Love in Straight Sets (13 page)

“I don’t.” His nod was encouraging as he backed up. “Go enjoy your win. You earned it.”

“Will I see you later?”

“Sure. Later.”

He pivoted on his heel and shouldered his way back toward the stands. Regan watched him walk away, feeling more alone with every passing second despite the increasing number of people gathering around her, until the clamoring requests for her attention couldn’t be ignored. She turned to face the press with a stiff, too-bright smile and fought to quell the sense that one of her racket strings was wrapped around her heart, pulling tighter across the distance that grew with each of Ben’s steps.

* * *

Ben paused, his hand raised to knock on the door of Regan’s room, then dropped it back to his side.

For the fourth time.

He shifted his feet on the patterned hotel carpet, speculating again about Regan’s true motive. Their professional relationship had steadily improved since they’d parted in the restringing room a week earlier, but the personal element had disappeared altogether. Their training sessions were mostly harmonious, always ending with a neutral handshake and detached farewell. Regan climbed into the golf cart she drove inside the community, Ben started the engine on his car and neither one of them looked over their shoulders as they set off in different directions.

It was good. How it should be.

And he hated every second.

Of course, on occasion the agony of his self-restraint meant Ben had to grit his teeth the whole way home and stroke himself to relief the minute he walked in the door. And at times he wanted so badly to soothe away the worry and frustration and shaky self-confidence that constantly churned beneath Regan’s glossy exterior that his arms literally ached with his need to hold her. Some nights he woke up groaning from a dream about her, which even if only half remembered was vivid enough to have him lying in bed for hours afterward, haunted by recollections of her face lit by moonlight, the smooth contours of her body under her tank top, the soft yet unrelenting press of her mouth on his.

Okay—that was every night.

Which was why he dreaded knocking on her door.

He hadn’t known what to expect when she grabbed his arm in the stadium hallway after the trophy presentation, the two of them becoming stones in the stream of people dispersing at the conclusion of the event.

“What are you up to tonight?” she’d asked with casualness more appropriate to a chance encounter on the sidewalk than an hour after winning a major tennis tournament.

“Some of the staff are hitting a bar in town, and I thought I might tag along. You’re off to the players’ reception with your parents, I assume?”

She wrinkled her nose. “My parents want to drive home after dinner, and I can’t face all those fake smiles and polite chitchat tonight. I’m in the mood to celebrate. Where’s this shindig you’re talking about?”

Ben hesitated. While the players schmoozed with the bigwigs in plush private cocktail lounges, the staff parties at major tournaments were raucous and scruffy. They were also sacred ground, where team divisions fell away and people could talk openly about how much they hated their employers.

“Come on,” Regan prodded. “Everyone knows about them. I’ve always wanted to go, but never had a coach who was young and cool enough to take me.”

“You want me to take you to the staff party?”

“Sure, why not?”

Because no one would ever forgive him for bringing a player to the anti-player party. Because the minute she walked in the door the atmosphere would pop like a balloon. Because he could picture people leaving en masse to head to another bar—and refusing to tell him which one.

There were at least a hundred reasons, but in that moment his stunned brain couldn’t think of a single one that wouldn’t offend her. So he shrugged. “I’ll come to your room at nine.”

“Perfect.” She’d grinned and swished off into the crowd.

He checked the time on his phone—ten minutes past nine. She was waiting for him. With a deep, steadying breath, Ben raised his hand for the fifth time and finally rapped on the door.

Regan flung it open and joined him in the corridor so quickly, he thought she must be worried he would change his mind. And with one look at her figure-hugging jeans and boatneck top, he thought he might too. He didn’t know how he would cope if one of the other staffers got grabby—or if he had to watch her flirting right back.

“Let’s go,” he grumbled, his night already as good as ruined.

They managed to slip out of the hotel without seeing anyone they knew, and as they buckled into the rental sedan Regan asked, “Will you know many people there?”

“Quite a few.” He backed out of the parking lot and headed downtown. “You tend to see the same people over and over again, wherever you are. For such an international sport, tennis can be a small world.”

“What kind of people?”

