He shook his head in disgust. The Baron’s Open was less than a month away. Regan would’ve won, then she would’ve retired, he’d move on to his next client, and they could’ve tried a relationship on for size without worrying about the complex intersection of their professional roles.
But he’d been greedy. Moonlight and champagne, a silky lock of hair and an inch of tanned skin, and what had it gotten him? A drunken fumble in a stinking alley and the loss of the best job he’d ever had—not to mention the best girl he’d ever had.
Might’ve had.
He hauled himself up from the table with a wrenching sigh and began to toss clothes and toiletries into his duffel bag. He had no idea what he was going to do—his rental car was still parked at the bar downtown and his flight back to Miami wasn’t until tomorrow. He was out of work, out of money and out of chances.
There was no line judge to argue with, no umpire to appeal to, no Hawk-Eye cameras to prove the shot was good. This was it—this was his life, and he was defeated.
* * *
“Interesting.” Regan dragged out the word, attempting to buy time while she frantically tried to think up a question to ask her brother’s latest girlfriend about the candle party business she’d just spent ten minutes explaining. “So you go to people’s houses and they try all different candles?”
“Exactly. And then they place their order with me.” Cheri gave her the warm, unpretentious smile that made Regan really want to like her. “I don’t get down south much, but if you wanted to throw a party at your house I could definitely make the trip. I bet all your sporty friends have beautiful homes down there. You must need to restock your decor accents all the time.”
Regan was about to reply that she paid an interior decorator to think about that kind of thing so she didn’t have to, then bit her tongue. She wasn’t at a players’ reception in a luxury hotel now—she was in her parents’ backyard in Jacksonville, balancing a paper plate on her knee while her dad flipped burgers on the grill.
“That would be great,” she fibbed. Then in an effort to divert Cheri from trying to set a date for the candle party that would never happen, she asked, “What’s your bestselling scent?”
“African Morning. Apparently the wax contains floral oils imported straight from the Kalahari.”
I should buy one for Ben, Regan thought with a smirk. I bet he’d get a kick out of—
But Ben was gone. And he wasn’t coming back.
The grief that had been ebbing and flowing in breathtaking waves ever since Des sat her down in the hotel restaurant to tell her Ben had quit reared up again, wiping the smile from her face and filling her ears with a numb buzz that drowned out the happy, contented chatter of the barbecue. Cheri’s lips were moving but Regan couldn’t hear anything over the droning in her brain and the unsteady beat of her heart.
She cast a quick glance across the backyard. Des was standing against the fence, gesticulating as he spoke rapidly into his phone. Her dad was turning a patty, laughing with a couple of his fishing buddies. Her mom was bouncing her high school friend’s baby on her lap, and her brother Eddie was shaking his head at her cousin’s recap of a disappointing basketball game. They were all here to celebrate her victory and wish her luck for the Baron’s—and she couldn’t bear it for one more minute.
“Hold that thought,” she interjected, and Cheri abruptly stopped speaking. “I’ll be right back. I—uh—I left my lip gloss upstairs.”
Good God, that was lame, but Cheri bought it, and after exchanging knowing nods Regan slipped through the open door on the screened porch, past the sagging sofa and big-screen television in the sitting room, and charged up the stairs to the childhood bedroom that the window air-conditioning unit never quite managed to keep cool. She shut the door hard enough to make the trophies rattle on the shelf her dad put up, flopped onto the seahorse-print sheet set, pulled her pillow into her lap and gave herself over to the hoarse, hiccupping tears that had been threatening all day.
She couldn’t believe Ben would just up and quit like that, with no warning and no goodbye. After all they’d been through, after everything they said, that he would simply vanish was so far outside her expectation she had no idea how to begin to deal with it.
Des said it was about the money, that since her win Ben had been getting a lot of poaching offers from other competitors and wanted an extortionate sum to stay. Des quoted a figure when she asked, but she knew the blank look she gave him in response only emphasized how far removed she was from the day-to-day accounting of her career. He assured her it was exorbitant and unaffordable, and she didn’t have much choice but to believe him.
Still, it was so at odds with Ben’s character that she suspected it was his red herring. There had to be another reason for his departure, one that he couldn’t bring himself to articulate to her manager.
They’d come so close to crossing the ultimate professional boundary. And now he was running scared.
I pushed him too far, too fast, she thought miserably, choking on a fresh flood of tears. He thought he’d do the honorable thing and disappear before it was too late, rather than sink both of our careers when it all went wrong.
Her brother’s hearty laugh drifted up through the window, accompanied by the summery smell of grill smoke. She shook her head. How could she ever hope to have the simple, easy happiness everyone else managed to acquire when she couldn’t even hang on to the guy who was paid to stick around? This was why she’d kept to her low-expectation, no-risk pseudo-relationships for so long—nothing wagered, nothing lost.
And they never hurt like this.
A light rap on her door had her swiping at her wet cheeks and calling weakly, “Yes?”
“Honey, it’s Mom. Can I come in?”
“I guess.”
