Love in Straight Sets

by Rebecca Crowley

  “I’m her coach, not her therapist,” he said finally. “It’s not my place.”

  Des looked at him for a long, uncomfortable minute. He said nothing, but he didn’t need to. Ben could read the accusations all over the Scot’s face.

  Finally Des shook his head and started in the direction of the staircase. Ben continued his path to the door, wondering if he’d still have a job on Monday—and whether he even wanted it.

  Chapter Eight

  “That’s match point,” Ben announced as Regan delivered a devastatingly perfect serve Catharina had no hope of returning. “Nice work today, ladies. I’ll take these rackets for restringing. You two hit the showers.”

  Catharina reached him first, passing over her racket in her characteristically efficient, businesslike manner. “See you tomorrow.” She gathered her bag and headed toward the clubhouse.

  Regan approached him more slowly, and his stomach tightened as he watched her cross the court, the late afternoon sun illuminating a range of caramels and milk chocolates and equally decadent shades in her fudge-colored hair. She’d been unusually sedate since the incident at the party—the incident they had yet to acknowledge since he’d stormed off the balcony. Now, as she strolled up to him with a casualness he knew was put on, he was afraid his few days’ reprieve was over. Time to face up to what had passed between them.

  At the end of his sleepless weekend, it was the money that propelled him into his car and down the road toward the gated community on Monday morning. It could be his only chance to bring over his sister, and he owed it to her to shove his still-simmering, lustful impulses to the back of his mind and do his job. He had no idea how Regan managed to keep Des in the dark about their encounter, but given the manager hadn’t said anything, he had to assume the Scot didn’t know.

  Of course, that made his daily catch-ups with Des almost unbearable. He was sure he saw suspicion in the man’s eyes whenever they spoke, and their interactions had taken on a strange new dynamic, as if Des was constantly trying to catch him out or press him to say something he shouldn’t. Every time Ben gave his brief training report he couldn’t stop thinking that if the manager knew how he’d lost his grip and given in to his howling urges, how he’d shamelessly shoved his tongue in Regan’s mouth and palmed her breast, that if Spencer hadn’t come along Ben almost certainly would’ve shoved that tight dress up over her hips, hauled down whatever silky scrap of cloth she wore beneath and—

  “That phrase sounds so funny when you say it.” Regan had stopped in front of him, wearing a smile as sudden and unexpected as a midsummer cloudburst and even more refreshing. “Like it’s a threat instead of a dismissal. I think it’s the accent. Hit the showahs,” she mimicked, pitching her voice low and dissolving into giggles on the last syllable.

  “I don’t sound like that,” he scoffed, yet unable to stop the answering smile that tugged at the corners of his mouth. They stared at each other in easy camaraderie for a minute, the hostilities and complications of the previous four weeks apparently forgotten, until without warning she dropped her eyes to the court and drew a shaky breath.

  “About Saturday night—”

  “We don’t have to talk about it. You’re playing really well this week, that’s all that matters.”

  She shook her head. “You were right that evening, when you said I needed to lean on my instincts and trust you with the technicalities. In fact, you’re always right. It’s extremely irritating.”

  “Sorry.”

  “You should be.” The playful smile she flashed him disappeared as quickly as it emerged. “We both got carried away on Saturday. We spend a lot of time together, in intense circumstances, and we let the champagne and party atmosphere go to our heads. Would you agree?”

  Not in the slightest. You’re gorgeous and exciting and I’d do it all over again, anytime.

  Ben forced a nod.

  “Good.” She exhaled with a relief that was like a knife through his heart. “I know I don’t always act like it, but I do enjoy working with you, and I would hate for that to be compromised by a stupid, momentary, drunken lapse in judgment.”

  Except it couldn’t have felt more right at the time. And it lasted a lot longer than a moment. And he’d been stone-cold sober.

  And he couldn’t stop thinking about wanting more.

  “Yeah,” he managed dumbly, aware his silence was stretching on too long but unable to come up with anything more clever.

  “I’ve never made much time for relationships,” she admitted, shifting her weight. “It’s easy to ignore that side of life when you’re a professional athlete. But I promised myself that this would be my big finale year, when I finally win the Baron’s and retire at the top. Then I can shift gears and think about love and marriage and kids and all that stuff my peers have been doing for years.” She glanced up at him, her smile small and sheepish. “I guess I’m saying there’s a lot at stake, and I don’t want to mess anything up.”

