Instead she saw the same scene that had played over and over in her mind since that afternoon in Miami three days ago.
Something about the way Ben had looked at her on the floor of the hallway, visibly aroused and drawing closer, had plunked an unfamiliar but strangely pleasant weight in the pit of her stomach. The raw male instinct coursing through him had been so strong she could practically smell it, and despite having spent the rest of the week ruing his insistence on exerting his authority in every aspect of her training, every time she remembered that moment the weight in her stomach began to thud and pulse in a delicious, alluring rhythm.
Yet something about him had changed. Outwardly he was his usual, annoyingly jovial self, but just below the surface he seemed closed, his posture rigid and his eyes shuttered. He was as engaged as ever in her training, but had taken a decisive step back from their personal rapport. He began each morning with polite and uncharacteristically formal small talk, and their end-of-day routine of easy conversation as they cleared stray balls from the court had become a swift, silent and ruthlessly efficient five minutes.
And as much as she hated to admit it, his withdrawal was affecting her game. Once she realized that Ben’s change in demeanour wasn’t a one-off grumpy morning, she’d fallen into a disengaged funk that she couldn’t shake off. She struggled to focus on anything, spending the mornings hitting wild shots and the afternoons losing spectacularly to Catharina, the Dutchwoman Ben hired to be her new sparring partner. The Baron’s Open trophy slipped further out of reach with every missed volley, and Regan knew that no extra racket half inch or laps around the court could help her.
She glanced over to where he stood on the sideline, as inadvertently handsome as ever.
“Two more,” he instructed without looking at her, writing in his notebook. Regan sighed wearily and reached into her pocket for another ball.
Clearly she’d misread the signs. Either he’d been caught up in the moment and now he regretted it, or he hadn’t been flirting with her at all.
Getting involved with her coach would’ve been a terrible idea anyway. And why would she want to in the first place? Sure, he was good-looking, but he was also the exact opposite of what she wanted. Nothing like the media-savvy swaggerers she occasionally paired off with, whose ambition meant everything was negotiable. How many times had she practically heard a guy’s publicity strategy grinding away in his head as he imagined all the doors a high-profile athlete girlfriend could open for him? But she didn’t mind. It made the relationship—and the sex, when it came to that—transactional and unemotional, with no potential to be hurt.
Once she retired she would focus on having a real, meaningful connection, yet even then she suspected it would have to be with someone from the world of professional sports, or at least someone with equivalent wealth. Her orbit would still be one of black-tie fundraisers and sunset cocktail parties on yachts, and her future husband—if she dared to think that far ahead—would have to fit into and ideally enjoy that world. As much as she loved the idea of settling down with a hard-grafting, working-class guy like her dad or even one of the many sons-of-acquaintances her mom was always eyeing up on her behalf, it simply wasn’t feasible. She was too many miles from home now, and there was no retracing the distance.
And Ben? She shook her head as she held the ball aloft, lining up her toss. He couldn’t be more wrong for her in every aspect. His laid-back demeanor hid a core of steel. He was rigid and unyielding when it came to her training. He’d fired her sparring partner with a ruthlessness she was shocked he possessed, and he resolutely refused to engage with the diva persona that had kept overreaching coaches at bay for nearly ten years.
She’d opened up to him more than she had to anyone in years when she told him about her panic attacks. She’d trusted him with that precious, secret vulnerability. And he was repaying her with distance, detachment and the relentless exertion of his control.
He was intent on ripping apart her carefully constructed armor until there was nothing left to protect her against the cutthroat, brutal world of professional sports. She tossed the ball with a disgusted exhale, swinging her racket to nail it across the net.
Nothing left to protect her except him.
“Out.”
Regan sagged on her feet. “Can we leave it for today? I’m tired.”
He crossed his arms. “Serve again.”
She reached into her pocket and came up empty. “I’m out of balls. Surely that’s a sign we should pack it in.”
Ben reached down, picked up a ball and hurled it in a fast overhand arc that she barely managed to intercept before it hit her in the face.
“What the hell is up with you?” she hollered.
“I told you to serve.” His irritable tone was so unexpected that for a second she could do nothing but gape at him across the court, desperate to know what was wrong and panicked that she’d finally pushed him too far.
“I’m serious.” She took a step forward. “Is everything okay?”
Ben seemed to gather himself, breathing deeply. “It’ll be a lot better once you stop messing around and serve the damn ball.”
“Right, that’s it. I’m done.” She threw the ball back at him as hard as she could, ignoring how easily he caught her throw. Then she let the racket slip from her aching hand, plunked down cross-legged on the cool surface of the indoor court and rested her chin on her fists. If he didn’t want to tell her what was bothering him, that was fine by her.
“Not like I care anyway,” she muttered, unsuccessfully attempting to convince herself it was true.
She heard him sigh in exasperation and start toward her. She knew he’d be angry. He’d been angry all week. She was sick of it. Sick of him.
A pair of sneakered feet arrived in front of where she sat on the court. She followed the bare, muscled legs a long way up, past the cargo shorts and T-shirt, to Ben’s stern expression.
