Love. Set. Match.

by Taylor Lunsford

  An ache took up residence in her chest. She’d actually cared about Kole, and it still hurt to think about all the shit he’d said about her. She really had the worst luck with men. Between her father and Rob and Kole, it was a wonder she hadn’t taken a card from Dera’s book and started to try to find a woman to date.

  “I—I didn’t know, Emmy. I’m—sorry doesn’t begin to cover it, does it?” He leaned back against the brick wall beside her as if his body couldn’t hold him up any longer. “I didn’t start those stories. It was—my publicist thought it would be a good idea to put it about that I broke up with you. That it would make me more sympathetic and human. I didn’t want to do it, but Patty insisted. I didn’t realize that it—fuck. I’m so sorry.”

  She looked at him, her eyes widening in surprise. He was sorry? The great Kole Naumov was sorry? She almost checked to make sure the sky wasn’t falling or something. He hated to apologize even more than he hated to deal with anything resembling family.

  She studied him, really looking at him for the first time in months. He looked older and more serious than she’d ever seen him. And as much as she hated to admit it, he did look sorry. She also thought she might believe him about the stories coming from his publicist. From the interviews she’d seen, including that one with Rob and Bruno, he hadn’t done much to stop them, but it did make more sense for his publicist to be the mastermind.

  Kole never cared that he was seen as kind of an asshole, but his publicist was always going on about how to make him more likable. She was exactly the type of shark to come up with the “ex-girlfriend is a slut” line. It was unimaginative and totally below the belt.

  “I believe you. I think. I don’t know. This is all so weird,” she admitted.

  “I know. And I truly am sorry. This isn’t how I wanted things to play out with us.” His lips tilted up in a ghost of a smile. “Guess I have a lot to learn before I can keep a woman like you for long.”

  She stood and moved to lean beside him, a small, weary smile of her own coming to life. “You can be a really sweet guy when you want. You have the capacity for more emotions than you give yourself credit for. You…need to learn to let people in. And not be so paranoid about family stuff.”

  “You have a point. But your grandparents are a little intimidating. Well, not your grandfather so much. He was a kind man. Your grandmother is a different story. She scares me.”

  She giggled. “Gran can be a little scary, especially if you decide it’s a good idea to use her cheese grater to play tennis with the garlic. Owen and I learned that the hard way when we were in junior high.”

  A tap on her shoulder drew her attention away from her ex.

  “Ms. Grace. Mr. Hodgkins contacted me. He feels we should get you back to your lodgings for the night while he examines the information you sent him,” Lance said, the bodyguard’s frame rigid, his eyes scanning the crowd.

  “I think that would be best.” She gave Kole a tight smile. “Good luck this week. I mean, I hope my brother kicks your ass, but good luck until you get there.”

  Outside, Em gratefully sank into the car, relieved not to have to schmooze the sponsors anymore. All she wanted to do was go back to the flat she’d rented and take a long hot bath. She briefly thought of asking Rob to meet her there, but she pushed that aside. As much as he relaxed her, she couldn’t let herself rely on him. She needed to survive the next two weeks and win the whole tournament, then she could worry about Rob.

  ****

  Rob gritted his teeth as he sat at his temporary desk, glaring at the pictures on one of the tennis blogs he was checking out before his next broadcast. Em stood beside Kole Naumov, who was turned toward her, a solicitous expression on his chiseled face. From this angle, it almost looked like he might be thinking about kissing her. But Em’s face was what caught Rob’s attention. She was actually giggling about something that Kole said.

  An inexplicable jealousy surged over Rob. Again. He’d seen different angles of this same shot since the tournament began eleven days ago, but more pictures had trickled in of Em and Kole stopping to chat outside the locker room or shots taken from other players’ Instagrams of Kole and Em talking in the lounge.

  He’d tried to find Em to ask her about it, but she hadn’t answered his calls, or she told him she was too busy to meet up at her flat or his hotel room. If he hadn’t been run off his feet from dawn until dusk every day, keeping up with Joey’s demands and the stories Bruno thought were beneath him, he might have had a chance to go see her. He didn’t understand what she was doing even talking to that asshole. Kole was the reason she was in all this mess to begin with. The guy had treated her like shit, and she was standing there giggling with him?

