Love in Straight Sets (8 page)

Ben’s head spun as Regan answered a question about the importance of role models in women’s sports. Something had crackled so electrically between them in the hallway that it practically singed his hair. There was no denying it was real, but was it worth putting his job at risk to pursue? Maybe she found him attractive, and maybe she wouldn’t mind a few nights between the sheets or even an extended fling. But he seriously doubted she would ever consider anything further.

After all, what did he have to offer her? A catastrophic backstory, a rented house on a down-market street and a tendency to drag her into a power struggle over every trivial aspect of her training.

Not to mention the only paychecks that came his way had her signature on them.

The audience politely applauded her rousing answer, and he forced himself to look up at her. His eyes skipped from the toffee-colored waves cascading over her shoulders to the wry curve of her posy-pink lips. Then he glanced over at Spencer, who was stroking his manicured stubble as he looked every woman on the panel up and down, his glossy good looks unable to conceal the bald hunger of a man who saw them as nothing more than a sexual buffet. Ben’s gaze jumped from Spencer’s brand-name shirt to Regan’s outrageously expensive designer earrings to his own scuffed shoes from a warehouse chain store.

He thought about Zimbabwe. About his sister. He imagined one-hundred-dollar bills falling from the sky onto the tennis court where Regan trained. And he pushed that moment in the hallway out of his mind with a determined shove.

He would make this work. He would get Regan her trophy without ever laying a finger on her. There was no other way.

Chapter Five

Regan smacked her palm against her forehead as yet another serve went wild. She longed to scream out her frustration, but that would earn at least ten push-ups so she clenched her eyes shut instead, hoping the momentary blackness might block out her careening emotions.

Instead she saw the same scene that had played over and over in her mind since that afternoon in Miami three days ago.

Something about the way Ben had looked at her on the floor of the hallway, visibly aroused and drawing closer, had plunked an unfamiliar but strangely pleasant weight in the pit of her stomach. The raw male instinct coursing through him had been so strong she could practically smell it, and despite having spent the rest of the week ruing his insistence on exerting his authority in every aspect of her training, every time she remembered that moment the weight in her stomach began to thud and pulse in a delicious, alluring rhythm.

Yet something about him had changed. Outwardly he was his usual, annoyingly jovial self, but just below the surface he seemed closed, his posture rigid and his eyes shuttered. He was as engaged as ever in her training, but had taken a decisive step back from their personal rapport. He began each morning with polite and uncharacteristically formal small talk, and their end-of-day routine of easy conversation as they cleared stray balls from the court had become a swift, silent and ruthlessly efficient five minutes.

And as much as she hated to admit it, his withdrawal was affecting her game. Once she realized that Ben’s change in demeanour wasn’t a one-off grumpy morning, she’d fallen into a disengaged funk that she couldn’t shake off. She struggled to focus on anything, spending the mornings hitting wild shots and the afternoons losing spectacularly to Catharina, the Dutchwoman Ben hired to be her new sparring partner. The Baron’s Open trophy slipped further out of reach with every missed volley, and Regan knew that no extra racket half inch or laps around the court could help her.

She glanced over to where he stood on the sideline, as inadvertently handsome as ever.

“Two more,” he instructed without looking at her, writing in his notebook. Regan sighed wearily and reached into her pocket for another ball.

Clearly she’d misread the signs. Either he’d been caught up in the moment and now he regretted it, or he hadn’t been flirting with her at all.

Getting involved with her coach would’ve been a terrible idea anyway. And why would she want to in the first place? Sure, he was good-looking, but he was also the exact opposite of what she wanted. Nothing like the media-savvy swaggerers she occasionally paired off with, whose ambition meant everything was negotiable. How many times had she practically heard a guy’s publicity strategy grinding away in his head as he imagined all the doors a high-profile athlete girlfriend could open for him? But she didn’t mind. It made the relationship—and the sex, when it came to that—transactional and unemotional, with no potential to be hurt.

Once she retired she would focus on having a real, meaningful connection, yet even then she suspected it would have to be with someone from the world of professional sports, or at least someone with equivalent wealth. Her orbit would still be one of black-tie fundraisers and sunset cocktail parties on yachts, and her future husband—if she dared to think that far ahead—would have to fit into and ideally enjoy that world. As much as she loved the idea of settling down with a hard-grafting, working-class guy like her dad or even one of the many sons-of-acquaintances her mom was always eyeing up on her behalf, it simply wasn’t feasible. She was too many miles from home now, and there was no retracing the distance.