“Everyone. Coaches, assistant coaches, press, publicity, sponsorship coordinators, junior agents, personal chefs, racket stringers—all the people behind the scenes who make the matches possible.” He glanced over at her. “Players themselves are usually strictly forbidden, so I’m not sure what kind of reception you’ll get.”

“I expected as much. Don’t worry, I have a plan.”

Ben stifled a groan as he parked the car on the street across from the tavern-style bar, which already had several smokers lined up outside. He didn’t know them, but from the way their eyes widened as Regan stood up from the car, he suspected he was now their primary topic of conversation.

He led her to the door, past their silent stares. “Are you sure you want to do this? These things really aren’t as fun as everyone makes out. I could still get you back in time to make the end of the players’ reception.”

“You worry too much. It’ll be fun—let’s go in.”

Ben pushed open the door and the din of laughter and conversation died to a hush as soon as Regan crossed the threshold. He was reminded of those old Westerns where cowboys push through swinging doors into saloons, except there was cheesy 90s pop on the sound system instead of a piano, and he felt more inclined to usher Regan straight back out than challenge anyone to a high-noon duel. He was about to do exactly that when she stepped forward and addressed the room.

“Don’t mind me, everyone. I’m just out for a couple of beers with my coach—who, for the record, did his level best to talk me out of coming. But I grew up a couple hours down the highway from here, and I needed a break from all the stuffed shirts running the tournament. To say thanks for letting me crash the party, the next round is on me.”

There was a tense moment of contemplative silence. Then one of the court maintenance guys—already several drinks in gauging by the slur in his voice—announced, “What happens after Tallahassee, stays in Tallahassee!”

It didn’t make a whole lot of sense, but raised a welcoming cheer anyway. As they made their way to the bar the lively atmosphere resumed.

“What can I get you?” Regan asked after she arranged a tab for the free round.

“I’m driving, so I’ll stick with water. You go ahead, you earned a drink or two today.”

She shook her head. “I had a glass of champagne earlier, that’s enough deviation from my training program for one day. I’ll drive home.”

He paused, and she elbowed him in the ribs. “Loosen up, Coach. I’m giving you the night off.”

His eyes skipped from the silky waves erupting from her ponytail to the teasing curve of her mouth. Then he glanced over her shoulder at the swarthy Greek line judge who was looking her up and down, lips already curving in a predatory smile.

Spencer’s face materialized in his mind, with his perfectly coiffed blond hair and bespoke suits. Ben may have beaten him once, but Spencer had won the Baron’s multiple times after he left the game. He imagined the panel where winners’ names were inscribed on the trophy. There would be one entry for B. Percy and at least three for S. Vaughan.

He looked down at his own faded, off-brand cargo shorts. There was a hole forming at the corner of one pocket, where he kept his keys along with a little notebook in which he recorded training ideas and general reminders. The currently earmarked page, he knew from memory, had a note to pay the electric bill and stock up on dog food while it was on sale.

Spencer probably had a personal assistant to do these sorts of things. No, scratch that—Spencer didn’t have enough capacity for love to ever entertain getting a pet.

But he was the man Regan had wanted, at least for a while. And when it came to a washed-up old player with an unstoppable serve and a dwindling bank balance, she had made her feelings—or lack thereof—perfectly clear last week. Why couldn’t Ben take his own advice and let go?

He turned to the bartender. “Double tequila shot and a beer to chase it.”

* * *

After an hour most of the people in the bar had built up the courage to say hello to Regan, and after two hours many of them had moved on to sharing their life stories, asking for advice on how to get a break in the industry or blatantly hitting on her. She was gracious and patient with everyone, yet made sure she never strayed too far from Ben’s side. But he had a lot of acquaintances and was constantly being pulled away, so it was no easy task.

She wasn’t sure what her motive had been when she’d pushed him to bring her along. It was true that she didn’t want to go to the players’ reception, but this sweaty, crowded, noisy scene wasn’t her idea of a great night either. Maybe she wanted to prove to Ben that she could hang with his friends, that she wasn’t this untouchable tennis princess, living sequestered behind the walls of her big house. Maybe she wanted to show him how normal she could be, to excuse her extravagant birthday party and her random panic attacks and her erratic, mixed sexual messages.