  On an intellectual level, he understood that it was a social function, and she couldn’t exactly kick the guy in the balls, but did she have to look so happy to be talking to him?

  All of it wouldn’t have mattered if the stupid blogs weren’t jumping from zero to sixty with the story. All of a sudden, Em and Kole were reconciling. One stupid site even tried to claim that Em and Kole were planning to elope to Paris after the finals. Rob’s temper had been on a low boil ever since that one came out. It wouldn’t be if his fucking girlfriend—because that was what she was, even if she didn’t want to admit it—would let him go public with their relationship. But she’d refused, and now he was stuck, sitting here brooding because he couldn’t approach her about it in public and he couldn’t get her to pick up her phone.

  Sighing, he pulled on the summer-weight light-gray suit jacket his wardrobe stylist had laid out for him to wear today. He was expected to do the pre-game interviews with the women’s finalists before watching the game.

  As he walked toward Centre Court to take his place, Rob’s phone rang.

  “You watching the match today?” Owen asked by way of greeting.

  “Of course.” Rob wove his way through the crowds moving toward Henman Hill. “Your sister might be avoiding me like I’ve got the plague or something, but I wouldn’t miss it. I mean, I’ll have to work before and after, but I wouldn’t miss it.”

  An awkward silence echoed through the phone. “I’m sure she’s not avoiding you, man. This tournament has been insane. Between the rain delays and all the promo stuff Amir’s scheduled to keep her sponsors interested, she’s been crazy busy.”

  “Is she doing okay? I’ve been”—jealous, pissed, annoyed—“worried. She still got her security with her?”

  “Yeah, they’re still around as much as she hates it.” Owen coughed. “Good news is, the stalker seems to have gone away for now.”

  Rob paused, ignoring the crowd jostling him, his mind flitting back to those damn pictures. “Really?”

  “So far, aside from a text right before the first day, she hasn’t heard anything the whole tournament. It’s made a difference.”

  “I’m proud as hell of her for making it this far. She’s been damned near flawless,” Rob agreed, picking up his pace. He had to be ready to start the first interview in ten minutes.

  “Not even a single set dropped, let alone going to a tie-break,” Owen bragged. “Just wish she wasn’t going up against Chessa. Chessa’s her kryptonite, man.”

  Rob opened the door to the Centre Court players’ area and flashed his press pass to the security guard. “No joke. Don’t worry. Em’s got this.”

  Ending the call, Rob nodded to his cameraman. “Hey Jerry. If we’re set, I’m going to go check on the players and see what our ETA is.”

  By players, he meant Em. He made his way back to the locker room reserved for the top female players. Before he could knock, the door flew open, and Em emerged.

  For once, she didn’t have a crowd of people around her. Zoe must already be up in Em’s box with Owen.

  “Rob! What are you doing?” She glanced around nervously.

  “Just came to check on you.” He took her in, his whole body standing at attention now that she was finally in front of him. God, he’d missed h
er. It took every ounce of his self-control not to sweep her in for a kiss.

  She shifted her equipment bag higher on her shoulder. “Oh. Um, well, I’m fine as you can see.”

  “Yeah. Nice to actually see you in person. You’ve been avoiding me, Em.” He leaned against the doorway, blocking her path. “Wouldn’t have anything to do with those pictures of you and Kole, right?”

  Brown eyes narrowed at him. “Is this really the time? Chessa will be out any minute, and you’re supposed to be interviewing me on live TV in two minutes.”

  No denial. Huh. His stomach clenched, but he pushed it down. For now. “You’re right. We’ll talk after the match, though, yeah? I…I need to see you, Em. I’ve been worried.”

  Her gaze flickered away. “Okay. We can talk later. Right now, I have a title to win.”