And Ben? She shook her head as she held the ball aloft, lining up her toss. He couldn’t be more wrong for her in every aspect. His laid-back demeanor hid a core of steel. He was rigid and unyielding when it came to her training. He’d fired her sparring partner with a ruthlessness she was shocked he possessed, and he resolutely refused to engage with the diva persona that had kept overreaching coaches at bay for nearly ten years.

She’d opened up to him more than she had to anyone in years when she told him about her panic attacks. She’d trusted him with that precious, secret vulnerability. And he was repaying her with distance, detachment and the relentless exertion of his control.

He was intent on ripping apart her carefully constructed armor until there was nothing left to protect her against the cutthroat, brutal world of professional sports. She tossed the ball with a disgusted exhale, swinging her racket to nail it across the net.

Nothing left to protect her except
him
.

“Out.”

Regan sagged on her feet. “Can we leave it for today? I’m tired.”

He crossed his arms. “Serve again.”

She reached into her pocket and came up empty. “I’m out of balls. Surely that’s a sign we should pack it in.”

Ben reached down, picked up a ball and hurled it in a fast overhand arc that she barely managed to intercept before it hit her in the face.

“What the hell is up with you?” she hollered.

“I told you to serve.” His irritable tone was so unexpected that for a second she could do nothing but gape at him across the court, desperate to know what was wrong and panicked that she’d finally pushed him too far.

“I’m serious.” She took a step forward. “Is everything okay?”

Ben seemed to gather himself, breathing deeply. “It’ll be a lot better once you stop messing around and serve the damn ball.”

“Right, that’s it. I’m done.” She threw the ball back at him as hard as she could, ignoring how easily he caught her throw. Then she let the racket slip from her aching hand, plunked down cross-legged on the cool surface of the indoor court and rested her chin on her fists. If he didn’t want to tell her what was bothering him, that was fine by her.

“Not like I care anyway,” she muttered, unsuccessfully attempting to convince herself it was true.

She heard him sigh in exasperation and start toward her. She knew he’d be angry. He’d been angry all week. She was sick of it. Sick of him.

A pair of sneakered feet arrived in front of where she sat on the court. She followed the bare, muscled legs a long way up, past the cargo shorts and T-shirt, to Ben’s stern expression.

“Get up.”

She shook her head.

“You’re wasting my time. On your feet. Now.”

“I’m wasting as much of your time hitting awful shots as I am sitting here. I’m tired. I’ll take this option.”

“So stop hitting awful shots.”

“Yeah, because it’s that easy.” She rolled her eyes. “I don’t know what your problem is, but I don’t appreciate you taking it out on me.”

“I think you know exactly what my problem is. It’s sitting on the court in front of me.”

“Very funny.”

“About as funny as the accusation that I’m taking something out on you. Pretty rich from the queen of misdirected anger, don’t you think?”

She pulled her legs up to her chest and wrapped her arms around her knees, full of a defeat worse than any she’d experienced at the hands of her opponents. “Go home, Ben. Walk away. We both know this isn’t working and that you’re the one who has to end it.”

He crouched in front of her, taking off his UCLA baseball cap to curve the brim between his hands. His slightly mussed brown hair needed a trim, and Regan clenched her teeth against the impulse to smooth it back into place. The all-too-familiar swell of attraction bubbled in her chest as she stared into his unwavering, gray-green eyes.

“You want me to quit?”

“Only because I can’t fire you.”

“And what fire-able offense have I committed today?”

His sharp tone and cold expression were a million miles away from the tender, soothing presence that had saved her from humiliating herself in front of an elevator full of people, and they cut her so deeply she flinched.

“You’ve barely said a word to me all week. It’s obvious you don’t want to be here, so feel free to leave.”

“I didn’t realize it was my job to make conversation.”

“And I’m pretty sure it’s not your job to be a moody asshole,” she shot back with unexpected vehemence. She clamped her mouth shut as she glared at him, annoyed that she’d let him see how much he was getting to her.

He leaned back on his heels, regarding her steadily. “Do you want to talk about what happened in Miami?”

About as much as she wanted to chew off her arm. More than anything she wanted him to leave her alone, so she could get back to her life of malleable coaches and straightforward emotions. “There’s nothing to say.”

He watched her for another minute, his gaze thoughtful and maybe a fraction warmer. He glanced down at the court, took another one of his steadying breaths, then straightened and stuck out his hand. “Come on. We’re going for a run.”

