Love in Straight Sets (18 page)

Chapter Fourteen

When Regan grinned at Ben across the breakfast table—more accurately described as the early-morning room service table in their case—and asked if he was ready for his surprise, it took him a minute to remember that she’d promised him one.

They were twelve days into the tournament and today was the biggest one yet—the day of the women’s singles final. Regan had sailed through the early rounds even more effortlessly than he’d hoped, barely dropping a point in her semifinal against a high-ranked young player. More importantly, she was playing the way he knew she could—instinctively, strategically and with enough of her characteristically raw power to add an element of the unexpected to her otherwise polished technique. True to everyone’s predictions, she was facing Tanya Nellis in that evening’s final, and he knew Regan’s easy success so far would be nothing compared to the battle ahead.

The happiness he got from watching her play was rivaled only by the joy of their burgeoning relationship off the court. Their nights were spent murmuring and laughing and moaning with unequaled pleasure until only sheer exhaustion could tug them both under the blank surrender of sleep. She was slowly beginning to make their pairing public, first hinting to the various members of her entourage, then taking his hand at dinner with her parents and clinging on to him just a second longer than was platonic in the minutes after she won her semifinal. Now her physiotherapist gave him conspiratorial winks, her mother gave him muted nods of encouragement and even Vivian Evans, who’d traveled to London to cover the tournament, shot him a grin that made him feel as if he just might be worthy of all this good fortune.

Regan still hadn’t reconciled with Des, but he thought she was gradually warming up to the idea. That moment would come, he was sure of it.

As would the moment when Ben managed to spit out what was becoming increasingly apparent as the days passed—he was falling in love with her.

A week earlier they’d been sitting in the stands on one of the outer courts, watching a junior girls’ singles match. The drizzle that hung over the city all morning had finally cleared to leave them with a cloudy but dry afternoon, and they’d taken advantage of Regan’s relatively light publicity schedule to wander the grounds. He’d been just about to point out the lack of follow-through in one of the competitors’ forehands when Regan suddenly turned to him, her eyes big and dark and so alive.

“Don’t you miss it?”

“Miss what?”

“Playing tennis.”

His hollow, cheerful stock answer was on the tip of his tongue when he stopped himself. She deserved more from him now—she deserved honesty.

“I do. I miss it every day. But that’s not the same as wanting to get back into it.”

“Isn’t it?”

He shook his head. “I love the game. I love the competition. I love the intensity of facing down an opponent, and I love that moment when you finally outmaneuver him. But so much has changed since I left the circuit. It would be impossible for me to elbow my way back in at a worthwhile level. I’d have to start from the bottom, traveling constantly to enough small tournaments to make a living, hoping I wasn’t too burned out by the time the big ones rolled around. Once you’ve tasted that Grand Slam victory, nothing else is as sweet.” He smiled at her. “You’ll find that out soon enough.”

“Hopefully,” she murmured. “How much do you play now?”

“I get in a few games a week. A lot of my friends are ex-pros or close to it, so I play with them. Sometimes I play with other coaches.” He nudged her shoulder. “I play with you.”

“So, what if you have no friends, and you
are
me.”

He pivoted in his seat to look at her fully. “Are we talking about your retirement?”

She shrugged. “Maybe.”

With a brief glance around to make sure no one was paying them too much attention, he slung his arm across her shoulders and gave her a quick squeeze. “Baron’s trophy first, retirement worries second. Or never, because you’ll be absolutely fine.”

Returning her attention to the court, she’d reached down to slip her fingers through his, scooting closer to keep their hands out of sight. “And so will you. Because I’ve got an idea for an amazing surprise.”

Now he arched a brow at her from across the table, the conversation replaying itself in his mind as he reached for his coffee cup. “Ready as I’ll ever be, I guess.”

He turned over a few possibilities as her grin broadened. A special Regan Hunter signature hat for him to wear at the final? A weekend getaway booked for after the tournament? Keys to a new car? He wouldn’t accept that last one, but he still wouldn’t put it past her.

