The Unforgiving Minute (18 page)

Drying himself off with the soft, fluffy towel after a long shower in which he gave himself the pep talk to end all pep talks, determination filled Ryan. He would be the best damn tennis player that the world had ever seen. And if that meant whipping Josh Andrews’s ass on a regular basis, well, that would just be a bonus.

T
O
EVERYONE
’
S
amazement, Ryan’s newfound determination carried him through to take the tournament title. Winning a Masters was a bit more than anyone had actually expected from him, it seemed. That stung. He knew he was capable of it. He’d been working his way steadily through the rankings and had been achieving consistently good results so far this season. He didn’t know why everyone was quite so surprised.

After hours celebrating in the bar with a bunch of people who wanted to be his new best friends, Ryan got back to his room in the early hours of the morning, drunk. Lying in bed, the room spinning lazily around him, he finally admitted to himself that he
did
get why people were so surprised. This tournament had been the first time he’d been able to maintain for any length of time the mind-set that tennis was always in the present tense. The previous point, good or bad, was irrelevant. All that mattered was the point he was playing now. In his desperate need to push everything else out of his mind, Ryan had finally managed to adopt that way of thinking for more than a few games at a time. He’d done pretty damn well at it off the court as well. Until now, lying in his bed, alone. He felt strangely hollow despite his massive win.

He might welcome his new-found ability to embrace the present and forget the past, but he hated what it had cost to get him there. Given the choice, he’d rather not have won and still have had Josh. But then, he’d never really had Josh, not the way he’d thought he had. He was grieving for a fantasy, not reality. The problem was, Ryan had believed in it with all of his heart.

He would never confess it to anyone, ever, but on the night of his first great career triumph, Ryan’s pillow was wet with his tears.

Chapter 18

T
WO
days later, Ryan was on the practice court in Barcelona. Another week; another country. It would be too easy to stop
seeing
the places he was visiting, to view them instead as one long series of tennis courts. Ryan was determined not to do that. He also knew that his dad, with his love of architecture, would never forgive him if he visited Barcelona and didn’t go to see Gaudi’s church.

Ryan had thought about flying his parents out to Rome for an all-expenses-paid vacation when he was due to play there in a few weeks, but had quickly realized it would still be school term time. He kept the notion in mind for later in the summer. He was suddenly winning silly amounts of money, and it was due to his parents’ love and support over the years. He wanted to be able to do something for them that showed just how much he appreciated it, and he knew that the architecture that surrounded him in these European cities would delight his dad, while his mom would love the historical side of it all. But tourism was for after he’d done what he was here to do, which was to play tennis and to win.

Walking back from the practice courts, he froze as he saw a very familiar group moving directly toward him. Josh’s army was on the march, with an instantly recognizable figure in whites in their midst. Ryan’s heart hammered in a mixture of shock, anger, and sudden hope. As they drew closer, he could see Josh more clearly. His hair was lighter in the sun than it had been even a week ago, new tension was bracketing his mouth, and his eyes were downcast as he looked at the path in front of him.

Ryan’s first impulse was to walk up to Josh, to demand to know what the hell Josh thought he’d been doing. Even as he thought it, Josh glanced up suddenly and looked directly at Ryan.

Ryan couldn’t breathe as he stared back into Josh’s eyes, seeing the shock in them being swiftly overlaid by complete blankness. His heart started again in painful thumps when Josh, deliberately, looked away again.

Tearing his eyes away, he shook his head in disgust at himself for ever having been so fucking stupid. He caught Danny’s gaze and was surprised to see hostility aimed at him. As if
he
was the one at fault here. Though, as Danny was employed by Josh, Ryan guessed he couldn’t really blame him for toeing the Josh Andrews corporate line.

He turned and walked away and wished it felt more like a dignified stalking off, filled with righteous anger, than a retreat. He felt shaky, the anger and confusion all churned up with the stupid,
pathetic
longing for what they’d had. Except they’d really never had it and he
knew
that.

Ryan headed swiftly for the players’ lounge, knowing Mitch would be there and needing a friend. Sure enough, Mitch was chatting with Philippe, Tobias Huntziger, and Tomas Marek. Ryan wasn’t quite sure when Mitch got to practice because he seemed to spend so much of his time in the lounge, whatever tournament he was at. As Ryan joined them, Mitch welcomed him like an old friend, slinging an arm round his shoulders. And as they talked about everything under the sun except Josh Andrews, he found that the warmth of Mitch’s welcome and the ease with which he accepted Ryan gradually steadied him again.

He would probably have spent the rest of the day with Mitch had they not been interrupted over lunch by a very glamorous brunette with a very sexy Spanish accent. So sexy, in fact, that Ryan found himself wondering if she was the female version of Mitch, who had instantly dropped into his fake drawl at her approach. Apparently she was an editor of some glossy women’s magazine that worshipped at the altar of Chase Mitchell, so Ryan excused himself from the mutual love-in, though Mitch gave him an apologetic roll of the eyes when she wasn’t looking.

Ryan was thankful he’d gotten away without an inquisition. Mitch had been looking at him closely, those gray eyes a bit too shrewd for comfort, as if he’d picked up that something was wrong. Ryan had tried to be more talkative and light-hearted to cover it, but he hadn’t even managed to convince himself. It felt as if he was walking round with a ball of lead in his stomach.

“W
ELL
,
that was a shocker, Pam. I didn’t see that coming.”

“I don’t think anyone did, Bill. We’ve gotten so used to Josh Andrews dominating at the top of the game that to see him eliminated in such early stages in two successive tournaments has taken everyone by surprise.”

