“Listen to me, Wynne. We see each other here and there and then nothing for almost a year. We don't even know each other. You want me to say I love you, and I can't. I care, but love is big.”
“I'm not asking for a commitment, Kitt. Just don't throw me out of your life.”
“I didn't do that, did I?”
“Yes, you did. You did by lea
ving, by changing what you are and what you want to be.”
“I haven't changed what I am. I am just finding out.”
“You are a champion.”
“I hope that's not all.”
“Isn't it enough to be the best in the world? To be the best player in history?”
“Wynne, let's not go there again. If I ever decide this move was wrong, I will reconsider. But I don't believe it was, and I don't want you to sit around waiting for me to come back. If you like me only as a champion, maybe you're the one who's kicking me out.”
“Never, never,” she whispered. She took a few steps toward him and reached for his hands, then embraced him eagerly, as though her body sought to melt into his. He was taken aback by her passion, and troubled by his own cold wariness.
In the muted light she looked improbably fragile and little-girl vulnerable, with the tears flowing from under the long, thick eyelashes that quivered on her cheeks like butterflies in a breeze. Matching the moment, isn't she. This was a scene planned by a romance writer. Or a control freak.
As though in response to his thought, she frowned through her tears and straightened her shoulders. Her movements were carelessly graceful as she patted her hair in place and smoothed her skirt. For a moment he couldn't suppress a sarcastic smile. This was Wynne. Together. Manipulative. Seductive. She saw his smile and in a moment of anger her lips tightened.
As she pulled on her coat, she gave him a brief, appraising glance, as though wondering where to go from here. He walked her to her rented car, a luxury sports model, and watched the taillights disappear in the distance.
The campus never failed to excite Kitt. Some of his professors had been leery of a multimillionaire pro athlete who'd chucked it all to go to school, and suspicion of his motives and his commitment was spelled out in neon letters. But they were coming around.
Widely spaced street lanterns highlighted the raindrops quivering on the edges of autumn leaves that fringed the walkways, and Kitt stopped to watch them sparkle. Like Christmas lights. Here and there, a drop spattered down on his forehead. Life was great. Perfect, except for the family troubles. Jeff cranky and obnoxious, Laura resentful. The whiny refrain: When are you going back to the tour? And the other question, unspoken, but louder than a rock concert: See what you have done to us?
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