She pressed her palms together in excitement. “I got you an exhibition match.”

Coffee sloshed over the rim of his cup as he slammed it down on the table. “You what?”

“Technically my agent negotiated the details, but it was my idea.” She beamed at him. “It’s on center court, sort of a lead-in to the women’s final. There’s been so much buzz I nearly went crazy trying to keep you in the dark. People are calling it ‘the second-chance showdown’ since the two of you never met in a Grand Slam final.”

So many emotions careened through Ben’s brain, from fury to disgust to abject terror, that he felt nauseous. When he summoned enough presence of mind to ask his next question, his voice choked with tension.

“Who am I supposed to be playing?”

“Spencer Vaughan,” Regan chirped, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. Ben stood so quickly that everything on the table shook, rattling plates and silverware and the mostly full carafe of coffee.

He paced the floor of the hotel suite, feeling suddenly like a caged animal. An exhibition match against a recent men’s world number one? After more than a decade in retirement? He was going to be humiliated,
destroyed
. Any shred of legacy he had left would be shattered, and he’d be remembered forever as the player who tried to hit back and lost. This was a disaster. What was Regan thinking?

He spun to ask her exactly that and found her on her feet, her brow furrowed.

“I know this is a last-minute surprise, but the final confirmation only came in yesterday and I didn’t want to get you worked up in case it fell through,” she began before he could speak. “Now it’s definitely going ahead, and it’s going to be huge.”

“Great, more people to watch me lose.”

“Is that what you’re worried about?” She smiled and shook her head, taking a step closer. “I would never set you up to fail like that. I know Spencer—he’s lazy and he’s spent most of his retirement going to upscale restaurants and modeling for fragrance ads. He probably only picks up a racket a couple of times a month, if that. Whereas I know from personal experience that you’re in better form now than he was at the top of his game.”

She moved to take his hand, but he jerked out of her reach. He didn’t feel bolstered by her faith in him, not at all—if anything, he felt more and more like she represented one of his most monumental errors in judgment.

“Why would you do this to me?” He threw up his hands, abandoning any effort to keep his temper in check. “What’s the point?”

She blinked in disbelief. “Ben, this is a big deal. The tournament organizers have agreed to a huge fee for your appearance. This match could really raise your profile.”

“What profile?” he begged, halting in his tracks to study her bewildered expression.

“Don’t you want to prove everyone wrong?” She rushed up to him, clamping her hands on his arms. “Don’t you want to show them that you’re not just that kid who won the Baron’s, went bankrupt and disappeared? Don’t you want to be a champion again?”

He squinted at her in confusion and wrenched out of her grip. What was she talking about? When had he ever given her the impression that he gave a damn what anyone thought of him?

“I couldn’t care less about the people in those stands, the ones watching at home or anyone who’s ever heard my name in association with the sport. Why would you do this to me, Regan? You hate Des for making decisions for you—why would you turn around and do the same to me?”

“I thought it was a good idea.” She wrung her hands, biting her lower lip. “I thought it would be a good surprise. I didn’t think it was heavy-handed, or—I guess I’m not sure what I thought.”

“Bullshit,” he retorted, deliberately harsh. “You always pull this crap, telling me sometimes you don’t understand your own motives, but you’re not stupid—a long way from it. You have your reasons, and now that I’m not responding with utter delight you’re pretending you don’t know them. This is your last chance. Tell me what this is really about.”

“I thought you’d want the chance to beat Spencer and get all the money that’s going to come with it. You said you missed the game, and I figured this could be your one shot to jump back in at the level you deserve.” She stepped forward, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. “There’s no ulterior motive. It never occurred to me that you’d be so angry, I swear.”

Ben pressed his palm over his eyes, trying to make sense of this absurd situation when Des’s words in the driveway of Regan’s house echoed in his mind with cold clarity.

We both know Percy isn’t the kind of man you need at this point in your career.

When he looked down at her again, it was with newly critical eyes and a sense of detachment that seemed to be increasing with every second.

