Love. Set. Match.

by Taylor Lunsford

  “Someday you will.” Rob smiled at the thought of his quiet, contained friend finally meeting a woman who could break past his walls. It’d take an explosion, but it’d be well worth the show.

  Rob followed Cruz into the mostly deserted players’ lounge. It’d been updated slightly since the last time he visited. The TVs and a few of the couches were newer, but it still felt the same. An oasis from the crowds. A place for only the players and those closest to them to hide away between matches and practices. He hadn’t been able to enter the lounges since he came back, as reporters were strictly forbidden. He had at least thirty minutes before Maren’s third round match started in Louis Armstrong Stadium, so he sat down with Cruz in a secluded corner, enjoying the coolness of the air conditioner.

  “So what’s the plan?” Cruz asked, propping his feet up on the low wooden coffee table.

  Rob mimicked his friend’s pose. “Plan?”

  “To win back the heart of your lady love.” Cruz pulled a sports drink out of his bag, tossing a spare one to Rob. “I assume there’s a plan. You wouldn’t have shown up here without one.”

  “You assume a lot. I don’t have a plan. Having plans never works when it comes to Em. She’s got a mind of her own, and she’s got it made up that we don’t belong together. It’s going to take more than a plan to convince her otherwise.”

  Cruz nodded, a smile tugging at his mouth. “She’s a stubborn lady. But what will you do if she won’t be convinced?”

  “I don’t know.” He’d tried to imagine his life without Em a thousand times, but he couldn’t. Every future he saw had her with him. “I’ve started to build a life for myself in Miami. Did I tell you about Mom’s latest scheme?”

  He filled his friend in on his new role working with his mother and the kids.

  “And el jefe? How are the two of you working together?”

  Rob scratched his chin, the stubble there still unfamiliar, chuckling a little. “We’re…muddling through. Mostly we stay out of each other’s way. He’s here somewhere, rubbing elbows and playing the former champion. I’m avoiding him when I can. He’s tried to get me to set up a dinner with Carrie Webster at least five times since I moved down there.”

  “Ah, Bobby Ashton. As unchanging as the Pyrenees. You’d think that after—what is it, fifteen years?—he’d give up.” Cruz took a long drink.

  “No such luck,” Rob said, sipping his own bottle of bright green liquid.

  “Is your mother still crusading with him?”

  Rob smiled at the thought of his mother. She’d surprised him more and more every day since he decided to stay and work at the academy. Slowly, the woman who’d unflinchingly followed Bobby Ashton through every step of life was fading. She’d deflected his dad from some touchy topics on more than one occasion, keeping peace between the Ashton men.

  “She’s actually pulling for Em on this one. She saw us together at the gala, and she was already planning what her grandkids would look like. Brigit Ashton is nothing if not adaptable. And she’s never been as tied to my father’s ideas about good breeding. She came from old money, but that wasn’t what was most important to her or her family.”

  “I hope Bobby sees the error of his ways this time around,” Cruz put in.

  After Em left London, Rob had told Cruz everything, about the Olympics, about how his father convinced him to break up with Em the first time. About the regret that plagued him every time he’d seen her for the next seven years.

  “It doesn’t matter if he does or not. I don’t need his approval anymore. I know who I am now and what I want. If he makes trouble, I have the money to start my own academy and do the same work I’ve been doing with Mom. I may do that anyway down the line. Maybe I’ll even get you to help me out.” That sense of certainty did more to ease his concerns about Em’s decision to take him back than anything else. Nothing was going to come between them if she really wanted to be with him. That had been true even back in January, but now he had more people at his back. His mother, Maren, Cruz, Dera, Owen. They all saw what he knew in his heart. He and Em belonged together.

  Cruz snorted. “Glad you finally learned to ignore him. The tennis academy’s a good idea, and I think you’ll be a much better coach than you were a journalist. Now you need to learn how to sweep your girl off her feet.”