  He made it through both Em and Chessa’s interviews with minimal effort before he slipped out to his seat in the back row of one of the lower sections. His stomach churned and roiled worse than the River Thames during a storm. He wished it was only nerves for Em. By the third set, he was a fucking mess. He was tempted to slip back to the studio early—he had to be there as soon as the match ended, but he couldn’t take his eyes off her. She wanted this so badly, and she wasn’t going to give up without a fight.

  Through it all, he kept straying back to the way her little white tennis dress made her almost glow in the unseasonably warm sun, the dark coppery tone of her skin richer as the sweat glistened off it.

  The look on her face right now told the whole story; her eyes narrowed, her jaw set, she resembled a warrior queen, ready to fight to the death. He’d never seen someone so determined to win a Grand Slam. He remembered that drive, that intense focus, and he missed the hell out of it. Em took her service game easily, but Chessa wasn’t backing down. The Croatian woman was a machine. She’d taken out her first four opponents without losing more than five games a match.

  This match was a battle of the gladiators, each woman playing full-tilt, neither giving the other quarter.

  “I don’t think I can watch,” Cruz muttered from his seat beside Rob.

  Rob sent him a sidelong glance. “You can’t watch? How do you think I feel?”

  “Feels like everyone’s here. Even the royals sent some delegates,” Cruz said, nodding to the royal box where senior members of the Windsor clan sat.

  Chessa went on serve after Em took the first game of the set. Rob winced as the Croatian aced her first serve and sent her second serve at a fierce angle that was almost impossible for Em to hit effectively. Em’s frustration radiated off her. Sweat glistened on her brow, and her shoulders sagged a little. Chessa was getting in her head.

  Rob’s eyes never left Em as the final set continued. She matched Chessa game for game until the eighth game, then something happened. Chessa broke Em’s serve, and she lost steam. By the time Chessa served for match point, Rob’s heart ached for Em. She’d been so close. She’d fought for every inch of ground, but it hadn’t been quite enough to beat the world number one.

  Around him, the crowd cheered as Chessa secured her victory, but Rob’s attention remained on the curvy figure of one person. Fuck. He wanted to go to her, to hold her and make that crestfallen look go away. The jealousy, the confusion, all of it faded in the face of Em experiencing the hardest loss of all—the almost win. Rob’s shoulder ached as a not-so-subtle reminder of his last almost win, the one that had ended his career.

  While the officials prepared for the awards ceremony, Rob slipped back to the studio, a mess of emotions swamping him. He wanted to be with his girl, not having to clinically break apart her lost title on international TV.

  The second he stepped into the studio, Rob was bombarded.

  “Don’t pull your punches,” Joey snapped as she bustled around the studio. “I don’t want any white knight antics today, Ashton. Bruno’s going for the throat, and I don’t plan to hold him back.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Rob asked, pinning his microphone in place and letting one of the makeup techs powder his face.

  Bruno smirked. “I’ve warned Joey that you’ve got a soft spot for a certain player, and she’s not having it. The best player won today—the worthy player. Emerson Grace is too busy spreading her legs for any man she can for her to actually win a Grand Slam.”

  Rob’s hand curled into a fist, and that was only the first time he wanted to punch Bruno during the broadcast. Every chance he got, Bruno alluded to, hinted at, and even expressly blamed Em’s recent “poor personal decisions” and her “sudden reunion” with Kole to her loss. Rob and Christiane both attempted to steer the conversation back to the mechanics of the match, the statistics and the calls that could have changed the course of the match, but Bruno’s ability to pivot was both impressive and sickening.

  By the time the broadcast was over, Rob could barely sit still. He wanted to completely go off on all of them, to tell them how sleazy they were for going along with Bruno’s plan. Despair and anger warred for supremacy. He’d thought he could change things from the inside, but every day it was becoming clear that he was fighting a losing battle. He couldn’t deal with this now, though. He had bigger things to worry about.

  He made it back to the City Centre as the local church bells struck ten p.m. He’d texted Owen to ensure that Em was in for the night. The Grace siblings were sharing a townhouse in Knightsbridge during the tournament. Thankfully, Owen had plans to attend a party at the request of his publicist, so Rob and Em would have the place to themselves.