Or maybe she just wanted to spend time with him, any way she could get it.

She waded over to a space beside a window where two assistant coaches were clapping him on the back and shoving another bottled beer in his hand. He turned as she approached, and his face lit up into a brilliant smile, so bright it warmed her from the inside out. She beamed back at him—until a woman pushed past her and wrapped her arms around his neck.

He nearly toppled over with the force of her hug and Regan rushed forward, ready to pry this crazed fan off her coach, when she realized he was laughing. And hugging her back. And giving her the thousand-watt smile Regan thought was meant for her.

She froze on the spot as she watched them grin and look each other over. Caught somewhere between dejected tears and jealous fury, above all she felt unbelievably stupid. Ben probably went out with various women all the time—why wouldn’t he? She certainly hadn’t given him anything to wait for.

She forced her lips into an insincere curve and stepped forward. Throwing an envious tantrum and storming out of the bar was no way to show him how normal she was, even though it’s exactly what she felt like doing. But regular people shook hands and introduced themselves. Regular people asked polite, inquiring questions.

Regular people sucked.

“How’s my favorite Zimbo?” the woman was asking as Regan joined them. She was incredibly tall, and her smooth, milk chocolate-colored skin pulled taut over the shapely muscles in her arms. If she wasn’t a tennis player, she should’ve been.

“I wouldn’t know, I’m American now,” he reminded her playfully, before noticing Regan’s appearance. “Kiana, this is Regan—I’m coaching her at the moment.”

“So I hear. Nice work, Ben,” she enthused.

“Regan, this is Kiana. We know each other from, uh, well, from—”

Kiana laughed, exposing the long line of her throat. “The word he’s struggling to find is ex-girlfriend. It’s nice to meet you, and congratulations on the win today.”

Regan felt as though she’d just taken a one-hundred-twenty-five-mile-an-hour serve straight to the gut. “Thanks,” she managed weakly.

Ben stared at his shoes, and she fought to keep her knees from buckling. Kiana was statuesque and beautiful, and Regan was stumpy and neurotic. No wonder it had only taken a few sentences to cool him off in the restringing room. He’d been with women ten times as sexy and self-assured as she was—not to mention most of them wouldn’t need to excuse themselves from a crowded elevator before they fainted from anxiety.

And here she was, following him around the party like a lovesick schoolgirl.

She thought of her mother’s quietly disappointed expression whenever she told her she still didn’t have a future husband to bring home for inspection. Tit for tat one-night stands with industry ladder-climbers was as good as she could get, apparently.

Kiana glanced between the two of them, a frown splicing the center of her forehead. “Sorry, I did say ex, right? Very ex. Years-ago ex. Better-as-friends ex. I’m-married-now ex.”

Ben’s head snapped up. “Oh, no, it’s not like that, we’re not—”

“It’s strictly professional.” If Regan had known she’d be doing this much fake smiling, she would’ve stayed at the hotel.

Kiana’s expression was unconvinced, but she kept quiet.

“Well, it was fantastic to meet you, but I just came over to let Ben know that I’m going to head back to the hotel.” Regan turned toward him, trying to ignore the tug in her heart as she took in the breadth of his shoulders, the sensual lips she longed to taste one more time. “Are you okay to get a taxi if I take the car?”

“I’ll come with you.”

“Stay. You’re having fun. I’m tired, that’s all.”

Kiana discreetly moved away with barely a raised brow, and Regan liked her all the more for it, to her chagrin. Ben took a final swig from his beer and plunked it on a table. He leaned in to say something, but as he opened his mouth, the rock cover band that had been warming up so long everyone had forgotten about them finally struck up their first song. The speakers were so loud that at first the whole bar froze in surprise, but within seconds people were moving onto the tiny dance floor at the back of the room and adjusting the volume of their conversations to be heard over the music.

Ben was looking at her expectantly, and she shook her head. “Sorry, what did you say?”