“Get up.”
She shook her head.
“You’re wasting my time. On your feet. Now.”
“I’m wasting as much of your time hitting awful shots as I am sitting here. I’m tired. I’ll take this option.”
“So stop hitting awful shots.”
“Yeah, because it’s that easy.” She rolled her eyes. “I don’t know what your problem is, but I don’t appreciate you taking it out on me.”
“I think you know exactly what my problem is. It’s sitting on the court in front of me.”
“Very funny.”
“About as funny as the accusation that I’m taking something out on you. Pretty rich from the queen of misdirected anger, don’t you think?”
She pulled her legs up to her chest and wrapped her arms around her knees, full of a defeat worse than any she’d experienced at the hands of her opponents. “Go home, Ben. Walk away. We both know this isn’t working and that you’re the one who has to end it.”
He crouched in front of her, taking off his UCLA baseball cap to curve the brim between his hands. His slightly mussed brown hair needed a trim, and Regan clenched her teeth against the impulse to smooth it back into place. The all-too-familiar swell of attraction bubbled in her chest as she stared into his unwavering, gray-green eyes.
“You want me to quit?”
“Only because I can’t fire you.”
“And what fire-able offense have I committed today?”
His sharp tone and cold expression were a million miles away from the tender, soothing presence that had saved her from humiliating herself in front of an elevator full of people, and they cut her so deeply she flinched.
“You’ve barely said a word to me all week. It’s obvious you don’t want to be here, so feel free to leave.”
“I didn’t realize it was my job to make conversation.”
“And I’m pretty sure it’s not
your job to be a moody asshole,” she shot back with unexpected vehemence. She clamped her mouth shut as she glared at him, annoyed that she’d let him see how much he was getting to her.
He leaned back on his heels, regarding her steadily. “Do you want to talk about what happened in Miami?”
About as much as she wanted to chew off her arm. More than anything she wanted him to leave her alone, so she could get back to her life of malleable coaches and straightforward emotions. “There’s nothing to say.”
He watched her for another minute, his gaze thoughtful and maybe a fraction warmer. He glanced down at the court, took another one of his steadying breaths, then straightened and stuck out his hand. “Come on. We’re going for a run.”
She stared up at him, not sure whether to laugh or frown at his absurd suggestion. “Um, no we’re not.”
“Yes, we are. We’re not getting anywhere on this court and running is the best way to clear your head.”
“Your head, maybe. Mine is perfectly fine the way it is, thanks.”
He smirked. “Denial doesn’t suit you.” He gestured for her to hurry up. “Let’s go.”
“I ran yesterday.”
“On the treadmill, in the air-conditioned gym, for about twenty minutes until you whined so much I said you could stop. Now we’re going to run outside, and get some oxygen into your blood.”
Her whole body tensed. Ever since high school, when two girls from the country club had deliberately led her off course and then abandoned her on a cross-country run, she hated running outside. There were so many variables that she couldn’t control: weather, temperature, teenagers on bikes, dogs off leashes, cars running stop signs—the list was endless. It baffled her that people found running to be a relaxing pastime, because to her it was a perfect storm of uncontainable neuroses.
She shook her head and went for the first excuse that popped into her head. “No way. It’s too hot.”
“It’s not even nine o’clock, and it rained this morning. It’s fine.”
“It’s rush hour. The roads will be packed.”
“You live in a gated community. There is no rush hour.”
She studied the laces of her sneakers. “I don’t have my running shoes.”
“Neither do I. Those will be fine. It’s a couple miles, not a marathon.”
“A couple miles? I can’t. I don’t have my headphones, I’m not wearing the right clothes, my socks are way too thin and I told you that sometimes running too much makes my knee—”
“Cut the shit, Regan.”
Startled into silence by his uncharacteristically harsh tone, her eyes shot up to his.
His expression was as unyielding as his voice. “You need to get it through your skull that I’m not like your other coaches. You can’t wheedle and complain until you get what you want, and nothing you do—”
He faltered, and Regan wondered if he was thinking about that hotel corridor, about the roaring fire tugging them together and the cold water the staff member’s entrance threw on it. He squared his shoulders and continued even more resolutely, “Nothing will make me quit. You’re stuck with me until the moment you step onto the winner’s podium at the Baron’s. Now stand up and stop acting like a child.”
She knew the slack-jawed, wide-eyed look wasn’t her most attractive but couldn’t seem to make any of her muscles work—except the ones that hoisted her up onto her feet and had her following Ben through the clubhouse and out to the street in silent, stunned obedience.
“Right,” he announced as they emerged into the morning sunlight, “away we go.”
As he broke into a slow jog, the familiar, nauseating roil of anxiety began to churn in her stomach as increasingly panicked thoughts whirred through her mind, slowly at first, then faster like a rusty outboard motor coming back to life. What if I fall behind? Will he stay with me? What if he runs on ahead? What if I get lost? What if I need to stop? Will he laugh at me? Why is he making me do this?
