Mixed Signals (9 page)

Nico's voice on the radio this morning replays in my head:
I'm blessed.

Maybe it is time for me to do something crazy.

I inch toward the game, watching Ben's expression to see if there's anything to Renee's words about the way he looks at me. I don't notice a thing.

“Why are you staring at me like that?” he asks when I reach him. “Do I have something on my face?” He wipes his mouth.

“I wasn't staring,” I say, feeling ridiculous.

We both turn our attention toward the game. Usually the silence between us is comfortable, but tonight it's awkward. Thank you, Renee and Ellie. So that we're not just standing there staring at each other, I begin to narrate each shot with my best sports-announcer voice. “That's an air ball. He's going to have to focus more if he's going to pull out a W.”

Ben laughs, so I continue. “Nothing but net on that last shot.”

The player misses a shot and looks over his shoulder at me. My narration may be distracting him, but I don't stop.

“He's on fire now,” I say.

“Shooting the lights out,” Ben says in a gravelly voice, which I think is an imitation of the legendary Boston Celtics' announcer Johnny Most.

“He's making a living behind the three-point arc,” I say.

“It's raining threes,” Ben says.

“He can nail the trifecta.”

“He's the hot hand,” Ben says.

“He can really shoot the three-ball.”

Ben has run out of banal expressions, but I have more. I guess I didn't completely tune out the games during all the hours I spent next to Nico on the sofa, reading while he watched. “He's money, a pure shooter. He can fill it up,” I say.

The guys who were playing basketball give us a strange look and move on to another game. Ryan sneaks up behind us. He smiles at me appreciatively. “Nico sure trained you right for the next guy,” he says.

Just like that, all the air is sucked out of the room. If anything, Nico has soured me on sports. I glare at Ryan, fantasizing about twisting his head off and shooting it through the net. His and Nico's.

Ben steps up to the abandoned machine and digs two quarters out of his pocket. “Let's see you put your money where your mouth is, Jillian.”

Ryan wanders back to the table at the bar. Good riddance!

“Loser buys lunch next week,” Ben says.

I nod in agreement, certain I will win. I used to beat Nico all the time. Boy, did my winning annoy him. He'd make us play for hours because he refused to quit until he won. By the end of the night, my arms would hurt from shooting so many baskets.

Ben presses the game's start button. The score lights and timer flash on. Music and an annoying whining voice, which I guess is supposed to be cheering, blast from the speakers. Ben spins a ball on his index finger before shooting his first basket. As he lifts his arms over his head, preparing to take his first shot, his shirt rises, revealing the elastic band of his Jockey briefs and a patch of smooth skin on his strong lower back.

He looks back at me over his shoulder. I worry that the cocky grin he gives me is because he knows I'm admiring his body. “Haven't missed one yet,” he says. I glance at his score, thirty-eight, which means he's hit nineteen in a row. I turn my attention from his back to his shooting. He's like a machine, throwing basketball after basketball through the net. As he does, I notice the way his muscular biceps flex each time he shoots the ball. I think about Ellie's words in the restroom. Maybe I should take her advice.
So hey, Ben, what do you say we upgrade this friendship. Add some benefits.

“Beat that!” Ben says. I didn't realize his turn ended. He has 118 points.

“Oh, I got this,” I say, running my hand up his arm because I suddenly need to feel it. It's as rock solid as it looks. Why haven't I ever noticed that before?

“Well, let's see.” He playfully smacks my butt as I approach the machine.

Would he touch another coworker there? I try to imagine him grabbing Renee's butt. Nope.

“Where will you take me for lunch?” he asks.

I shake my head and press the start button. Spinning a ball on my finger, I cock my head sideways and smile. “Watch and learn.” The first ball I shoot swishes through the net.

“So you got lucky,” he says.

I score twenty-eight consecutive shots. With thirty-one seconds still left on the clock, I have already tied Ben's score.

“Damn,” he whines. “You are freakishly good at this.”

