Love in Straight Sets

by Rebecca Crowley

  “Oh.” She colored slightly, and Ben instantly regretted his dry remark. “Well, that must help. I guess hanging out with so many professional athletes skews my perception of the place.”

  “Like Spencer Vaughan?”

  Regan snapped to attention as he cringed so hard he worried his face might fall through his neck. Stupid beers. He hardly ever drank and they’d clearly loosened his tongue more than he thought. He put the champagne flute back in the cup holder, reminding himself there was a long night ahead.

  “What about him?”

  He shrugged. “I ran into him at the panel on Monday. You two were together at one point, right?”

  “Dating Spencer Vaughan is like a rite of passage for the women’s game.” She waved a dismissive hand. “He’s an okay guy. He’ll be there tonight, with Tanya.”

  Ben tightened his fingers on his knee. An okay guy? He blinked against a memory so old it was starting to blur at the edges, of Spencer pressing a glass of whiskey into his hand at a post-tournament reception in Berlin, slapping him on the back and recounting his latest sexual exploits in lurid, gory detail. At the time Ben was a shy, awkward and decidedly virginal teenager squinting in the bright lights of life beyond his sheltered upbringing. While his fellow players guffawed and joined in, he’d recoiled at their tales of plucking and discarding their female counterparts like broken racket strings.

  The mere thought of Spencer’s hands raking over Regan’s young, unsuspecting body had him reaching for the champagne again, as though it might put out the hot anger prickling over his skin.

  She watched him as he took a sip. “I take it you know Spencer?”

  “I do.”

  “Not a fan?”

  “We’re very different people.”

  “I noticed.” She tilted her head. “I didn’t know you had a dog. Was he a racing greyhound?”

  He nodded. “He’s retired now. Like me.”

  She smiled as if something had just occurred to her. “Hang on. Don’t tell me he’s named after—”

  “Boris Becker? The master of serve and volley? Of course he is.”

  She rolled her eyes playfully. “And do you make him run with you, like you made me run yesterday?”

  “Sometimes. But he’d rather chase birds in the park than trot along on a leash.”

  “I know how he feels,” she murmured, turning to look out the window.

  Ben frowned. Something in the lilt of her voice and the weight of her expression told him that was more than a joking dig at his totalitarian training methods. Was she talking about the rigidities of professional sports? The expectations of her fans? Or a wish to escape her own sometimes uncontrollable emotions?

  They were all fair desires—and he had personal experience of each one.

  He was on the brink of saying as much when she announced, “We’re here.”

  He tugged on the collar that was suddenly tighter than ever as the Bentley slowed to a crawl. The Wykeham was an old, stately hotel on the Palm Beach seafront, and it loomed elegantly against the setting sun. No red carpet obscured the long brick walkway that led from the street to the entrance, however, there might as well have been given the hordes of camera-wielding fans and journalists lining either side. He hadn’t faced this much public attention since he was a player, and the waving arms and flashing bulbs were like a hand closing on his shirtfront and yanking him ten years into the past.

  “I didn’t realize there would be so much press,” he said dumbly, his throat dry.

  “Don’t worry,” Regan chirped, snapping a compact mirror shut after giving her hair one last fluff. “We’ll be inside in five minutes.”

  As the driver lined up his door with the trio of security guards holding clipboards, Ben felt as though he was staring down a tunnel to the long-ago days he constantly fought to forget. Painful, stabbing flares of his old life ran like ticker tape through his mind.

  Three teenage girls accosting him in the Berlin airport, squealing and begging for his autograph. Seeing his name engraved on the side of the Baron’s Open trophy and holding it aloft to a cheering crowd. Waking up in a Los Angeles hotel room to find that his credit card had been declined and his father was gone. Raising his right hand at his American naturalization ceremony, his happiness at finding a new home undermined by the anguish of permanently losing his old one. Deeply buried emotions wrenched free and bubbled up until his head swam with them: the humiliation of his father’s betrayal, the terror of financial free fall, the restless isolation of displacement and, above all the hammering, the unrelenting guilt of tearing his family apart.

  He stared out the window at the crowds, but all he could see was the naive, foolish boy who never realized he meant less to his own father than a string of zeros in a bank account until it was too late.

  “Go on,” Regan urged at his side, dragging him back to the present with her encouraging smile. “You’ll be fine.”

  With his ears ringing, his chest tight and his limbs so numb, he moved as if through thick mud. Ben gripped the handle, sucked in a breath, pulled to release the catch and swung open the door.

  The flashbulbs exploded like blinding, cacophonous, never-ending fireworks.

  * * *

  Regan’s heart fluttered with excitement as she slid across the leather seat. She loved moments like this—moments when all eyes turned on her and she got to bask in her own triumph. It was like standing on the winner’s podium, relishing a hard-won victory.

  Whenever she made her way past the flashing bulbs in designer gowns, professional makeup and hairstyles that took hours to perfect, she thought about the clique of country-club girls on her high school tennis team who mercilessly mocked the off-brand shoes, freebie T-shirts and thrift-store rackets that bore testament to her parents’ low incomes. How did they feel when they saw her on television, grinning through post-match interviews and signing autographs for the ball girls, or lighting up the society pages in the Floridian papers? They probably grumbled and made a big show about changing the channel or turning the page—and then let their hands hover over the remote control just one second longer, taking a candid minute to rethink the assumptions they made about her all those years ago.

