Game, Set, Match (A Humorous Contemporary Romance) (Love Match) (3 page)

He put down the salad bowl and crossed his arms in stubborn refusal.
“When?” His voice was steady, yet—hardened. 
When had that happened?

She shrugged. “She said about a month. Not really sure with her.”

She watched him work his jaw back and forth. The motion was familiar to her, especially as he got older.

“I don’t want to see her.”

She put her arms around him and waited till he relaxed and hugged her back. “Unfortunately, Nick, we don’t have much of a choice.”

Chapter
Two

“Mr. Cartwright, do you care to comment on your relationship….”

Jason slammed the phone down mid-question. He took several deep breaths to release the tension in his body. When he couldn’t control the muscles by will, he gave up the fight and let out a stream of curses. “Shit. Damn it. Shit. Shit.”

Why is there such interest in my personal life?
 If the barracudas weren’t camped out in the bushes to get a picture, they cyber stalked him and blogged about his latest party boy
faux pas
, or worse, somehow ferreted out his phone number no matter how many times he changed it. He tried not to imagine what they’d do if anyone found out why he and Arthur Michaels no longer trained together.

Jason bit back a wince as he maneuvered both crutches and lumbered onto the balcony. His knee sent simultaneous bursts of pain and itch up and down his leg. Once settled, he glowered malevolently at his crutches, not sure if they helped or hindered.

Damn, how the hell did I end up here? 
He was supposed to be Jason Cartwright, number one seed and a true force to reckon with, on and off the courts. In reality, he was Jason Cartwright, gimpy, almost-has-been hoping for a comeback. All thanks to Michaels. If his own trainer didn’t believe in his comeback, who would?

Feeling the burn from gripping the handles of the crutches too tightly, he forced his fingers to release, finger by finger. He would take responsibility, needed to. No one else would. He was in this mess because he put his trust in Michaels. He was in this mess because he hadn’t prepared himself for Michaels' betrayal. He should have protected himself. Now he had a torn ACL and a shattered career.

The hell with it
. He was in this mess because Michaels was a disloyal prick. “Shit.”

The doorbell chimed a series of cheery tones reminiscent of the Brady Bunch, and it did little to improve his mood. He ignored the now dull throb accompanied by the ferocious itch in his leg as he hobbled to the door, only pausing to ditch the crutches against the wood sideboard in the sun-drenched hallway.
 
I could always use them to beat off the paparazzi.

With a shake of his head, he thought better of it and continued on to the door. He didn’t need the
paps to catch him giving one of their own a beat down from hell. Not that it mattered, they’d make up stories about him just the same. Only some of those stories would have the barest grain of truth. The paps latest obsession included actress Cienna Dunst and their supposed engagement.

He’d gone out with her a few times. Next thing he knew,
 
Us Weekly
 splashed photos of them on the cover, with details of a Malibu wedding.

When he reached the door, he halted when he saw who awaited him on the other side—his manager, Aaron Banks, with his usual optimistic smile. Jason wasn’t in the mood for optimism. But on the plus side, at least it wasn’t a paparazzo with a flashbulb.

When Jason turned away without opening the door, Aaron let himself in.

“Hey, buddy.”

Jason scowled. “I need to change those locks. What do you want?”

His long-suffering manager put on an affected look of pure dejection and pointed at Jason’s face. “That look, there, on your face, it’s not happiness to see me.”

Already on his way to the kitchen, Jason didn’t wait for another comment, the itch around his surgery scar too persistent to ignore. He needed a scratch stick. He sighed when he heard Aaron’s heavy footfalls behind him. This wouldn’t be a quick visit.

“Do I have a reason to be happy to see you?” He heard clattering in the hallway, and turned back to glare at Aaron.

“What happened to you last night at the club? All the girls asked where their favorite party boy went.”

Was that the way people referred to him now? What happened to the day when the world knew him as a tennis player first? “I got antsy and had to get out of there.”

“The VIP room was a rage. Samantha Ronson did her thing. Can’t believe you ditched out. Everything cool?”

No, everything was not cool. Maybe he was sick of doing nothing but partying all the time. Maybe he was sick of the endless slew of hangers-on. Maybe he wanted to respect himself again. He bit his tongue. “Yeah, cool.”

Aaron grabbed one of the crutches and hobbled behind him. When Jason reached the kitchen, he almost cried with relief at the sight of the one thing that could stop the constant itch. His housekeeper had left the wooden spoon on the counter next to the sink. He grabbed it and made quick work of wiggling the long end of the spoon into the brace, careful not to disturb the bandage around his surgery scar. 
Damn, that’s good
. He closed his eyes and let out a sigh of bliss.

“Damn man, with that look on your face, you’d think scratching was better than sex.”

Jason cracked an eye open. “Right now, it is.”

“
Jase, if Cienna isn’t up to the job, there are plenty more to take her place.”

Jason opened his eyes. The last thing he needed was a woman. The damn paparazzi would have a field day. He gave Aaron a long look. “I doubt you braved the Malibu traffic to discuss my love life.”

Tugging on his pristine tie, his manager smiled. “It’s my job to worry about your love life.”

“Oh, yeah?
How is my love life part of your job?” Managers like him had a way of spinning anything to their advantage.

Aaron rolled his eyes, and spoke very slowly, as if dealing with a simpleton. “Your liaisons garner publicity. Clubs want you to host their New Year
’s Eve celebrations. Champagne companies want you as their endorsement angel. Fashion lines throw free swag at you like panties at a Bon Jovi concert. All of it means revenue, my friend.” He leaned the crutch against the counter. “Besides, I maintain an active sex life from your castoffs alone, Bro.”

Jason wasn’t sure he wanted to be a commodity to buy and sell. But Aaron was right. It was all part of business. “You don’t need my castoffs.” If ever his friend had a downfall, it was women. He had a Patrick Dempsey look to him that got him all the women he ever wanted.

