Love in Straight Sets (6 page)

The doors began to slide shut and, mere seconds before they closed, someone stuck a pin-striped-sleeved arm through the sliver between them. They bounced open, and a man wearing a sheepish expression pushed into the car, followed by his three suited colleagues.

The metal bar mounted on the back wall dug into Regan’s spine as the men elbowed their way farther into the now significantly more crowded car. The doors closed with an ominous thud, and the elevator began its upward glide.

Her heart beat a crescendo until it was an anxious flutter inside her ribs, shortening her breath and tightening her chest. She watched the floor numbers tick up on the digital display, willing them to go faster. She balled her hands into fists at her side and, keeping her eyes fixed on the ascending numbers as if the elevator might stop if she looked away, forced herself to draw slow breaths in and out of her constricting lungs.

The elevator came to a smooth halt on the eighteenth floor. The doors opened and a uniformed maintenance man shouldered his way in, reaching through the cramped bodies to press the button for the twenty-first floor.

The doors shut and Regan had a surge of wildly irrational yet dizzying rage. Couldn’t this man walk up three flights of stairs? Didn’t he know how badly she needed to get out of there?

She let her eyes fall shut as the elevator stopped again and the hotel employee shoved his way out. If her fellow passengers shifted to take advantage of the extra room, she couldn’t feel it. The car seemed to be getting tighter and more airless with each passing second. She flapped the hem of her top, wondering when it had gotten so stiflingly hot. Her knees began to weaken and tremble and she clamped both hands on the bar behind her, despairing to find that the composite metal wasn’t even cool to the touch.

She caught the slight tilt of Ben’s head. He was checking her out in his peripheral vision, probably wondering what the hell was wrong with her. The digital floor numbers seemed to be slowing their climb and she felt the all-too-familiar prickle of cold sweat on the back of her neck. The businessmen brayed their delight at fleecing some client out of way too much money, their voices echoing through the small space, shifting on their feet until one of them was so close she could smell his too-sharp cologne and see the expensive grain on his tailored suit jacket.

She yanked in a wheezing breath.
Not here
.
Not now.
Not in front of Ben.

Suddenly one of the businessmen did a double take. He stared unabashedly at her for a split second, and then jerked his gaze away so quickly that his coiffed hair bounced. With all the delicacy of an inebriated elephant crashing through tall grass, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a smart phone. After an elaborate show of pretending to check his emails, he angled his body and raised the phone, still maintaining the charade of reading something on the screen as he blatantly snapped a photo.

With that, the last cord anchoring her composure snapped. Her heart raced as her brain devolved into a ticker tape of chaotic half thoughts while anxiety poured over her in relentless waves. Her stomach churned, her hands fisted, her lungs burned, her muscles contracted, and her whole body was overtaken by consuming, uncontrollable tremors.

Oh God
,
it’s finally happening.
It’ll be all over the papers.
Everyone will know that I’m a complete basket case.
Ben must think I’m a freak.
I
can’t believe I ever thought he could like me.
I
can’t do this
,
I
have to get out
,
can’t get stuck
,
can’t let anyone see.
Dear God
,
I’m going to faint—

Regan could barely hear her own pathetic whimper over the roaring in her ears, and as darkness crept into her vision and her legs began to buckle, she felt some distant, detached part of herself reach out and clamp onto Ben’s forearm. The material of his shirt was soft under her fingers, his arm hard and corded with muscle underneath, and the remaining sliver of her brain noted how nice that contrast was, how much more of him she wanted to feel in comparison. All at once his deep, stern voice sliced through the haze of her panic attack like a ship gliding confidently through choppy water.

“Dammit, we forgot to hit the button for our floor. Let’s get off at the next one and walk down.”

He slapped a button on the panel and in seconds the elevator was motionless, the doors open. She felt a rush of cool air as she looked past the cluster of suits to the beckoning space beyond. Ben grabbed her wrist and tugged her past their gaping companions.