  Maybe it was stupid to devote so much energy to proving other people wrong—especially people she hadn’t seen in years and wasn’t likely to see ever again. But as petty as it was, moving on was easier said than done

  She grabbed her clutch and looked up at the open door, ready to face her adoring public, but the smile slid from her lips when she saw Ben’s stricken expression.

  “Let’s get this over with,” he pressed, extending his arm to help her out of the car. The color had drained from his face, and his grim expression was more suitable for a firing squad than a row of reporters.

  Guilt sliced through her stomach like a cold blade. She was so thrilled by the idea of being escorted into her fabulous party by her devastatingly handsome new coach that she hadn’t thought about Ben’s reaction. Was he worried the press would add two and two to make five and that tomorrow he’d be on the phone to everyone he knew insisting they weren’t romantically linked? Her cheeks burned at the image of him rolling his eyes as he repeated that their relationship was strictly professional.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered, anxiety flaring in her chest as she pulled on his hand to bring him in close. “We’ll make this quick.”

  He snatched his hand out of her grip and moved it to the small of her back, propelling her forward without meeting her eyes.

  A photographer called her name and she willed her mouth into a smile, when in fact her stomach felt full of lead and her lower lip threatened to quiver. Maybe on some level she’d known that Ben’s sexy good looks and intriguing backstory would prompt some inches of speculation in tomorrow’s gossip columns. With the Tallahassee Invitational only two
weeks away and the Baron’s Open hot on its heels, maybe subconsciously she’d wanted a reason to push her way to the fronts of the minds of the sportswriters.

  And she’d gotten it, if the hungry expressions on the photographers were any indication. But at what price?

  She bit back tears as they shuffled toward the entrance. She always managed to screw things up like this, to make decisions without thinking through the consequences, to be so self-centered and insensitive that she hurt the people she cared about most.

  Right now Ben was at the top of that list, she realized with a sinking feeling. And as of this moment, she was probably at the very bottom of his.

  Ben ushered her down the walkway faster than she would’ve liked, but she was in no position to complain. Tension practically rolled off him in waves. His free hand was fisted at his side, and he clenched his jaw so hard she worried he’d put cracks in his teeth. He didn’t speak or make any acknowledgement of the reporters and fans shouting his name, until a lanky frat-boy type who probably still used a fake ID leaned over the metal barrier and wolf whistled to get her attention.

  “Regan, baby, you’re the hottest piece of ass on the court! Come home with me, honey. I’ll show you how the game is played.”

  Ben’s lunge toward him was so quick—and the bouncers’ response even quicker—that she barely had time to seize his elbow and pull him to her side before the offender was dragged away by security, muttering slurred protests as he went.

  Ben practically seethed in her grip. “Did you hear what he said?”

  “Ignore it, it happens all the time. Look, we’re nearly inside.”

  It only took three more steps to transport them from the frenetic din outside the hotel to the cool quiet of the grand, marble-floored lobby. Regan gathered the party was already in full swing from the bursts of noisy laughter and music every time the double doors to the ballroom swung open and closed. Her PR manager was beelining in her direction, and she held up a stalling hand as she turned to her coach.

  “Are you okay? You look like you could happily throttle someone.”

  “What the hell was that?” he demanded furiously, his hushed tone the only remnant of his usual demeanor. “I thought I was just catching a ride with you, not starring in your latest publicity strategy.”

  She winced. “I should’ve warned you. I’m sorry.”

  “Damn right you should have. What were you thinking?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t always understand why I do what I do—or don’t do. There’s no strategy, I promise, I was just being stupid and callous not to give you the full picture and I’m really sorry.” She flapped her hands uselessly, growing frantic as panic swelled in her stomach. “Please don’t be mad, I want you to stay and have a nice time. I swear I didn’t—”

  “Okay, enough.” He scrubbed a hand over his forehead before flashing a weary, unconvincing smile. “You made a mistake and I’m overreacting. I’m a little rusty at the press onslaught, apparently.” He sighed heavily. “I spent so long fighting to reclaim my privacy, I guess I forgot that sometimes it’s essential.”

  “Believe me when I tell you this wasn’t a calculated ploy. Sometimes I can be a total idiot, that’s all.”

  He offered a weak half smile. “Can I have that last part in writing?”

  He raised his hand in a dismissive gesture, but before he could close the conversation she continued, “I appreciate your sticking up for me, with that guy outside. I’m used to that kind of thing. You probably never experienced it as a male athlete, but people feel at liberty to make all kinds of comments to women players at this level.”

  He dropped his hand and fixed her with a searching gaze. “Really? You get that a lot?”

  She shrugged. “You know how it is with women’s sports. On one hand we’re supposed to be inspiring generations of young girls, but on the other, the prize money is so low that we have to sell our souls to our sponsors. Except the fancy watch and car companies all want to sponsor the male players, and the only ones interested in the women either want us to hawk beauty products or take off our clothes and pose for a magazine.”