  “I’ve got a few ideas. Most of them are cheesy and over the top. Like in those sappy movies Maren makes me watch,” Rob admitted. “Singing to her after she’s won the tournament. Sending her thousands of peonies. Declaring my love for her in front of everyone. But…”

  “Gestures like that would send her running as if the bulls were chasing her through Pamplona.”

  Nodding, Rob sighed. “And on top of that, until the nut job who’s after her is caught, I can’t do anything quite so public. I’ll just have to hope she’ll talk to me after she wins and go from there.”

  “She’ll talk to you. From what Owen says, she misses you more than she’s willing to admit. Once the tournament’s over, I doubt she’ll be able to keep you at arm’s length.”

  Rob hoped his friend was right. All through his sister’s match, Rob tried to find a way to get through to Em. He still had a week before he could see her. A week to decide how to ensure the woman he loved spent the rest of her life with him.

  ****

  “Are you sure you haven’t gotten any good leads on him?” Em asked Detective Combs. The detective had flown up to New York to work with the NYPD to catch the stalker.

  The detective shook his dark head. “Unfortunately, no. We know he’s here, and the venue’s tightened security as much as they can, but we don’t have a lot to go on. He’s good at hiding his cyber footprint, but the NYPD and the FBI have got their top people tracing the posts made on the tournament’s site, as well as the emails we’ve intercepted.”

  The posts on the site had shaken both of them. They’d been much more intense than the previous emails. They’d detailed what they’d do to her if she won the tournament in graphic language. The emails had been even worse. Apparently, the stalker had gone off the rails. He’d sent pictures of her at her home, at the training courts, at the grocery store. All of them had been distorted and manipulated into a sideshow of horror.

  “I can feel someone watching me during my matches.” Em shivered, glancing around the sitting room of her suite. It was the same hotel where she’d stayed last time she was in New York, although thankfully a different room. The memories of Rob already threatened to overwhelm her. She’d done a good job of keeping them at bay in the weeks leading up to the tournament and even during the tournament itself, but at night they swamped her. She ached to have him beside her, even as she hated herself for missing him.

  Detective Combs frowned. “Forgive me, but there are a lot of people watching you during the matches.”

  “I know that. I mean, watching me like someone’s hunting me or something. I don’t know. It sounds silly, but it’s like when a photographer is lurking behind me. I can sense it,” she explained.

  “Ah. Well, if you notice anyone suspicious, be sure you let your security detail know. They’re on the NYPD’s radio frequency, and they’ll get the word out.” He gave her what he probably thought was a reassuring smile. “We’ll catch him, Ms. Grace. I promise you.”

  She sighed. “Sooner rather than later would be best. I don’t know how much longer I can take living under a microscope.”

  Her security detail had been following her everywhere since TWW broke the news about her and Rob’s relationship. They sat around while she practiced, and they parked outside her house most nights, taking turns on watch. She’d spent the plane ride to New York with one of them in the aisle seat. Even now, one of them stood outside her door while the other watched the hotel’s security feed.

  “You worry about winning your match this afternoon. I’ll worry about stopping this guy.” Detective Combs gave her a fatherly pat on the shoulder and left.

  She ran her hands through her hai
r. She needed to focus, to get ready for her match. It was the fucking semifinal match. She couldn’t believe she was this close now.

  “Are you ready?” Zoe asked as she came in from the bedroom where she’d been making some phone calls.

  Em giggled, on the edge of nervous and hysterical. “God. Can you ever be ready for something like this? I’ve been in the semifinals every year for the last five years. Why the hell am I still so terrified?”

  “Because it’s the semifinals of a Grand Slam. Because you want it so much you can taste it. I’ve been there, sweetheart. But you’re in a better place than you’ve ever been before. You haven’t dropped a set the entire tournament. Your first four rounds you only lost seven games total. You only lost four games on Tuesday. You’re well-rested and in the best shape of your life.”

  Em tried to find solace in her coach’s words, but she couldn’t. “Maren’s done just as well. She’s also four years younger than me and a former champion.”