Again, I imagine taking Ellie's advice and coming on to Ben.
I'm freakishly good at a lot of things
, I would say, playing with my hair and trying to look seductive. The thought causes me to laugh because I could never pull it off.

When my score is ten points higher than Ben's, he tries to distract me by tossing popcorn at me. Instead of throwing the basketballs toward the net, I turn and hurl them at him. He catches the first, but the second ricochets off the ball he's holding and bounces through the room. An employee dressed as a referee returns it to us with a scolding.

“Two out of three,” Ben says.

This time when he shoots the balls, the tip of his tongue hangs out of the right corner of his mouth. I've seen the same thing at work when he's concentrating hard on an illustration he's drawing. His seriousness makes me laugh. I inch closer to him. He glances at me sideways. I bump my hip against his. He bumps back, undistracted. I lean into him with all my weight. He laughs, leans back, and keeps scoring. Finally I yank on his arm and pull it backward.

He drops the ball he's holding and grabs me, pushing and twisting me so that my back is pressed up against the machine and he's facing me. He pins my hands high above my head. “Afraid you're going to lose?” he asks.

“No chance.” I try to squirm away. He tightens his grip on me. We both laugh as I try to shove him off me. The more I try, the harder he presses against me. His thighs are as rock solid as his biceps.

Our faces are less than an inch apart. Our eyes lock. There are specs of gold in his green irises that I've never noticed before. His soapy clean smell from the morning is gone, replaced with a sweaty, provocative scent that is stirring up desires that have been dormant in me since Nico left.

“If I let you go, are you going to behave?” he asks. “Let me start over, with no cheating?”

He's so close that I feel his warm breath on my face as he speaks. If I move just a spec forward, our lips would touch.
Do it.
The thought pops into my head.
Damn Ellie!

“Jillian?”

My mouth goes dry at the sound of Ben's voice saying my name. I struggle to swallow. “Okay.”

He releases me. While he feeds the basketball machine with coins for our next game, I try to compose myself.
What's wrong with me?
I watch him shooting baskets, everything below my waist tingling, thinking about how good his hard body felt pressing against mine.

I glance away from him toward the bar. Ellie and Renee are both staring at me. Ellie has a huge grin, but Renee looks concerned. This is their fault! They planted these crazy thoughts in my head.

Ben's turn ends. He scored 132 points. I step up to the machine, but can't focus. Shot after shot, the ball bounces off the rim. My final score is eighteen points.

“What happened?” Ben asks.

“I have no idea,” I say without meeting his eyes.

T
he WimbleDome Mixed Doubles Tournament begins on Saturday morning with a continental breakfast. When I arrive, all the players are gathered around the bulletin board in the back of the Club Café checking out the brackets to see whom they are playing.

David is meeting with the umpires by the bar, giving them their assignments and passing out shirts with the navy-blue WimbleDome logo, a D that looks like a dome with an uppercase W going through it. Ben designed the logo as a favor to me years ago.

Ben. Last night after our basketball game, he sat at the bar, chatting up the bartender, who kept finding reasons to bend toward him, giving him an up-close view of her ridiculous cleavage. At one point, I saw her scribbling on a napkin and handing it to him. He cocked his head and a sly smile crossed his face as he tucked it into his pocket. Before he left for the night, he touched her hand. “See you tomorrow,” he said.

“Can't wait.” She giggled.

There's no doubt what he'll be doing tonight or who he'll be doing it with. Meanwhile, Nico will be at the restaurant where he proposed to me, with Bonnie, the Namaste Nitwit. I should have taken Ellie's advice last night and figured out a way to go home with Ben. That way, I wouldn't be obsessing about Nico's date.

“Jillian,” David says. “You're on court one.” He tosses a shirt at me. “So you better do a good job.” The windows in the café overlook court one. It's also where the finals are held, so there's no doubt I'll be here all day.

I leave to change into my shirt. When I return, there's a commotion by the bulletin board. Branigan has penciled his name into the winner's spot on the bracket. The other players all laugh. “You overly confident bastard,” someone says, slapping him on the back. Tania and Jeff Long, who have been runners-up to the Branigans the last two years, walk away whispering to each other.