  “Don’t ever do that.”

  “I don’t plan on it.” She quirked a smile. “I’m just saying that although most of the time I can take care of myself, I can always use a little backup.”

  His expression softened and she took a hesitant step forward, instinctively reaching for his hand but stopping herself at the last minute. We’re not on those terms. “I have to start mingling before Des gets eaten alive by everyone asking where I am. Let me buy you a drink?”

  “It’s an open bar. That you’re paying for.”

  “Exactly.” She nodded toward the door. “Come on, Coach, what do you say?”

  Ben glanced at the window, at the floor, at his cuffs—everywhere but at her.

  “You have a lot of people to meet and greet,” he said, finally raising his eyes to hers. “I’ll find you later on, okay?”

  “Definitely,” she replied with a cheeriness so fragile she thought the words might shatter as soon as they left her mouth. “Have fun, and I’ll see you later.”

  Then she turned and left the cloakroom, her steps as heavy and reluctant as if she was dragging an anvil into the party she’d planned for months and now desperately wanted to leave.

  Chapter Seven

  The evening was a complete success, yet Regan moved through it feeling like a failure. The flattery and congratulations she usually lapped up sounded hollow in her ears, the specially crafted hors d’oeuvres tasted like stale bread and the gourmet cocktails that were a rare treat this close to a tournament might as well have been lukewarm tap water.

  She drifted from person to person, less because it was a hostess’s responsibility to mingle than because she struggled to stay engaged in any one conversation. She barely had a second to say hello to the rowdy Jacksonville crew of her parents, brother and hometown friends before Des dragged her off to be introduced to another business contact. She constantly found herself searching for someone over her companion’s shoulder, straining to catch the swish of her mother’s last-season floral skirt, or the flash of white sock beneath her father’s chronically too-short trousers, or the black jacket seams so taut they practically creaked as they stretched across Ben’s broad shoulders.

  But she was chasing ghosts. Her parents were right where she left them, ordering cocktails, laughing with her high school friends and enjoying the luxury of the evening with an unabashed vim Regan wasn’t sure she’d ever possessed. And despite several people asking after him, she hadn’t seen Ben since they arrived. He was probably in a taxi on the way back to his unassuming house in Jupiter, mentally composing the resignation she’d tried so hard to instigate yet now would do anything to avoid.

  When her small talk with the founder of a highly profitable wealth management company flagged and Des remained distracted with a Miami city official, she took the opportunity to excuse herself and slip from the ballroom.

  This was her chance to sidle back to the sea-facing bar packed with her friends and family, to join in with their jokey banter and act as though she didn’t belong to this upscale world any more than they did. But that felt hollow, false and no less inauthentic than the polished schmoozing she’d be running away from.

  Instead she mounted a set of lushly carpeted stairs, rising beyond the party that had grown to encompass the entire ground floor. There was a heavy trudge to her step as she curled her hand into a fist so tight her nails dug into her palm, steeling herself against the hot yet irrational sorrow flooding through her as she made her way down the empty corridor.

  She pushed open a set of double doors and stepped onto a balcony, which offered a view of the hotel’s pool, the path to its private beach and the gently crashing ocean waves beyond. The hotel was set far enough back from the ocean for
the breeze to be gentle, yet close enough for it to still carry a salty tang and the distant sound of the waves.

  Though she was a native Floridian, growing up on the northwest side of Jacksonville and going to college in Gainesville meant the ocean hadn’t become a permanent fixture in her life until adulthood. Even now, despite living a fifteen-minute drive from her gated community’s private beachfront club, she only made it down there three or four times a year. The whole experience was too far out of her comfort zone. Too unpredictable, too wild. More often than not she decided to stick with the temperature-controlled, professionally cleaned, meticulously chlorinated pool in her own backyard.

  Yet as she watched the waves crash in uneven, jagged arcs of foam, an unfamiliar longing tugged inside her chest. She didn’t want to go back inside to check her hair, freshen her makeup and straighten her dress. She didn’t want to return to the crowd gathered in her honor, to smile and nod and make charming but neutral remarks about the state of the local economy or her hopes for the Grand Slam season. She didn’t want to see her parents grinning their pride, so endlessly supportive yet innocently oblivious to the realities of her everyday life.

  She wanted to toss her shoes behind one of the hotel’s immaculately trimmed hedges, yank off her dress and dive into the ocean headfirst, losing herself in the quiet beneath the waves and then breaking the surface with salt on her lips and wet sand beneath her toes, treading water in the dark without a check-writing sponsor or a multicolored cocktail in sight.

  “Hello, birthday girl. I’ve been looking for you.”

  Even if the accent didn’t give him away, Regan would know that aftershave anywhere.

  “How did you find me?” she asked as Ben joined her at the railing, his presence so big and warm that it banished every inch of the isolation she’d felt so palpably only seconds earlier. “I thought this was an ironclad hiding place.”

  “It is for the rest of your guests. But I was standing there—” he pointed to a spot near the pool, “—and I saw you. Bright blue dress and diamonds in moonlight, shining like a beacon.”