  Playing her friends in the high-stakes matches was the worst. Any other day, she’d be cheering Maren on, but today, her one mission in life was to beat her friend as quickly as possible.

  “Maren Ashton is good. There’s no denying that. But right now, at this tournament? You’re better,” Zoe argued. “You’ve got more passion, more drive, and more focus than you’ve had at any other tournament. You can do this.”

  You can do this. You can do this.

  She repeated the words to herself over and over and over. She continued repeating them as she went through her pre-match preparations. Pulling on her bright-blue tennis dress and lacing up her sneakers, she focused on her breathing. Keeping calm and centered was her best bet for getting through this match. If she let herself think too much about the stalker or the fact that her opponent was her friend and the sister of the man she cared for, she might completely lose it.

  “Time to go, Ms. Grace.” One of the tournament officials broke into her thoughts, motioning for Em to follow her. She gathered her bags and made her way out to Arthur Ashe Stadium, the dull roar of the crowd around her somehow distant as she zeroed in on the mission at hand.

  She took her designated side and started to unpack her bags. The place was full, the sun starting to set in the early September sky. Glancing over at her box, she was pleased to see her grandma there with Owen and Zoe. Gran had insisted on coming, in spite of Em’s worry that the stalker might target the older woman. Even when Papa Vic was so sick last year, they hadn’t missed a chance to watch her at the biggest US tournament of the year.

  Continuing to scan the crowd, her gaze caught on a man sitting directly across from her. At first, she didn’t recognize him, but realization dawned. The scruffy beard and baseball cap might fool a lot of people, but she’d recognize that jaw and those dimples anywhere.

  Rob was here.

  Sitting in the front row, waiting to watch her match.

  Only that was stupid. He wasn’t here to watch her. He was here to watch his sister.

  He didn’t know she’d spotted him, his attention on the crowd instead of her, but she drew a little bit of strength from knowing he was here.

  She still didn’t know what she’d do about her relationship with Rob, if she even still had one, but he’d been such a big part of her life for so long, having him here made sense. He’d pushed her for years, his little digs only making her better, more determined. Losing him the first time was what had made her fight so hard to get to where she was today. She’d wanted to prove his father wrong, to show all the tennis world that she could be as good as anyone with piles of money and years of nonstop training at the best academies in the world.

  Soon, Owen joined Rob in the front row. Now, all the people she wanted to have supporting her were here, except one. Her dad was off in Belize or Bolivia or somewhere, working on a new assignment. He’d sent her a text before the tournament, wishing her luck, but she hadn’t heard anything more from him since the dinner he crashed.

  She’d gotten used to disappointment over the years. He’d never showed up to support her before, so she couldn’t say she was all that surprised. But now, as she got closer and closer to her goal, she wished he were here to see it.

  Moving for the requisite handshake, Em returned her attention to the match. She looked her friend in the eyes and knew she could do this. She could make it to the finals of the US Open—and win.

  ****

  Rob settled into his front row seat in Arthur Ashe Stadium, his body vibrating with tension. He’d managed to make it to every match his sister and Em played in, and he’d known today was coming. They were both too good not to make it to the semifinals. It sucked that they were in the same half of the draw, but it’d probably be worse for him if they met in the finals.

  He leaned forward, watching the crowd settle into their seats as match time approached. The stadium lights flicked on, working in conjunction with the fading twilight. Almost the entire stadium was full of spectators, all eager to watch a match between two of the WTA’s top players. Cruz and Kole were slated to play after Em and Maren finished, but the ladies were the main draw today.

  All of the sportscasters had been buzzing about this match since the semifinal contenders had been determined two days ago. They’d tried to spin it as a grudge match, Maren wanting revenge for her brother’s broken heart. But his sister and Em refused to play into that. He loved that they were friends and that all the drama that passed between him and Em hadn’t dimmed that friendship.

  Even now, as they shook hands before taking their positions on opposite sides of the net, they smiled and chatted as if it were a practice match instead of the semifinals of the last Grand Slam of the year.

  “So who are you rooting for?”