Her stomach tightened, her hands clenched into fists at her side.
What if I can’t do this? Oh my God, I can’t do this, I can’t do this...
“That’s it, nice and easy.”
Ben’s voice broke through the dizzying stream of thoughts, and she was back to the world of chirping birds, warm pavement and the muffled sound of sneakered feet hitting the ground. They left the clubhouse driveway and turned onto the main road, and she tried to talk herself out of the high-alert nerves that were tightening her throat so much her breaths came in short, ragged gasps. She held each inhale for a count of four and exhaled fully, reminding herself that she was a professional athlete. Assuring herself that she wouldn’t get lost, that she could keep up, that Ben wouldn’t leave her.
He’d said as much, hadn’t he? He wouldn’t quit. They would draw a line under Monday afternoon, she would reset her expectations, let go of her disappointment and start fresh. And she would at least try to do what he wanted—to relinquish control.
Starting now.
She could do this, she told herself sternly, as the warmth of exertion began to flood through her veins, easing the tension in her body. Of course she could.
This part of the road was one long incline, and Regan’s body shifted into gear, her heart and lungs adjusting to her revved-up motion, the movement of her legs becoming an unconscious stride. Slowly but surely her thoughts blurred and fell quiet as the muscles in her calves protested. Her feet throbbed from the hard surface of the pavement and her heart stepped up its beat, pounding faster as the hill demanded more from her body.
It only took a minute to crest the hill, and Ben visibly reined in his stride on the flat stretch at the top. In her peripheral vision she could see how often he glanced her way, ensuring his pace was just fast enough to urge her on without pushing her too hard. He set their direction, he regulated their tempo and, for the first time in as long as she could remember, she was happy to hang back and let him take charge.
As her anxieties about navigating and speed and sweating through her socks gradually faded out, she relished the sound of her soles smacking against the road, the cool air that was fresh in her lungs and the lush scenery that she’d only ever seen from behind a car window. She drank in the sunshine, the palm trees, the bright blue sky, as her rational mind quieted down with every springing step.
It took less than a mile for her mind to be clear of everything except the rhythm of her body, the waft of the breeze and the hushed sound of Ben’s breathing beside her. She had no idea where they were, how to get back, how far they’d run or how much farther they had to go.
She’d never been more out of control—or more blissfully content.
* * *
His baggy shorts bunched between his thighs, his shirt stuck to his back and each strike of the pavement against his thin-soled canvas sneakers sent pain shuddering up through his shins. But as Ben watched Regan’s dark, tightly locked face open and glow like a blossoming daylily, he knew he had to push on.
If holding her felt like catching an impala, running beside her felt like setting one free. Her movement was as smooth and sure as it was on the court, but without any of the tension of strategy or restraint. There was joy in each step, radiance in her eyes, and Ben felt privileged to be there to behold it—and like the least worthy man in the world after she’d so squarely called him out on his distanced behavior.
He’d been in torment ever since they said goodbye in the hotel in Miami. He tried to slip out during the post-panel schmoozing, but Regan intercepted him on his way out the door.
“Are you heading out?” she’d asked, her back to the window that offered panoramic views of the city and the ocean beyond. He’d admired the cityscape earlier, but when she stood in front of it and stared up at him with eyes full of hopeful question, he completely forgot it was there.
“I
’m having dinner with an old friend,” he’d answered, omitting the fact that he had two hours to kill before they were due to meet.
“Oh, fun,” she replied, and he’d had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling at her poor attempt to fake some enthusiasm. “No time to stick around for a drink in the bar, then? Nonalcoholic of course.”
“Not this time. Remember, I have my spies—I’ll know if so much as a mouthful of beer passes those lips.”
He regretted those words before he’d finished saying them, as the image of her soft lips pressing against the cool rim of a bottle and the hoppy liquid swirling over her small pink tongue hardened him so instantly he nearly gasped. Thankfully Regan didn’t notice, and as he felt her gaze lingering on his back as he’d hobbled out of the room, his confidence in his ability to restrain himself until the Baron’s took a serious knock.
He could keep his hands to himself for six weeks, couldn’t he?
Now, as she glided beside him over the gently rolling sidewalk running along the perimeter of the golf course, he was grimly reminded that her allure was unlike anything he’d experienced before. There had been times during the past week that he’d been thankful for the frustrating decline in her performance, because being annoyed with her made it that tiny bit easier not to give in to his impulse to pull her to the rubberized court surface, drag down her formfitting shorts and slip his fingers between her legs until she cried out in ecstasy.
But it wasn’t simply the physical attraction, which he was sure he shared with tens of thousands of teenage boys who used photos of her as their computer desktop backgrounds. Now that he’d met the sensitive, delicate woman beneath the fierce attitude, he was so curious and intrigued that he struggled to focus on anything else.
She was the one thing he shouldn’t think about—yet he couldn’t get her out of his mind. And if he couldn’t pull himself together, it was going to cost him his job.
Love in Straight Sets Page 8