  Glancing around, Rob knocked on the front door. Thankfully, the cobblestone street was quiet and deserted. At least he thought it was. There was a movement in the shadowed doorway across the street, but after a moment, a stray cat darted into the pool of light coming from the street lamp. Good. He didn’t need to worry about Em freaking out or giving her an excuse not to let him in. When she didn’t immediately answer, he knocked again. And again. Finally, he heard slow footsteps coming down the stairs. A moment later, the door opened.

  Em stood on the other side, the opposite of the woman he’d watched earlier today. Gone was the fierce warrior in tight tennis whites. In her place stood a woman with sad, angry eyes, slumped shoulders covered by an oversized black sweater and dark-gray leggings encasing long, powerful legs. With her face free of makeup and her dark hair, still damp from her shower, falling around her face in waves, she resembled the girl he’d first met in London, young and lost.

  “Jesus. What are you doing here?” she asked, her voice hollow and flat, but he didn’t miss the underlying tension crackling between them.

  “Oh, just out for a stroll.” He pushed his way in, shutting the door behind him. “I thought you could use some company, and I’m done letting you avoid me.”

  She looked away, crossing her arms over her chest. “You thought wrong. I don’t need company, and I haven’t been avoiding you. I’ve been busy, and I’m tired. I’d like to be alone. You more than anyone should understand that.”

  “You’re right. I’ve been where you are, but I know you don’t want to be alone, not really.” He moved past her, climbing the narrow stairway to the main floor of the converted mews. A cozy room dominated the first floor with its rough-hewn wood floors and overstuffed furniture. Exactly like he’d expected an English apartment to look.

  She followed him up, her bare feet stomping on the stairs. “Where do you get off, pretending to know what I want?”

  “Oh, I’m not pretending any such thing,” he snapped, shrugging out of his suit jacket. “I don’t know what the hell is going on with you, Em, but you can’t keep shutting me out.”

  He wouldn’t let her do that. He’d worked too damn hard to get here with her now. The rest of his plans for his life post-tennis were going up in smoke around him, but he wasn’t giving Em up without a fight. She mattered more than all the rest of it combined. He just needed to convince her of that.

  Chapter 16

  You can’t keep shut
ting me out.

  Direct hit. Rob didn’t miss a trick. She’d been avoiding him since the gala. It seemed her luck had run out on that score now. He was here, and he wasn’t going to let her out of this, damn him.

  She’d spent the last few hours in a daze of total disbelief. She’d felt it. She had that match. She was finally going to hoist that Grand Slam trophy over her head. And then it’d slipped through her fingers—again.

  She’d searched her mind for the exact moment the match went against her. Maybe it was in the first set when she lost the tie break. Maybe it was in the third set when Chessa broke her serve for the first time. But all she kept coming back to was that moment before the pre-match interview when Rob found her. He’d brought up the pictures of her and Kole that had plagued her through the whole tournament, and she’d just…frozen.

  “What do you want, Rob?” She curled up in the corner of the sofa. “Do you want to offer me words of comfort? To tell me that I played my best and I’ll have another chance? Well, save it. I’m not interested.”

  Gray eyes remained fixed on her, steady and storming. In his rumpled shirt and gray suit, with his tie pulled loose, he looked like a business man recently arrived home from a long day at the office. Handsome and worn, but also glad to be with the woman waiting for him. Only she hadn’t been waiting for him. He’d shown up to make her confront the emotions she’d desperately hoped she could ignore.

  “If I thought it would work, Em, I would spend tonight pampering you. I’d get your favorite wine and desserts, maybe some of those peonies I know you love, and I’d make sure you understood that you’re important to me because of who you are, not because of any titles you’ve won.”

  He started to prowl the room, his long, lean body tense and alert. She’d never seen him so agitated before, not even after going three rounds with Bruno. She wished she could believe what he said. It would be so easy to let him comfort her and tell her that the titles didn’t matter. But they did to her.