Lindsay’s face darkened with worry. “Maybe she should be the one to tell you, if she hasn’t. I don’t want to—”
“Tell me.”
She broke into a grin. “Regan wants to create a tennis charity for underprivileged kids, to give them access to the sport. She offered to sponsor my visa so I could work on the start-up. I’d be the academic director, working with the local schools to help identify extra tuition needs and making sure the kids are doing as well in the classroom as they are on the court.”
He stared at his sister in stunned silence. A few hours ago Regan was shoving him into a high-profile exhibition match, and now she was employing his sister in a new charity?
“Isn’t that great?” Lindsay reached over to prod his arm. “It’s exactly the opportunity I need to advance my career, plus it combines my two favorite things, tennis and education. Not to mention I can finally get over to the U.S. without putting such a big financial burden on you.”
“Yeah,” he replied vaguely, his mind working at a feverish pace. “Great.”
“Ben?” She waved her hand in front of his face. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
“I’m okay,” he muttered, twisting to look at the TV over his shoulder. Regan had lost the first set and was three points down in the first game of the second.
“I’m okay,” he repeated more definitely, rising from his chair and gesturing for Lindsay to do the same. “But we have to go. Now.”
She glanced at the TV, then back at him with a look of steely determination that was almost laughably familiar. He grabbed a baseball cap from the floor where he’d flung it, snatched up his room key and followed his sister out the door.
* * *
“Game, set, Miss Hunter.”
Regan sagged on her feet, barely summoning enough strength to stagger back to her chair and flop into it. Even the water bottle she raised to her lips seemed so impossibly heavy that she had no idea how she’d manage lifting her racket for a whole third set.
She’d lost the first set six-one and had scraped a five-seven win in the second. She wasn’t sure where she found the motivation to grab those five games away from Tanya. She knew her parents were in the audience, along with Des and probably countless more people she knew had the match on the TV.
But she knew for sure that the only person who really mattered wasn’t there. And for the first time in her career, she didn’t care who was watching.
When it was time for the two competitors to return to the court for the third set, Regan decided there must be some otherworldly force propelling her forward, because she certainly didn’t feel responsible for making her legs move. She was on disembodied, mechanical autopilot in the biggest tennis match of her career—and she couldn’t care less. She just wanted it all to be over so she could retreat to her hotel room, bury her face in the pillows and snap her stupid little rubber band until the sting in her wrist was all she could feel. No heartache, no ruefulness, no despising herself for pushing the best man she’d ever known out of her life with a single, oblivious shove.
The trophy would probably mean more to Tanya anyway, she considered as she leaned down on the baseline, readying herself for the British woman’s serve. She was still so young, with so much ahead of her. Winning a Grand Slam would be a nice way to kick things off. What use was it to Regan anyway? She was retiring to a life of meaningless relationships, empty socializing and intermittent panic attacks. Having her name engraved on an old silver plate wouldn’t change that.
If Tanya hadn’t grunted as she served, Regan might not have noticed the bright yellow ball whizzing past her. It was in, and she sighed as the umpire announced, “Fifteen love.”
She’d meekly lost one game and was down a point in the second when she heard it. She bounced the ball on the severely clipped grass, idly wondering how much longer this was going to take when a woman’s voice rang through the hush that always preceded a serve.
“Stop wasting my time, champ!”
The accent gave her away completely and Regan froze, her head snapping to the crowd behind her as she searched for Lindsay. She couldn’t find her, but she did spot a new face seated next to Des. He was wearing a Regan Hunter signature hat, and he was smiling.
“Ben,” she whispered, her eyes welling with tears.
She sniffed hard and refocused on the ball. He was still registered as her coach, so shouting at her would be an on-court coaching violation. That’s why he had Lindsay do it instead, and stashed her far enough away that no one would connect the two of them. But the words and the smile were definitely his, and she read him loud and clear. She hadn’t come this far to collapse.
Her spine stiffened and her pulse raced. He didn’t hate her and he hadn’t left. He knew the other half of her surprise now, knew it was about so much more than publicity and appearance fees. Although this time she hadn’t gotten it right and her effort had fallen way short of the mark, at her core she just wanted to make him happy.
And his smile promised that nothing would make him happier than taking home this trophy.
She squared her shoulders. She could still pull this back, could still make this happen.
She was going to win, dammit.
She played the next five games as if her life depended on it. She pushed Tanya harder and harder, running her up and down the court as Ben had instructed, using her opponent’s own often heavy-handed power to return the toughest shots. Ben’s presence at her back was like a talisman radiating strength into her body, and on the couple of occasions when they were able to make eye contact, those few seconds of silent communication always had Regan turning back toward the net as energized as if she’d gulped down a double espresso.
After an hour, the score for the third set stood at five-two to Regan’s advantage. Tanya was clearly tired, frustrated and fraying at the seams. She grunted heavily every time she swung her racket and repeatedly cast desperate, pleading glances at her coach. With every lost point her displays of temper became more volatile, until Regan could see Tanya’s manager warning her with a shake of his head.