Did he really think he would be the exception to the rule? That Regan wouldn’t try to mold him into the kind of high-flying, cover-worthy star athlete that perfectly complemented her image?

As quickly as it had flared his anger subsided into sorrow, which was much less rash and infinitely more painful. He grieved for himself, for his refusal to see the hard truth and the heartbreak that resulted, but mostly he grieved for Regan, who would never know how faithfully he would’ve stood by her, how unwaveringly he would’ve encouraged her and how selflessly he would’ve loved her, for as long as she’d have him.

He took a decisive step backward.

“I’ll play this match, because it’s too late to back out now,” he told her, keeping his voice level and quiet. “But it won’t change anything. I am who I am—a midlevel coach, a recreational player and a former pro who never looked back. Sometimes I struggle to make ends meet, and I’ll probably never earn much more than I do now, but I don’t mind because my life is full of meaningful relationships with people I care about deeply. At some point I was hopeful you might be one of them, maybe even the most important one of all. But I understand now that while I might be the person you think you want, I’ll never be the person you think you need. So I’ll play this match,” he repeated, “and then the two of us are done. I don’t want to see you again.”

Regan flinched as though he’d hit her, but she didn’t protest—she didn’t say a word.

Ben turned on his heel and slammed out the door and down the hall to his own room, determined not to give her a chance to argue. Or himself a chance to change his mind.

* * *

Shortly after midday Ben found himself hesitating at the entrance to center court, racking his brain for some way—any way—to save himself from what was about to take place. He’d spent the past several hours trying to come up with a reputation-sparing excuse. Maybe he was injured? Unwell? Maybe there was a family emergency?

But his indecision became numb acquiescence as he dressed in tennis whites provided by Regan’s clothing sponsor, picked up a racket manufactured by the company Regan used for her own and rolled the brim of a Regan Hunter signature baseball hat before pulling it down over his forehead.

He was a walking billboard for the Regan Hunter sportswear empire, and as he glanced around at the ball boys and girls—many of whom were junior players from local schools and tennis clubs—he felt like one of those sad, friendless people who show up to college parties too many years after they’ve graduated. He hoped Spencer beat him in straight sets, so at least they could get this over with.

As if on cue, Spencer emerged from the entrance on the other side of the court, depositing his possessions at his chair on one side of the umpire and raising an arm in greeting to the screaming, adoring crowd. This was his British opponent’s home turf, and Ben swallowed hard. From the sounds of things, the stands were jam-packed with die-hard Spencer fans.

One of the tournament assistants nudged him toward the entrance and whispered that it was time to go. With his stomach in knots and his knees weak, Ben drew a deep, steadying breath and walked onto the court.

Rows of seats loomed up around him, and although his applause was noticeably muted compared to his competitor’s, it was enough to send a long-obscured memory crashing to the front of his mind. For a split second he was eighteen again, as painfully awkward off the court as he was ferocious on it, spinning his racket handle with nervous excitement as he prepared to deliver the first serve of the first Grand Slam final of his professional career.

Then he’d been full of hope, full of confidence, full of faith that his future would only get brighter. He had his dad in the stands, his mother and sister watching at home, and no reason to suspect it was all about to slip through his fingers.

He blinked back to the here and now as he slung his bag down beside his chair. That was the past—this was the present. He was older, harder and very much alone.

Spencer was already warming up, hitting serves into the net and springing on the balls of his feet. As Ben straightened with his racket in hand, he caught sight of the digital scoreboard on the far well. Beneath
S.
Vaughan
,
GBR
the readout said,
B.
Percy
,
ZIM
.

Ben had half turned to the umpire, ready to point out that he hadn’t set foot in Zimbabwe for over a decade and insist they change it to
USA
with an offer to see his passport, when he was struck by a whiplash-strength thought that killed the words on his tongue.

Who cared? So the sign was wrong—what difference did it make? This was all a ridiculous charade anyway. As he’d told Regan, he had nothing to prove.