Branigan and his wife work their way through the crowd to where David and I are standing. Tammy's blond hair is perfectly coiffed, flowing freely over her shoulders. Her face looks tanned, and she's wearing eye shadow, mascara, and lipstick. In comparison, most of the other women are wearing white baseball caps over their heads. Those with hair long enough have ponytails sticking out the hole in the back. Their complexions are the typical New England late-February transparent, and none of them have bright colors painted over their eyelids.

“Sean. Tammy,” David says, shaking their hands.

Tammy hugs me hello. The overpowering scent of her lavender perfume causes me to sneeze.

“Jillian,” Branigan says, nodding his head. “What do you think about the response to our little contest? None of us at the station were expecting anything like that.”

“I hope prostituting Nico is worth the jump in your ratings,” I say.

Branigan laughs. “If you were listening this week,” he says, “you heard there's a lot of interest in a date with you too.”

“Thanks, I'm all set,” I say while imagining ripping his tongue out of his mouth so he could never speak again.

“Really, does that mean you're dating someone?” He smirks as if what I'm telling him is impossible.

“It does.” I purposely keep my voice low, hoping I sound convincing. I know I shouldn't lie, but he makes me crazy.

“Who is he? How did you meet?”

Good going, Jillian.
“I'd rather not say.”

Branigan studies me for a moment. “Is that because it's someone Nico knows?”

I keep my expression neutral. “Maybe.” Now that I've started, I may as well continue with the lie. Branigan is bound to tell Nico. Maybe Nico will even be jealous.

“I'll make sure to let Nico know.” The bastard actually winks like he knows my lie is all a ploy to try to get Nico back.

Well, isn't it?
asks the voice in my head that never lets me get away with anything.

David whistles. The loud conversations end abruptly. Everyone turns toward him. “Welcome to the tenth annual WimbleDome Mixed Doubles Tournament.” He explains the rules and talks about the prizes: a gift certificate to a five-star restaurant down the street from the tennis club, tickets to watch the Red Sox home opener in WSPR's suite, and a month's free membership for the winning couple. “Good luck to all the opponents. Win or lose, I hope everyone has fun today,” he says.

The bell rings. The crowd hustles out of the café, only to get caught up in a line on the stairs. David and I wait behind the mob. “You're dating already,” he says. “Good for you.”

“Yeah.” I know I should tell him the truth. He's good friends with Branigan, though, and I don't want Branigan to know I was lying. He can suspect it all he wants, but I'm not going to confirm it for him.

“How did you meet?” David asks.

Ben's face pops into my head. “Work.”

“Be careful with that,” David warns. “Things can get tricky if you break up.”

* * *

The morning matches are uneventful. I sit in a chair by the net, looking down on the court, calling balls in or out. Most of the shots land clearly inbounds or out, so there are no disputes. At the end of long rallies, the crowd watching from the café upstairs pounds on the glass, showing their appreciation of the well-fought points. Opponents shake hands at the conclusion of the matches and wish each other well in the rest of the tournament.

When we break for lunch, there are only eight couples left. The Branigans are one of them. Sean edges in behind me in the buffet line. “Have you heard how the Longs are doing?” he asks.

I use the tongs to drop a sourdough roll on my plate. “They haven't lost a set yet.”

Sean picks up an onion roll with his fingers. “Tammy and I haven't lost a game.” He winks and pushes his way past me to the deli meat.

* * *

No one is surprised that the Branigans are taking on the Longs in the final match. As he does every year, David assigns a second umpire to call the match with me. I'm a bit surprised to see that he's appointed Jordan Kaufman though, because Jordan owns a jewelry shop that regularly advertises on
BS Morning Sports Talk
during the holidays. In fact, Nico purchased my ring at his store. I know because he presented it to me in the telltale blue velvet box with the letter K printed on top of it in a cursive gold font.

When Jordan walks onto the court, Branigan shakes his hand and turns to me. “When you return the ring to Nico, I'm sure Jordan will give him back most of what he paid for it.”