Spencer, unsurprisingly, was nowhere to be seen.
The long, hard duel had brought them to match point—or in this case, championship point—and it was Tanya’s turn to serve. Regan spun her racket in readiness, keeping her breaths calm and steady. This was it. This could be the end of everything, of years of preparation and dreaming and hoping and imagining this moment.
Tanya tossed, reached and swung. The ball hit the net.
Exhaling hotly in irritation, Tanya took another ball from her pocket and bounced it on the brittle grass, practically snarling at the object in her hand. Regan crouched again, reminding herself that Ben was right behind her, as stalwartly supportive and reliable as always. She hoped he could see how much his coaching had made a difference. She hoped she was making him proud.
Tanya took her second chance, and it came good, the ball powering over the net and into the box. As Regan watched it bounce toward her, her racket raised for a backhand stroke, time seemed to slow down enough for her to have three clear, distinct thoughts.
The first was the realization that she was completely calm, and had been since Ben had taken his seat in the box. The frenzied ticker tape of anxiety was gone, as were the irregular, panicky heartbeats and ringing ears that lately accompanied her on major match days. Instead she felt serene, composed and totally in control. And it felt superb.
The second was an image more than a notion. The ice cube-filled, netting-covered trough from the mud run loomed in her mind. She remembered how afraid she’d been to slide in, knowing it would be cold and wet and claustrophobic. Except she’d had to do it—Ben gave her no choice. And it was awful. The ice cubes stung her bare skin, and the high-pressure water pouring into her face had made her feel as if she was drowning. But with Ben scooting through the freezing
mud behind her, she’d known there was no turning back. She had to go forward.
The third was simple. She loved Ben with all her heart. She hoped he understood that her intentions had been good even if the execution was flawed, and that he forgave her for her clumsy attempt to bring back what he lost more than ten years ago. She couldn’t wait to see him, to touch him, to tell him that he was her everything.
And then she was pounding Tanya’s shot back to her, sending it to a far corner to force her to chase after it. Tanya returned her stroke with a high, untamed pop of her own, then backed up to the baseline to ready herself for the response.
Regan watched the bright yellow ball sailing down against the backdrop of the beautiful, cloudless blue sky. She smiled to herself. Here it was, the moment she’d been waiting for.
She met the ball and ushered it back over the net in a neat drop shot. It bounced once, twice, and then Tanya was on her knees as the crowd roared to their feet.
Regan couldn’t hear the umpire over the clamor in the stadium, but she didn’t need to. She knew the score. She’d just won the Baron’s Open.
There would be interviews and congratulations and handshakes and hugs and more attention than she could imagine, but at that moment there was only one person she wanted to see. And she turned toward the box just in time to spot him vaulting out of it, shoving past security and jogging out on the court to meet her.
This was probably one of the biggest protocol violations in the history of this staid, exceptionally formal tournament, and that thought added inches to her grin.
That’s us. She beamed as her coach, lover and other half approached her. Rewriting the rulebook.
Ben swept her into his arms and spun her, and she clung to his shoulders, wishing she never had to let go. When he set her back down he kept his hands on her upper arms, and his eyes were so bright with joy and pride that she nearly burst into tears.
“I’m so sorry, Ben,” she whispered, her chin trembling.
“For dropping two games in the third set? You should be. I’m going to have a stern word with you about that when we have the time.”
His lip twitched with a mischievous smile, and she relaxed into his chest, weak with gratitude that she’d managed to hang on to the one thing she couldn’t bear to lose.
He leaned down to kiss her forehead, and when he spoke his voice was a tender murmur.
“I love you, Regan. I haven’t got much to offer, but if you want me, I’m yours.”
She lifted her chin to look into his eyes, into the face that had come to represent unconditional strength and support. She flattened her palms on his chest and smiled.
“I want you like I’ve never wanted anything in my life. I love you, Ben, exactly as you are.”
He brought his mouth to hers then, in full view of the tournament officials, the stadium full of spectators and the millions of people watching the live broadcast around the world. Regan didn’t spare a thought for a single one of them. Winning Ben’s heart was the only thing on her mind, and she’d just taken the championship point.
* * * * *
About the Author
Rebecca Crowley inherited her love of romance from her mom, who taught her to at least partially judge a book by the steaminess of its cover. She writes contemporary romance with smart heroines and swoon-worthy heroes, and never tires of the happily-ever-after. Having pulled up her Kansas roots to live in New York City and London, Rebecca now resides in Johannesburg, South Africa. Find her at rebeccacrowley.net and on Twitter at @rachelmaybe.
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ISBN-13: 9781426898297
LOVE IN STRAIGHT SETS
Copyright © 2014 by Rebecca Crowley
Edited by Gina Bernal
All rights reserved. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher, Harlequin Enterprises Limited, 225 Duncan Mill Road, Don Mills, Ontario, Canada M3B 3K9.
All characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all incidents are pure invention.
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