As soon as they were free of the confines of the car, his arm was around her waist, propping her against his side as her whole body began to shake, not with anxiety but with the spent adrenaline of visceral relief.

“I’ve got you,” he murmured as she sagged against him, gratefully relaxing against the safe haven of his body. “Let’s go around the corner and sit down.”

Her legs were just about keeping her upright as he steered her into a hallway lined with anonymous, silent doors. She gulped big mouthfuls of air and panted as she tried to force her heart into a normal rhythm. Her head still swam and her chest still ached but the anxiety was receding like the ocean at low tide, slipping further and further back with every passing second. Ben’s arm was weighty and firm where it encircled her waist, and the cool, clean scent of his aftershave was as refreshing as a sea breeze.

With a quick look to check that they were alone, Ben dropped to the floor with his back against the wall, guiding her down beside him. Regan plopped gracelessly onto the patterned carpet and stretched her trembling legs in front of her.

As they sat in silence, shoulder-to-shoulder, the waning delirium of her panic attack gave way to stinging humiliation. After all their power struggles on the court, all those weeks of cutting remarks and calculated disobedience, in the few days after he’d so soundly beaten her in their spontaneous match they’d finally found a wary but burgeoning harmony. She’d listened more and argued less, and he’d repaid her cautious trust with respect and constructive encouragement.

It wasn’t much, but it was more than they started with, and it was growing.

Now it would all be gone.

She stole a glance at Ben, at his completely unruffled expression, at the long arms resting loosely on his knees. He had so much of what she wanted—the effortless self-discipline coupled with an easy, flexible calm—whereas she sought to control everything around her yet couldn’t even get a handle on her own emotions. As hostilities between them subsided she’d started to hope he might help her with life off the court as well as on it, that maybe she could absorb some of his lighthearted energy and let it ease the rigid inner tension that constantly threatened to snap her in two.

But her inability to simply ride up several flights in an elevator had dumped them all the way back to the beginning. Ben would never take her seriously now—how could he? She’d just shown him she was as volatile in her personal life as she was in her tennis matches. They’d spend the rest of the time left before the Baron’s with their horns locked and their teeth bared, fighting for dominance—if he decided to stick around at all.

She pulled her knees to her chest and dropped her face into her hands. She’d finally found a coach she could tolerate and she’d blown it. Typical.

“I guess I owe you an explanation,” she muttered through her fingers. “What happened back there was—”

“A panic attack.”

Regan snatched her hands from her face to find his warm, no-big-deal smile.

“My sister gets them. And I used to coach a girl who had one every time she had to stand in front of people to receive a trophy.”

“Really?”

He shrugged. “Sure. They’re not uncommon.”

She pressed her back against the wall, letting her legs flop back down to the carpet. “I don’t get them very often, but the triggers are pathetic. I have no problem taking questions at a televised press conference or playing a championship match, but stupid things like crowded elevators and gridlock traffic make me want to jump out of my skin.” She shook her head. “It’s ridiculous.”

“It’s nothing to be embarrassed about.” He inspected the cuff of his sleeve thoughtfully for a second. “You don’t get them on the court?”

“Never. It’s my one guaranteed safe zone. If anything, I used to get them more in the off-season when I wasn’t playing.”

“Used to?”

“Recently I’ve been having them at times I never did before. Like training in the gym. And during an interview.” She swallowed hard. “I pretended to this magazine reporter that my phone was buzzing, then I sprinted into the bathroom and hid in a stall until I could pull myself together. It was awful. I think it’s the stress of this final season, and not knowing what the hell I’m going to do with myself once it’s finished.”

He nodded, his expression utterly without judgment. “Have you told anyone?”

“No one, not even Des. He means well, but he’d have me flying around the world to see the top-ranked anxiety specialists before you could say
meltdown
. He’s a great guy and a wonderful manager, but he can be a little overbearing.” She ventured a look in Ben’s direction. “You’re not going to tell him, are you?”

“Not unless you want me to.”

“I don’t.”

