“That’s okay,” Holly claps. “We got this, Lark.”
“I got this up here, you do your thing.”
We’re in position, the stadium abuzz with energy.
The ball is up and sailing over the net. Over our heads and lands out of bounds.
“Ahhh!” Holly screams and pumps her fists into the air. “Yeah!”
I jump up and scream, realizing that we just won gold. Emotion overtakes me, and I drop to my knees in the sand. My hands cover my face as I shake my head.
From the corner of my eye, I watch Holly drop beside me, throwing her arms around my neck.
“Holy shit, Lark. Holy shit. We did it.”
“Landers and Saddler are your gold medal winners. What an incredible display of teamwork! Congratulations to Team USA.”
Brenner
“Yes, they did it.”
Kandace barrels into my office. “Would you keep it down, some of us are trying to work.”
“Did I say that out loud?”
She laughs. “You more or less shouted like a whoop, whoop.”
“I do not whoop.”
Kandace pivots toward the flat screen in my office. “You’ve watched the two of them play the entire tournament.”
“I know Lark. She dated one of my old teammates.”
Kandace approaches my desk. “Oh yeah? Which guy?”
I lift my navy jacket from the back of my chair. “Nope, not saying. But yeah, back in California, I went to a few of her matches. I think they’ve got a great shot at the gold in Tokyo if they keep this up.”
“So, she dated someone from the Stingers,” she muses.
Straightening my cuffs, I give her a pointed look. “I’ve got to get to the studio.”
“I’ll walk with you. I could use a few more steps.” She points to her Fitbit.
“Fine with me.”
“Your mother called,” Kandace mentions. “She needs to know if you’ve sent your RSVP for your brother’s wedding, yet.”
My eyes close and I let out a deep sigh. “It’s in the top drawer of my desk. Fill it out for me, please.”
“Brenner, he’s your brother,” she wails. “Are you having a hard time because he’s marrying your ex?”
Why does everyone assume that?
“No. Honestly, I can’t believe my little brother is getting married.”
A slight lie. I don’t want to go. I don’t know why because I’m happy for them.
We turn the corner and walk down the darkened hall toward Studio A. “Can you check their registry and get them a waffle maker? Or donate a few hundred dollars to the charity they’ve picked in lieu of gifts or whatever bizarre thing Claire’s done.”
She follows me out the door. “Okay, you’re not getting your brother and his soon-to-be wife a waffle maker. You’ll donate to a charity in addition to an expensive gift.”
My hand lands on the door to the studio. “Fine. Let me know what I got them.”
“You’re on your way to winning brother of the year.”
“Don’t I know it.”
I walk into the room and prep for my show. Hair and makeup do their thing as I read through my notes. I find it hard to concentrate with my mind on Lark.
When I saw her for the first time all those years ago, I had to pick my tongue up off the floor. She was sex wrapped in a skin-tight beige dress.
Her light brown hair hung over her shoulders in soft waves that looked like it was bouncing. Her hazel eyes and that smile of hers lit up the entire room. All you wanted to do was live in that smile.
And I’ll never forget the first time she smiled at me.
“What’s the drink special tonight,” she asks the bartender.
The sweetness of her voice makes me swallow hard.
“Patio Punch. It’s got blue liqueur, peach schnapps . . .”
“No thanks.”
“You want a cosmopolitan instead?”
She glares at him. It’s subtle. He doesn’t notice, but I do. She shifts on her heel, and a stunning light surrounds her. She’s mesmerizing, something about her that makes me want to know everything about her.
The gorgeous woman swings her gaze to me. “What are you drinking?”
“Oh this, you wouldn’t like this drink. It’s tequila.” I point to my glass. “And it’s a terrible idea.”
She smiles at me. A slow, sexy, heart-stopping smile. “Tequila is always an excellent idea. I’ll take whatever he’s drinking.”
“One tequila and tonic coming up.”
“Too many of those can lead to trouble,” I warn.
“Are you trouble, Manning? Should I worry?”
She knows my name and that’s a good sign. My heart pounds at the way my name sounds on her lips. I lick my lips and swallow hard. Women never shake me. But this one has me off my axis.
“You a baseball fan—” I pause, hoping she’ll give me her name.