  He nodded again, unable to produce any other response. She wanted him to carry on coaching her because he was good at it, good enough to get her to the win that would free her to find someone to love.

  Someone who wasn’t him.

  He pulled his hat down lower over his eyes as all his suspicions from that night were confirmed. Her words echoed in his brain. I enjoy working with you. Sure, he’d looked all right in his tux, drinking champagne in a luxury hotel. But in the cold light of day he was just another one of the hired hands that orbited her career, on par with her stylist, her masseuse and the guy who cleaned her pool.

  He’d forgotten the first rule of coaching: know your place. And he had no one to blame but himself.

  “How did things finish with Spencer?” he asked, despite not really wanting to know the answer.

  “With about as much ribbing as you’d expect.” She rolled her eyes, and Ben narrowed his own. What was the appropriate degree of mockery for the heinous crime of kissing your lowly coach? “Don’t worry, I can handle him.”

  He kept his skeptical mouth shut as she indicated the several rackets that had accumulated in his restringing pile. “I’ll help you carry these in.”

  “Thanks. I think Pete’s left for the day.” He passed Regan two of the rackets. “But we can leave these for him to get on with tomorrow.”

  They fell into step as they traversed the grid of outdoor courts, passing matches that ranged from long-retired, affluent businessmen playing jocular doubles to fiercely ambitious teenagers firing hotheaded serves into the net. The otherwise quiet afternoon was punctuated by the pock of balls hitting rackets, the squeak of shoes on the court and the occasional clatter of an overeager shot crashing into the chain link fences. It was peaceful and familiar, and as they walked side by side Ben regretted more than ever that life hadn’t thrust them together under different circumstances. They would always be on opposite sides of the net, bound to face each other yet held apart.

  “It’s working, you know,” she murmured as they crossed the threshold into the immaculate, air-conditioned clubhouse. “Your training.”

  He shrugged, kneeing open the door to the stringing room. The lights were off inside, and with their hands full of rackets and gear, neither of them reached for the switch as they shuffled into the small, windowless room. “Don’t get complacent because you’ve had a good week. There’s still a lot of work to do before London.”

  “That’s not what I meant.” Regan edged around the two waist-high stringing machines, one of which had an empty racket frame mounted in the clamp. “You should’ve seen your predecessors—I chewed them up and spat them out. But you’ve stuck it out, and I’m glad. I know I can be difficult.”

  “Running a marathon is difficult.” He snorted, propping his batch of rackets against the wall and digging on the small desk for a Post-it note. “You’re a brick wall.”
<
br />   “I was,” she corrected, joining him beside the desk. “But you broke through. So just promise me you won’t quit, okay?”

  He spun, astonished, to find her eyes big and pleading. “Quit?” He shook his head. “I’m not going to quit. I told you—”

  She flung her arms around his neck, squeezing tightly, as if trying to keep him in that spot forever. Bewildered, stunned, but not in a hurry to let her go, Ben let his hands settle on her waist. Her chest expanded against his, and he sensed that she was about to speak again. She pulled back just enough to look up at him.

  Her cheeks were flushed with exertion, her eyes were bright and shining, and her hair escaped from her high ponytail in messy strands that framed her face. His heart faltered and then raced. Within seconds a rushing that sounded like the ocean in a squall echoed in his ears, building to a crescendo until every logical, reasonable, self-restraining thought was drowned out by the throbbing, pounding waves of pure desire.

  And then his mouth came down on hers, as fast and sure as his legendary serve.

  * * *

  Oh God, yes. Regan melted against Ben’s hard body, losing herself in the softness of his lips, the adamant push of his tongue, the smooth row of teeth that clacked against hers as they devoured each other.

  This was what she’d imagined every night since her birthday party, lying alone in her huge bed in the absolute silence of her enormous, empty house. It was Ben’s face in her mind as she slipped her hand between her legs, his dexterous fingers making the tantalizing motions that her own did, his mouth she tasted as she ran her tongue along her lips, and it was his rakish, playfully chiding expression dancing before her eyes as she jerked and shook with the force of her orgasm.