Joyce’s diminutive stature looked even smaller in her typically ill-advised three-quarter-length trousers and baggy blouse, but her expression was full of the motherly compassion that had always been there for Regan. She patted the bedspread and her mom sat down beside her, reaching over to rub her back.
“It’s Ben, isn’t it? Des told us he demanded more money.”
“He may have said that was the reason, but—” Regan drew a bracing breath, “—I think he was trying not to embarrass me. Things have been complicated between us lately and I think he just had enough.”
Joyce nodded, clearly trying to give this new angle the consideration it deserved. “I have to say, I was surprised to hear he’d gone. We met him at your birthday party and he seemed like the best one yet, so friendly and polite.” She turned gentle eyes on her daughter. “Do you want to elaborate on ‘complicated?’”
Regan felt a hot flush rise in her cheeks.
Her mother said simply, “He is very handsome.” A minute passed in colluding silence. Finally Joyce ventured, “I know you always chide me for being overoptimistic, but I wouldn’t be surprised if we haven’t heard the last of Ben Percy. He doesn’t strike me as the runaway type, and I wonder if there isn’t something else going on with him that will make sense in time.”
Regan rolled her eyes. “You don’t get it, Mom. He walked out. He didn’t want to talk things through, didn’t want to see how it went at the Baron’s, nothing—he just quit. And he’s not coming back.”
“Maybe he is and maybe he isn’t. Either way, you can’t afford to worry about that right now. You’ve got everything ahead of you and no time to look back. I know it’s hard.” She resumed rubbing comforting circles down Regan’s spine. “But you’ve got to stay focused. We’re all pulling for you, and you can’t let one guy with a cute accent get you down.”
“Cute?” She wrinkled her nose. “Mom, ew.”
Joyce laughed, flinging her arm around Regan’s shoulders. “Cheer up, my girl. It’ll all work out in the end, I promise. Now, are you ready to head back downst
airs? Dad’s got a burger with your name on it.”
Regan sniffed, as always unable to stay too downhearted in the face of her mother’s perpetual optimism. As she nodded and rose to follow her outside, the anguish of Ben’s departure was still there—except now it was tempered by a dangerous thread of hope.
Chapter Eleven
“Thanks, Des. See you tomorrow.”
Regan shut the front door behind her manager, the final person to leave the evening’s predeparture powwow, and pressed her back against the dense wood before sliding to the tiled floor. She pulled her legs tightly to her chest, wrapped her arms around her calves and rested her face against her knees.
In less than twenty-four hours she’d be boarding a plane to London for the Baron’s Open. And she was a complete wreck.
The past few weeks had been some of the worst of her career. Her faith in Ben’s return seemed to have an inverse relationship with her performance on the court—the less she believed she’d see him again, the more erratic and sloppy her playing became. Coupled with the equally unexpected resignation of her sparring partner and the rigid, old-fashioned techniques of the new coach Des hired, she felt less ready to face a Grand Slam tournament than she had in years. But in a little over two days’ time, she’d have to do exactly that.
She squeezed her eyes shut against the denim of her jeans, trying in vain to quell the tightness in her stomach, the shortness of her breaths. It wasn’t supposed to happen this way. The past three weeks should’ve been full of long morning runs, challenging sparring matches and the confidence that she was finally going to take a Grand Slam title, proving once and for all that she was the best. They should’ve been full of lingering kisses, sultry expressions, hungry caresses and a set of arms she would run into when the umpire finally announced her victory.
They should’ve been full of Ben.
But he was gone, and no amount of phone checking or email refreshing or mentally replaying every moment they’d spent together to find an explanation for his disappearance had brought him back.
No days left in the countdown now—this was it. The flights were booked, the bags were packed and it was time to come to terms with the fact that when she walked out on the court to play her first round of the Baron’s Open, he wouldn’t be watching.
What must have been her hundredth set of tears for the day prickled in her eyes, and she sniffed furiously.
“Dry up,” she told herself, but her voice wavered despite the fighting words. She pinched the bridge of her nose, willing her emotions back under control even as the first tear slipped out to blaze a salty trail down her cheek.
The doorbell sounded, and she was sitting so close to the chime that it was loud enough to make her jump. In her scramble to her feet she nearly knocked over the antique vase the interior decorator had insisted made a great place to stash umbrellas, and she steadied it with one hand as she ran the back of the other across her eyes. Assuming Des had returned with a forgotten administrative detail, she put on her best affectionately chiding smile and opened the door.
And looked up.
“Jesus Christ,” she gasped, slapping her palm against her sternum.
“I usually prefer Ben, but we can go with Jesus if it makes you more comfortable.”
Regan’s knees threatened to give way as she looked him up and down, not quite believing what she saw. Was this a cruel trick of her already overheated brain?
She took in his easy posture, his deceptively big frame, his lazy smile, his well-worn sneakers and his stupid UCLA baseball cap. It was him all right—and even as her head prepared to do battle, her disloyal heart fluttered with excitement and relief.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing, turning up on my doorstep after almost a month of silence?” she demanded, hands on hips. “You left me flat, no warning, no explanation, nothing. Why shouldn’t I call the police right now and have you arrested for trespassing? How did you get in here, anyway? I had the front gate revoke your security pass, since you never came by to give it back.”