She stared up at him, not sure whether to laugh or frown at his absurd suggestion. “Um, no we’re not.”

“Yes, we are. We’re not getting anywhere on this court and running is the best way to clear your head.”

“Your head, maybe. Mine is perfectly fine the way it is, thanks.”

He smirked. “Denial doesn’t suit you.” He gestured for her to hurry up. “Let’s go.”

“I ran yesterday.”

“On the treadmill, in the air-conditioned gym, for about twenty minutes until you whined so much I said you could stop. Now we’re going to run outside, and get some oxygen into your blood.”

Her whole body tensed. Ever since high school, when two girls from the country club had deliberately led her off course and then abandoned her on a cross-country run, she hated running outside. There were so many variables that she couldn’t control: weather, temperature, teenagers on bikes, dogs off leashes, cars running stop signs—the list was endless. It baffled her that people found running to be a relaxing pastime, because to her it was a perfect storm of uncontainable neuroses.

She shook her head and went for the first excuse that popped into her head. “No way. It’s too hot.”

“It’s not even nine o’clock, and it rained this morning. It’s fine.”

“It’s rush hour. The roads will be packed.”

“You live in a gated community. There is no rush hour.”

She studied the laces of her sneakers. “I don’t have my running shoes.”

“Neither do I. Those will be fine. It’s a couple miles, not a marathon.”

“A couple
miles
? I can’t. I don’t have my headphones, I’m not wearing the right clothes, my socks are way too thin and I told you that sometimes running too much makes my knee—”

“Cut the shit, Regan.”

Startled into silence by his uncharacteristically harsh tone, her eyes shot up to his.

His expression was as unyielding as his voice. “You need to get it through your skull that I’m not like your other coaches. You can’t wheedle and complain until you get what you want, and nothing you do—”

He faltered, and Regan wondered if he was thinking about that hotel corridor, about the roaring fire tugging them together and the cold water the staff member’s entrance threw on it. He squared his shoulders and continued even more resolutely, “
Nothing
will make me quit. You’re stuck with me until the moment you step onto the winner’s podium at the Baron’s. Now stand up and stop acting like a child.”

She knew the slack-jawed, wide-eyed look wasn’t her most attractive but couldn’t seem to make any of her muscles work—except the ones that hoisted her up onto her feet and had her following Ben through the clubhouse and out to the street in silent, stunned obedience.

“Right,” he announced as they emerged into the morning sunlight, “away we go.”

As he broke into a slow jog, the familiar, nauseating roil of anxiety began to churn in her stomach as increasingly panicked thoughts whirred through her mind, slowly at first, then faster like a rusty outboard motor coming back to life.
What if I fall behind?
Will he stay with me?
What if he runs on ahead?
What if I get lost?
What if I need to stop?
Will he laugh at me?
Why is he making me do this?

Her stomach tightened, her hands clenched into fists at her side.

What if I can’t do this?
Oh my God
,
I
can’t do this
,
I
can’t do this...

“That’s it, nice and easy.”

Ben’s voice broke through the dizzying stream of thoughts, and she was back to the world of chirping birds, warm pavement and the muffled sound of sneakered feet hitting the ground. They left the clubhouse driveway and turned onto the main road, and she tried to talk herself out of the high-alert nerves that were tightening her throat so much her breaths came in short, ragged gasps. She held each inhale for a count of four and exhaled fully, reminding herself that she was a professional athlete. Assuring herself that she wouldn’t get lost, that she could keep up, that Ben wouldn’t leave her.

He’d said as much, hadn’t he? He wouldn’t quit. They would draw a line under Monday afternoon, she would reset her expectations, let go of her disappointment and start fresh. And she would at least try to do what he wanted—to relinquish control.

Starting now.

She could do this, she told herself sternly, as the warmth of exertion began to flood through her veins, easing the tension in her body. Of course she could.

This part of the road was one long incline, and Regan’s body shifted into gear, her heart and lungs adjusting to her revved-up motion, the movement of her legs becoming an unconscious stride. Slowly but surely her thoughts blurred and fell quiet as the muscles in her calves protested. Her feet throbbed from the hard surface of the pavement and her heart stepped up its beat, pounding faster as the hill demanded more from her body.

It only took a minute to crest the hill, and Ben visibly reined in his stride on the flat stretch at the top. In her peripheral vision she could see how often he glanced her way, ensuring his pace was just fast enough to urge her on without pushing her too hard. He set their direction, he regulated their tempo and, for the first time in as long as she could remember, she was happy to hang back and let him take charge.