“Or,” Jordan says, “I can turn the diamond into earrings or a necklace for you.”

“That wouldn't be right,” Branigan says, shaking his head before returning to the side of the court to get ready for the last match.

Jordan and I decide that he'll be responsible for calls on the side of the court closest to the outside wall and I'll handle those on the side of the café window. The Branigans and Longs wish each other good luck and the match is set to begin. The large group of members gathered in front of the window in the café cheer wildly when the teams walk onto the court. Branigan pumps his fist at them, and they pound the glass harder. I guess I'm the only one rooting against the guy.

The match is well played, both teams fighting hard for every point. The rallies are long, with the Longs and Branigans both running all over the court to make seemingly impossible returns. Most of the games go to deuce several times. After more than two hours, the players all look spent. Tammy's eye shadow and mascara streak down her face, and her blond hair is wet with perspiration. Sweat drips down Branigan's face, legs, and arms onto the clay surface. Jeff is moving with a limp, and Tania keeps rubbing her right shoulder and elbow.

The match is winding down though. The Longs are only one point away from unseating the Branigans as the club champions. The crowd in the café is silent. Most of them are watching with their hands covering their mouths or their arms folded across their chests. Tania prepares to serve to Branigan, who glides up and down on his tiptoes waiting for the ball. She bounces the ball four times, tosses it high in the air, extends her racquet, and taps the ball toward Sean. The serve has no speed or spin. The ball floats in the air like a hot air balloon. Branigan's eyes light up as he gets ready to slam it. He brings his racquet back and then accelerates it forward through the ball. He swings hard. The ball soars over the net, whizzing between Tania and Jeff. It bounces near the outer edge of the baseline and skids out of bounds. The crowd in the café all swipe their hands horizontally, indicating the ball was in. Jeff and Tania both yell, “Out!”

Branigan pumps his fist like he knows the shot is good. He looks at me, waiting for me to confirm his call. I too know that the ball was in, but every hideous thing he has said about my breakup over the last six weeks runs through my mind in an endless loop.
Tom Brady was sacked and then you sacked your fiancée. Win a date with our producer. Send pictures, clothing optional. When you return the ring to Nico . . .

“Out,” I say. It's barely a whisper.

Branigan squeezes his eyes closed.

“Did you call it?” Tania asks, moving across the court toward me.

“It was out,” I say again, louder.

Tania jumps up and down. Jeff pulls her into an embrace.

“It was in!” Branigan roars. “Jordan, do something!”

The crowd at the window bangs on the glass, screaming the shot was good.

“I couldn't see it,” Jordan says. “Jeff was blocking my view.”

“Damn it, Jillian. You know it was good,” Branigan yells.

“Sorry, it just missed. By like a millimeter.” My voice is as high as Minnie Mouse's.

He smashes his racquet against one of the net's poles. The sound of metal on metal echoes around the dome. He drops his mangled racquet to the ground and stalks over to me. His face burns red. The veins in his neck bulge; his pulse throbs in his forehead.

I step backward. He moves along with me, backing me into the curtain separating court one from court two. He jabs his fingers in my face. “Do the right thing here, or I swear to God, I'll make you pay for it.” He's baring his teeth.

Jeff, Tania, and Jordan watch with wide eyes, too stunned by his outburst to react. Tammy runs toward us, grabbing his arm. “Don't be a poor sport, Sean,” she says.

He shakes her hand off. “I'm warning you, Jillian!”

David races into the dome and wedges himself between the two of us.

He grabs Sean, trying to calm him. “She knows it was in!” Branigan screams, trying to wiggle his way free of David.

“Go, Jillian,” David says.

Yikes! What have I done? Sunken to his level, that's what. Maybe I should admit I made a mistake? I look over at the Longs. Jeff is massaging Tania's shoulder. Nope, that wouldn't be fair to them.

As I head toward the exit, Branigan stops screaming. The bubble becomes eerily quiet. I look back toward the court and make eye contact with him. “You're going to pay for this,” he says.