Her voice rose in pitch and tempo and sounded increasingly hysterical to her own ears, so she bit her lip, narrowing her eyes to show him she meant business as she waited for his response.
“Show me your wrist.”
“What? No.” A warm flush crept into her face as she crossed her forearms behind her back.
“I’ll explain it all, but first I want to see your wrist.”
He reached for her and she angled her body to deny his view, but he feinted and in the next second he’d grabbed her arm and was shaking his head at the bright red, occasionally raised welts left by a week of constantly snapping the rubber band.
She snatched her hand away and hid it behind her back. “You have no right to touch me.”
“I know.” His voice was gentle, contrite. “I want to tell you everything, and I will, but not yet. Right now I want to take you somewhere.”
He held up his palms to stop the outraged rebuttal she was already opening her mouth to deliver. “You have every reason in the world to say no, to tell me where to get off and to slam this door in my face. I’m well aware. And I’m asking you to trust me instead.”
Regan peered up at him, her thoughts flying a mile a minute as she worked through this totally unexpected scenario. She knew she should be mad at Ben, furious even. Hadn’t Des implied as much at least twenty times since they got back from Tallahassee? She’d spent hours trying to conjure a reason for him to have left so swiftly and so silently, but short of going to prison, she couldn’t think of a single eventuality that would’ve prevented at least a text message.
Des had alluded to the possibility that Ben simply couldn’t cope with the pressure of coaching at her level, but that had never rung quite right. Ben was the most unflappable person she’d ever met, and she couldn’t see him having a sudden crisis of confidence. Of course she’d blamed herself more often than not, concluding that the stressful muddle of their on-court conflict and off-court chemistry was more than he wanted to contend with. Yet there was always an undercurrent of doubt to those ruminations, and a recurring sense that there had to be more to the story.
Every logical molecule in her body told her to close the door, run to the phone and call complex security, then her manager in quick succession.
But her gut instinct told her Ben would never mean her any harm. This could be her only chance to get his version of events. Even as her rational mind screamed at her to say no, she nodded.
“Okay. Where are we going?”
He released a breath she hadn’t suspected he’d been holding. “Get changed into your workout gear and you’ll find out.”
Ten minutes later she was in the passenger seat of Ben’s car, traveling through the darkening twilight and continually peppering him with questions despite his refusal to answer most of them.
“How did you get past the gate?”
“The guy on shift is from Zimbabwe.” He shot her a sidelong glance. “We have an understanding.”
“All that money I pay in security fees,” she grumbled. “Where have you been since Tallahassee?”
“Here.”
“Are you coaching someone else?”
He paused. “No.”
“What are you doing?”
“It’s a long story.”
“When are you going to tell me what happened?”
“After the Baron’s.”
“You’re kidding.” She threw up her hands. “You expect me to play the biggest tournament of my life with this bizarre mystery hanging over my head?”
“It’s better that way,” he asserted in the conversation-ending tone she’d heard so many times during their practice-session bickering, and it only riled her up further.
“You need to quit with the creepy riddle-speak and tell me what
’s going on. I trusted you enough to climb into your car after almost a month of zero contact, and you owe me some answers. Like what the hell is that noise?” she demanded, the rhythmic flap-flap-flap from somewhere on the dashboard grating on her last nerve.
Ben laughed, and despite herself, some of her anger dissipated at the familiar sound. “Sorry, I think there’s a leaf stuck behind the vent.” He switched off the air-conditioning and the sound slowed, then stopped. “I showed up tonight because I knew you’d be jumping out of your skin with anxiety about the Baron’s. I’d planned this thing tonight long before Tallahassee, and I hated the idea of you sitting alone in that big house, panicking and freaking out when I thought I had a way to help.” His smile was sheepish and apologetic. “I guess my coaching impulse is as hard to ignore as your overthinking one.”
“Except when you quit.”
He glanced across at her with a pained expression. “We’re almost there. We’ll talk afterward, okay? I promise.”
Regan sighed her agreement as she squinted through the window. They were far from the center of town, and Ben pulled around to the back of a turtle sanctuary on the edge of a huge but relatively unused park. As he rounded the main building, her eyes widened at the packed parking lot, the streaming floodlights and the huge banner proclaiming the name of the event.
“Oh, hell no.” She shook her head vehemently. “No way. Absolutely not. I am not doing this.”
“You are, and you’re going to love it. I do these all the time.” He pulled into a space and shut off the engine.
“Then you’re crazy,” she insisted, her panic building as he retrieved two large envelopes from the backseat and tore them open. “I’ve heard all about these obstacle races, or mud runs, or whatever you call them,” she continued as he spread two sets of race numbers, two timing chips and two plastic wristbands on the dashboard. “Not only do you get completely filthy, you have to crawl through barbed wire and get electric shocks and lug tires and all kinds of crazy stuff.”
Love in Straight Sets Page 16