“You say that, Pam, about him dominating, but he hasn’t looked like the usual Josh Andrews out there at all. He’s been tentative, playing defensively, and without any of the fire we’re used to seeing from him when he’s closing in for the kill. We know he had that time-out a few weeks back for injury. Do you think that’s troubling him?”

“He didn’t seem to be having any problems moving around the court just now, though the strapping on his knee is a bit of a concern.”

“Do you remember, back when he first burst onto the scene, he played spectacularly well for a young man just moved up from juniors, and then had that dip in form that lasted several months. We were beginning to wonder if he didn’t have what it took, but he got himself together again, and ever since then, we’ve gotten so used to his performance, I guess we’ve forgotten that episode. Because that’s what I’m seeing out there from him again, that same lack of self-belief, which is extraordinary when you look at that young man’s achievements to date.”

“Absolutely, Bill. Let’s hope this is nothing more than a blip and we’ll see him coming back stronger than ever in Rome.”

R
YAN
flew to Rome a few days before the start of the tournament because if he didn’t get to see at least the Colosseum, the Vatican, and the Pantheon, he would be disowned by his father. He did his filial duty and found that, with the wonder the Pantheon engendered and the mixture of awe and horror he felt on seeing the Colosseum, things got put back into perspective.

The first thing Ryan did on hearing that Elena had arrived in Rome was to text her his room number. Minutes later, there was a sharp pounding on his door and he opened it, only to stagger back under the assault of the small, dark-haired missile that launched itself at him. As Elena hugged him to within an inch of his life, he buried his face in her hair. Some of the tension that had been consuming him ever since things had gone so horribly wrong with Josh finally began to ease.

“What the hell did you think you were doing, winning a title when I wasn’t there to celebrate with you, you big lummox?”

“You know what, you’re right. Next time I get to a final, if you’re not there, I’ll throw the match.”

“Damn straight,” she said. Then punched him on the arm. “I’m proud of you.”

“And your way of showing that is ensuring I’ll never play again?” he said, rubbing his bicep. Elena packed one hell of a wallop.

“Shut up, and let’s go get supper.”

Ryan was always up for food. While he’d thought she meant the hotel restaurant, she had other ideas. Having been to Rome before, she knew exactly where she wanted to go, and once he tasted the food, he couldn’t fault her taste. Not that he’d have dared to, in any case.

“So,” she said, expertly dismantling a shrimp, “how are you really?”

He shrugged, uncomfortable at the penetrating scrutiny to which she was subjecting him. “Okay, I guess.”

“You guess?”

Sighing, he stared at his plate for a long minute before looking across the table at her sympathetic brown eyes. “I don’t get it, Elena,” he said. “I really thought there was something there, something real, you know? He
trusted
me about stuff. Why would he do that if he didn’t mean it?”

It took Elena some time to answer. Ryan wasn’t surprised; he’d been chewing it over ever since it had happened and still hadn’t come up with an answer.

“Maybe he did mean it, but his ego just couldn’t take the beating,” she said in the end. “You know how competitive we all are. Maybe that overrode everything else for him, but it didn’t mean that everything else wasn’t there.”

Ryan nodded slowly. That made sense, and it made him feel better, thinking that perhaps Josh
had
felt something for him. It meant Ryan hadn’t been completely stupid, because he’d begun to really question his judgment, or lack thereof.

“It’s his loss,” Elena said, raising her glass of water to him in a toast. “Now tell me, what do you know about Michael Kreissig?”

“Left-hander, clay court specialist—”

“No, you fool. I mean what’s he
like?”

“Why?”

“Because Lily thinks she’s in love and I want to know upfront if he’s an asshole.”

“Can’t say I know him well enough to comment either way,” Ryan concluded, “but I haven’t heard anything bad about him.”

“Well, okay then,” Elena said. “Hey, are you coming to cheer us on tomorrow?”

“If I’m finished in time, you know I will,” he said. Then the penny dropped. “And you’re asking me why?”

“So you can fall into casual conversation with Michael.”

“Casual conversation that just happens to include questions like ‘Are you an asshole?’”

“Of course,” Elena said. “You want dessert?”

M
ITCH
invited him for a drink the next night. Instead of the usual sterile hotel bar, they visited a local bar that Mitch apparently knew well. Ryan guessed this time next year he might finally no longer be the newbie, with everyone except him knowing the best places to go. The bar was busy but friendly, and they snagged a table outside that was being vacated just as they arrived. Ryan stuck with drinking juice, waving off the beer that Mitch offered. He could see that this sort of lifestyle could easily screw with his diet, which would in turn screw with his game.

They chatted a bit about the bar, the city, the whole lively atmosphere of Rome, but Ryan had the impression Mitch had something on his mind. He was right. After no more than five minutes, he looked at Ryan, his eyes serious.

“Look Ry, I don’t want to pry…” His lips quirked as he registered the unintentional rhyme. “I just wanted to know if you’re okay. You seem a bit quiet.”

He shouldn’t, he
knew
he shouldn’t, but Ryan couldn’t help it—Mitch wanted to know, and wanted to help, and Ryan could really do with a sympathetic ear right now.

“Things got weird with Josh,” he confessed, “and I don’t know why.”

Mitch took one look at the expression on his face and pushed his beer across the table to Ryan, turning and gesturing to the waiter for another.

“I thought the two of you were…” Mitch said, performing some sort of complicated maneuver with his hands that could have meant anything from
friends
to
screwing
to
winged donkeys
.