  Rob tensed before realizing Owen had taken the empty seat beside him. Em’s brother had played earlier in the day, knocking out the number five player from Sweden. “Who says I’m rooting for anyone? I’m simply taking in an enjoyable tennis match.”

  “Please. Your sister is playing the girl who broke your heart,” Owen teased. “You have to want someone to win.”

  He did want someone to win, not that he’d admit it out loud. He loved his sister and always supported her, but today, for the first time in her life, he was rooting against Maren. Em’s ferocity throughout the tournament had impressed him. She’d refused to give an inch. She’d charged forward, intensely focused on making it through each match.

  She took first serve, pounding a firecracker across the court at Maren, forcing her to hit it with a slightly weak backhand.

  “Em’s on fire,” Rob said. “Have you ever seen her like this?”

  “Once. After her seventh-grade teacher told her she’d never win the geography bee. She studied so hard that Gran thought she might keel over. But she went out there and managed to make it all the way to the state championships.”

  “Sounds about right,” Rob murmured. His eyes darted back and forth, following the ball. Em’s forehand kept returning Maren’s shots with deadly accuracy. He was surprised by the number of unforced errors his sister racked up in the first few games.

  By the time Em led four to two, Rob’s heart swelled with pride. His girl was unstoppable. She showed no fear, no hesitation. She had one thing on her mind—winning.

  During a break, Rob managed to tear his gaze away from Em long enough to scan the crowd. He’d made a habit of watching the crowd, searching for anyone suspicious ever since Detective Combs called to warn him about the new threats. So far, no one had jumped out at him. He looked at all the people in the front row across from him. A few celebrities and socialites he recognized dotted the crowd. Directly opposite him, he spotted a sallow-skinned man wearing an ill-fitting dark suit, too shabby for someone who could afford premium seats and too warm for the heat wave beating down on New York. His dark eyes fixed on Em, he barely moved during the next two games.

  “What’s your read on that guy?” Rob asked Owen during the next break. His friend had just returne
d from checking on his grandmother, who was sitting in Em’s box, intently watching the match. Owen claimed it stressed him out too much to sit and watch a match with Poppy Grace.

  “Which one?” Owen asked.

  “Suit guy. With the thin brown hair and the pug nose.”

  Owen’s eyes narrowed. “A suit? Here? In this heat? It’s a little weird, but maybe he’s one of those Wall Street types who came straight from the office.”

  “He’s got a creepy vibe, though, doesn’t he?” Rob shifted in his seat. Maybe he was being paranoid. He’d had more than a few nightmares about something happening to Em over the last few weeks. Nothing could keep them away.

  “Yeah, but nothing too weird. Relax, man. The security on this place rivals the White House this year. No one’s getting anything through that could hurt Em. Just watch the match. Your sister’s about to get her ass handed to her.”

  It was true. They were creeping deeper into the second set now, and Em had only given up two games. She was a game away from taking the match.

  The stadium grew quiet except for the soft clicking of camera shutters as Em let loose another powerful serve. It hit the net, and a ball boy ran to retrieve the dead ball. Let for service. Em took her stance again, her next serve as deadly as the first. Maren returned the serve with a two-handed backhand stroke, the ball hurtling back toward Em as her grunt of exertion echoed through the otherwise silent court. Em hit it back across the court with a neat forehand, sending Maren running for the ball.

  They went on, both battling for supremacy, but Em continued to keep the edge. “I’m not sure I can watch,” Owen murmured as Em set up for match point.

  “I can’t take my eyes away. She’s amazing,” Rob said, leaning forward in his seat. He pushed the brim of his hat up so nothing obstructed his view.

  Em’s final serve was perfect. Maren returned it, and the battle was on. The only sounds in the entire stadium were the thunks as the ball hit the rackets and the women’s grunting with effort as they lobbed the ball back and forth between them. Em kept Maren on her backhand side for every hit, while Em moved up gradually. One well-placed shot kept his sister from reaching the ball before its second bounce.