“Okay. Then it stays between you and me.”

She released a fretful breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. “Thanks.”

“No worries.”

They fell quiet again. Regan studied the crisp pattern on the brand-new carpet. A twisting floral in deep claret and forest green. It reminded her of the famous tapestry of the lion and the unicorn and of the childhood rhyme about the two creatures. They were always fighting—wasn’t that the gist of it? One mighty and strong, the other beautiful and bold, locked in perpetual combat for a reason that no one could remember.

She traced the line of a slender branch with her finger. “And what do you think, now that you’re in on my dirty little secret? Tell me honestly.”

“Why does it matter?”

“Don’t you care what other people think of you?”

“Not particularly.”

She tilted her head skeptically. “Sure you do. Everyone does.”

“You forget that when I was eighteen I fell from a very great height in full view of the salivating public. When my dad disappeared, the same reporters that were buttering me up and calling me a rising star one minute were climbing over each other to ask me how it felt to be bankrupt the next.” He smirked. “I learned pretty quickly that the only opinion I need to care about is my own.”

“That’s not reality for me, not at this level. I have sponsors, fans, media relationships—I have to care what people think if in return I expect them to care whether or not I hit a ball in the right box on the court. When I win it’s not just because I love my sport, it’s because I need to remind a whole lot of people that I can.”

Ben arched an unconvinced brow. “Personally I think playing—and winning—for any other reason than the sheer joy of it is a waste of time. But like I said, my opinion isn’t the one that matters.”

“It used to be like that, a long time ago. But it’s different now, more complicated. I’m not just the too-short girl smashing her leggy opponents’ records to smithereens. There are so many other wheels turning all the time. I’m as much a full-time business as I am a player.”

“And which do you prefer?”

She rolled her eyes, her temper prickling. “Don’t get sanctimonious with me about the financial side of professional sports. Not being averse to marketing and publicity doesn’t dilute my passion for the game.”

He held up placatory palms. “That’s not what I meant. I was wondering whether you preferred the days when the only person you had to prove anything to was yourself.”

Regan chewed on her lower lip as she considered her answer. Even when she’d been a teenager hitting balls against the side of her parents’ house, she had an audience in mind. In high school it was her stuck-up rivals at the country club, in college it was her bullying coach and now it was, well, everyone, from her fans to her sponsors to which one of her revolving coaches was observing her sparring matches. In fact, she couldn’t remember the last time she’d completely lost herself in play without a single thought for who might be watching.

No, that was wrong—she did remember. It was last week, when the lethal beauty of Ben’s skills on the court forced her to block out everything except how to counter each move. She’d known nothing but the exhilaration of competition. It was bliss.

And it was fleeting.

“I’ve always had to prove something to someone,” she concluded finally. “That’s what sports are all about, right? Winning, losing, moving up in the rankings. If I had no competitive spirit to drive me forward I’d probably quit tennis and take up yoga instead.”

“I’m not sure yoga would suit you. There’s a lot of lying down and not moving.”

“Think I should stick with tennis, then?”

“Well, you’re too short for basketball.”

Regan wrinkled her nose. “I hate team sports. I don’t play well with others.”

Ben’s laugh was deep and rich, and it reminded her of the warm caramel sauce her mother drizzled over freshly baked coffee cake. “Why doesn’t that surprise me?”

She sniffed in mock offense. “What are you implying?”

“Not a thing.”

The faint ping of the elevator sounded from down the corridor. The smile fell from Regan’s face as she remembered what brought them to this point—and what still lay ahead. She dug in her purse for her phone. Although they weren’t yet late, they’d used up most of their early margin and she already had two missed calls and a text from Des. Loath though she was to shatter the strange peace of their powwow on a hotel floor, it was time to face reality.

When she turned to suggest they be on their way she found Ben watching her, his expression smooth and unreadable. Even in the harsh fluorescent lighting of the hallway his face was a study in masculine perfection, and as his olive-green gaze fixed on her she could feel her own eyes widening in response.