Pristine teeth flashed into a grin. “Yeah, you’re right. I am a handsome devil. But, I didn’t come here to talk to you about that.” With a frown, he indicated Jason’s leg. “Why aren’t you on your crutches?”

Jason shrugged. “I’m faster without them.”

Aaron’s dark brows rose as he indicated the leg brace. “When do you lose that thing anyway?”

“Doc says another two days, but as you can see, I can move around okay. The therapy is doing its work.” The lie rolled off his tongue with ease. He didn’t need Aaron clucking over him.

“How 
is
 PT?”

He shrugged again. “It’s a pain in the ass. I want to work faster.”

Aaron gave him a rueful glance. “Haven’t we been through this already? You come back too fast, and it’s Wimbledon ’05 all over again. Knocked out in the first round. You want that?”

Unfortunately, Aaron was right. If he wanted to come back strong for another go at a title before retirement, he couldn’t rush it, so he’d have to take it easy. “No, I don’t want a repeat of Wimbledon. I’m a little stir crazy is
all.”

All he wanted to do
was a few hundred-miles-per-hour serves, but that wasn’t in the cards for him yet. To make it worse, every time he went to physical therapy, the damned paps were there. The last thing he needed at a training session.

Aaron nodded. The two of them had been together since his first tour, both younger and inexperienced then. He saw Aaron’s eyes narrow, gauging his mood. “You meet the new trainer yet?”

Jason shook his head and shrugged. “Next week, at PT.” Some hotshot from USC. He had to be better than his last trainer.

A pregnant pause took the place of the questions Aaron didn’t ask. Everyone else bombarded him with questions on his separation from Michaels.
The press, his family, the occasional random stranger. None of them able to guess what could have caused the once unbeatable team of trainer and athlete to part ways so abruptly. Everyone asked about it. Everyone, except Aaron.

Why doesn’t he want to know?

Aaron pointed to a photo on Jason’s wall. The Masai tribesman’s haunted gaze compelled attention with his bright red cloth billowing in the wind like a matador’s cape. “You like Z Con’s work?”

In a house full of expensive toys and gadgets, the photo was Jason’s most prized possession. While the steel framed contemporary furniture often lacked life and depth, the photo warmed the whole room. From the moment he saw it, he always felt like the tribesman knew him, could see to his soul. From that acquisition, he’d been obsessed with the photographer’s work. Jason had every
 
Homelands
 book he ever made, Nigeria, Egypt, Ireland and New Zealand. Z Con’s photos touched a part of Jason he’d buried years ago.

Jason gave him a quizzical look. “You know I do. You gave me that photo.”

Aaron grinned that infectious smile. “I do have excellent taste, don’t I?”

Rolling his eyes, Jason prodded. “So what gives? I saw you last night at the club. You didn’t mention anything urgent then.”

“I got you a photo shoot.”

“You know I don’t want to do any publicity right now, especially while I’m injured. Get me out of it.” Aaron lived for the publicity, where Jason didn’t. It was a long since sore spot between them.

“Sorry, Bro. Can’t do that. It’s for 
Sports Illustrated
. Besides, we need to make your endorsers more comfortable with your position. If they think you’re out for the count, the endorsements will dry up.”

Money
. It always came to that. “I’d rather focus on my recovery.”

Brows drawn together in one of the few frowns Jason had ever seen from his friend, Aaron shook his head.
“Sorry, Jase. It’s my job to tell you like it is. You don’t do voluntary publicity immediately, and you will be a washed up has-been. Your rep has taken a beating, especially since the press knows you better for your club preference than your court prowess. I need to keep you afloat till then.”

Jason’s jaw tightened. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

“I tell it like it is. I had to talk SI into this interview and spread. You have more money than Croesus, but I know you. You need to play. We need to clean up your image, get people to focus on who you really are, a fucking tennis genius.” His frown morphed into a determined smile. “Don’t worry. We’ll have you back in fighting shape in no time. Then everyone will see the truth. Jason Cartwright is a star. Always has been and always will be.”

A sickening fog rolled over Jason. That’s what he was afraid of. What if he couldn’t do it? What if he was a washed out has-been at thirty-four? What if he should have listened to Michaels? He nodded noncommittally. He wondered when he’d become a liar.

A sly smile spread over his friend’s face. The same smile he used whenever he went for a kill on a deal. “Would you cheer up if I told you the 
Sports Illustrated
 photo shoot is with Z Con?”

Jason put down the wooden spoon, unable to believe it. Giddy excitement tripped over synapses in his brain. He’d been trying to meet the elusive photographer for several years, ever since seeing a spread in National Geographic. “You’re shitting me.”

Aaron’s grin widened. “No shit.”

“Has he done SI before?”

Aaron nodded. “Did a spread on LeBron last year. I brought you a copy. It’s in my car.”

For the first time since his surgery and the scandal, Jason’s spirits lifted. “I’m in.”

Chapter Three

“So, you two finally steam up the sheets last night?”

“What?” Stifling a yawn, Izzy whipped her head up from her task to glare at Jessica. “Would you be quiet? Somebody might hear you.” But as she scanned the long hallway off the back kitchen for potential clients, she saw none.

Jessica giggled. “I’ll take that as a no.” She chugged the last of her latte and added, “You can relax, nobody’s here yet. You know full well the looky-loos don’t start till around six-thirty.”

“Jess, not today. Please, I beg you. I can’t talk about my love life when we’re in the middle of a tart crisis.” Today of all days, Izzy didn’t need Jessica’s needling. They had their monthly Arts and Tarts open house, and she was already a wreck. She and several other small gallery owners in the neighborhood hosted open houses every month starting in the late winter to draw in potential customers.