  This was what she wanted—and the last thing she needed. Her career was at its peak and she had no room to concentrate on anything else. If she was going to waste any of her precious time on a man, she needed the piggybacking publicity of a big player with sponsorships that could feed her own, not some no-name coach with beautiful eyes and skillful hands, and—oh, his teeth were closing on her earlobe, nipping lightly. She didn’t care about anything except touching and tasting as much of him as she could, as quickly as possible.

  She gripped the brim of his ever-present UCLA ball cap and yanked it up and off, running her hands through the disheveled hair underneath. Ben’s mouth had moved from her ear to her jawbone and was commencing a journey down her neck, which she angled and stretched to give him better access. Her eyes fell shut as his lips blazed a simmering trail down her flushed skin. He smelled so good, like sunshine the morning after a night of thunderstorms. The hot solidity of his chest and arms beneath the T-shirt that was worn to inviting softness made her ache with longing to discover whether the rest of him was equally as hard.

  As he bared his teeth against her collarbone, Ben raised his hand to cup her shoulder and shoved his thumb beneath the layered straps of her synthetic-fiber tank top and sports bra.

  Her eyes snapped open at his touch, at the welcome press of his hand against her bare flesh, and she was overtaken by a renewed urgency that had her clenching her fingers in his hair. Ben lifted his head to look at her, laying his palm along her cheek. As she stared into eyes that glowed green despite the shadowed darkness of the unlit room, her breath surged on the crest of a swelling desire that was unnerving in its sudden strength. She clamped her hands on his shoulders and—without fully knowing exactly what she meant, and caring even less—she nodded.

  In one smooth movement Ben hoisted her onto the flat edge of the restringing machine, which teetered and creaked under her weight until she tightened steadying arms around his neck.

  “It’s okay, I’ve got you,” he assured her as the machine stabilized on its stand and his hands moved to her waist.

  His words triggered something in her memory. Had she heard him say that before?

  Of course she had—outside the elevator in the Miami hotel, as she’d hovered between dizzy panic and creeping unconsciousness. He’d seen her at her worst then, yet he was still here, still waiting for her every morning, still spending each day calmly ignoring her complaints, still bidding her a cheerful farewell when the long afternoons ended and they parted at the clubhouse door. And now, as his fingers slipped beneath the bottom of her tank top to stroke tantalizing promises up her spine, he was offering her even more.

  She didn’t know what she’d done to deserve this—and wasn’t sure she wanted to, in case she found she had a balance still to pay.

  “Hey,” Ben murmured, the tips of his thumbs brushing the edge of the spandex bra she wished wasn’t so tight. “I can practically smell your mental gears grinding. Stay with me. Be here.”

  “I am.” But it was a lie. A wave of anxious self-doubt reared up and crashed over her, extinguishing her bright, confident flame of lust and leaving behind a smoldering mess of worry, unease and apprehension. What if there was a price to all this? Surrendering to their impulses was reckless and irresponsible, and it would surely cost them both. How could it not? He was her coach, for God’s sake, and the best one she’d ever had. Adding this volatile dimension to their relationship put her whole career at risk, her whole life, everything she’d worked for since she was a teenager.

  And what about Ben? What was at stake for him?

  What, like trying to date the crazy woman he’s also supposed to be coaching isn’t enough?

  “Regan.” Ben’s firm command was emphasized by a slight shake that dragged her back to the present. “Don’t look at me like that.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like I’m a puzzle you can solve if you think about it hard enough. There’s no mystery here. Just me, the guy who makes you run laps, who thinks you’re beautiful and really enjoyed kissing you a second ago. See?” He pressed her palms against his chest, covering her hands with his own. “It’s all here.”

  The pleading note in his voice turned the key in the last lock on Regan’s desire. Ben was so good. Too good. She realized now that this wasn’t about what she wanted, it was about what he deserved.

  “This was a mistake.” She slipped her hands out of his grasp, doing her best—which was pretty terrible—to ignore the pain that tugged at her heart at the broken contact. “We both know it. We said as much on the walk over here.”

  “There’s no champagne now. No party. What do you want to blame it on this time?”

  She couldn’t look at the accusatory anger in his eyes. “Don’t make this harder than it already is.”

  “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.”