“Lark,” she announces with a slow smile. “Yeah, I’m a fan of baseball.”
“Here’s your drink.” The bartender slides the drink in front of her.
Lark grins with an arched eyebrow. “Great, thanks.” She lifts the glass to her mouth and takes a sip.
“Well, how does it taste?”
“Refreshing . . . a little tart and delicious.” She licks the salt from her lips. “Thanks for the drink suggestion.”
“My pleasure, do you want to—”
There I was all set to ask her if she’d like to go somewhere and talk when Alec slung his arm around the curve of her hip.
He’d invited her to the party. Come to find out, Alec met her at the last team party. I didn’t go because I had to help my mom move some stuff. Anson was on a business trip; otherwise, he would have been there instead of me.
Lark was right when she mentioned the bro code at Mom’s diner the morning I found her stumbling out of Alec’s place. Why couldn’t Alec have been traded?
Why did she have to be with him?
Why not me?
I wanted to ask why so many times. It killed me seeing the two of them together, but I kept my distance. Since I couldn’t ask her out, I watched her play. It was the closest that I could be to her . . . to get to know her . . . to see her.
I never saw Alec at any of her matches. In my opinion, he didn’t deserve her.
“Have a good show, Brenner,” Hal, the cameraman, calls out, bringing me back to now.
I take my seat. “Thanks, man.”
The hour flies by, and I finally have time to breathe. I leave the studio and walk back to my office. When I pull up my email, I see the latest revisions to the calendar.
Lark’s name appears on the schedule for an interview. Two weeks. I’ll see her in two weeks. Holy shit. My wish came true.
CHAPTER THREE
Lark
Two weeks later, and I still feel like it’s all a dream.
Is this real life? My actual life?
But as I sit inside the GSN studios in Manhattan, the heavy gold medal around my neck reminds me that all of this is very much my real life.
The final seconds of the set replay in my brain and I can’t help but smile. The whole world seemed to stop for a moment as the spotlight was on Holly and me. After we won, Holly was so pumped, she danced all around the court with American flags in both hands.
Her family was there to celebrate with her, and they invited me to come along. The old Lark would have felt like an intruder. The old me would have been untrusting of her family. But the new Lark Saddler embraces everything life tosses her way.
She trusts.
With caution.
She believes in her self-worth.
Truly.
My own parents don’t think I have any worth except for the trust fund that my grandparents left me, which they very much want.
My thumb grazes over the gold. Next year this could be Olympic gold.
Brenner Manning is the reason I have this medal. Not the entire reason. If he hadn’t given me the kick
in the ass I needed, I would have settled for the middle of the road. Coasting through life, not working to my full potential.
Sure, I would’ve been content. But I wouldn’t be looking at competing in the next Olympics.
I’ve never had someone believe in me that much. Enough to motivate me to the next level. My parents were too busy running their empire to take me to any kind of activity.
No tennis camp.
No swim meets.
I spent a lot of time by myself or with the babysitter, Buffy. Buffy was in college and home for the summer. She would spend most of her time on the phone or in our pool. On the occasional day when she wasn’t ignoring me, she taught me how to bake cookies or gave me lessons on the importance of self-care—facials and painting our nails.
One afternoon Buffy and I went to the beach, and I couldn’t keep my eyes off the beach volleyball game. I’d seen people playing before, but I never really paid much attention.
For my birthday, I asked my grandma for a volleyball. I spent the rest of the summer working on all the moves by myself in the backyard.
And when I could, I tried out for the volleyball team at school. I stuck with it throughout high school, despite my parents’ lack of support or interest. I’d even received a scholarship to Stanford University.
On the outside, things were good. On the inside, I still craved that approval from my parents. The emotional damage it took on my soul hurt. The two people who were supposed to love me the most couldn’t care less that I led our high school team to three consecutive state championships or that they named me the Gatorade National Player of the Year.
My grandparents cared. They came to my games when they weren’t traveling or busy with their foundation that works in partnership with the Los Angeles Children’s Hospital.
I’d visit them as much as possible during the offseason. Grandma and I spent a considerable amount of time in the kitchen. Despite having a full kitchen staff, she made time to bake. Cookies, cakes, and pies. Even homemade noodles.
Her favorite thing to bake was fig, walnut, and white chip cookies. I still have her black and white recipe box with all her handwritten note cards. Grandma would play Dolly Parton on the stereo, and we’d sing and bake.
When my grandparents died, they left me a considerable portion of their estate. And left their only daughter, my mother, not a single red cent. At twenty years old, I lost the only two people who cared about me and the cherry on top—it led my parents to further hate my existence.
I know . . . boohoo. Poor me.
But when my parents tried to have me declared incompetent and too young and irresponsible to maintain that much money, it was the last straw. They had a fortune of their own. Why try to take more? It was about control.
I realized that no matter what I did, they would never love me. They might have loved me, but I don’t think they ever liked me.
After the semester was over, I sat down with my coach, seeking advice. I didn’t want to go home for the summer.
Coach Williams listened as I poured my heart out. She handed me a box of tissues and told me that sometimes people are just bad.
“Sometimes, people are just bad. You need to decide if they’re worth it.”
They weren’t worth it. And it was as easy as that. I cut my parents out of my life and told them I’d call them if I wanted to talk. I haven’t spoken to them since.
I deserved better.
After my breakfast with Brenner, I marched my happy ass back to Alec’s place and told him and his superstitions to take a long walk off a short pier.
He protested, of course, but it was all about him and his damn game. He yelled at me from his front steps, and I never looked back.
I went back to my place and called Jessa. I told her I wanted to make a run for the Olympics. To my surprise, she was totally cool with me getting a new partner and wished me well.
Then I thought about who I admired. Who in the sport was the best?
There was only one answer—Holly Landers.
I drove to her house in Newport that afternoon. Somehow, I convinced her to be my partner, and instead of competing on the AVP tour, we spent our time on the FIVB tour.
“Miss Saddler,” a rich feminine voice drifts over my ears. “They’re ready for you now.”
I rise to my feet and out of the corner of my eye I see him. Live and in person. He’s still handsome. As if I didn’t know. When I walked through the lobby downstairs, I stared at the framed picture of him hanging on the wall for the better part of five minutes.
I didn’t want to be here when Brenner arrived. I wanted to be halfway back to California. No such luck. But here I stand admiring the way his navy-blue pants stretch across his solid thighs and taper nicely at his trim waist.
Look away from him.
He steps into the reception area, two Starbucks cups in each hand and a leather bag strapped across his body. His slim-fitting, white dress shirt looks like a second skin on him. His biceps have lost none of their bulge since he’s retired. Apparently, he’s been hitting the gym as often as possible.
He sees me and smiles. I’m sure my panties go wet.
“Lark, congratulations,” he says. “I’m so happy for you.”
“Uh, thanks. Good to see you, Brenner.”
“Hey, what are your lunch plans?”
I’ve got to be on a flight back to Los Angeles. I try to form the sentence, but all I do is stutter some inaudible version of umm and I. Because the scent of clean soap and spice have me tongue-tied.
“Sorry to interrupt, but Miss Saddler, we’ve got to get you mic’d up and ready to go,” the production assistant says.
“I’ll walk with you.” He nods and directs me down the hall.
We trek down the hallway toward the studios, and I can feel him behind me. I know those brown eyes are staring at the back of my head.
We get into the studio where they fuss with my microphone and do a few tests. Brenner stands off to the right of the camera, sipping his coffee.
A young woman with blond hair and black-rimmed glasses cozies up beside him.
“Here’s your coffee,” he tells her.
She giggles and takes the paper cup from his hand. “I think it’s my job to fetch you coffee.” Her bubbly voice takes on a teasing tone and he bumps her shoulder with his.
I avert my eyes, finding it a little painful watching the two of them flirt. A woman wearing a red blouse and black pants walks up to me. “Hi, it’s so nice to meet you. I’m Anna.”
“Program director Anna?”
“Yep, that’s me. Okay, just look at the screen, and you’ll see Mark Mahoney’s face—”
“Wait, I’m not being interviewed in person?” I interrupt.
“I’m sorry,” Anna says. “No one here really knows beach volleyball. Mark has been prepped, and he watched your match.” Anna smiles then steps off to the side. “Here comes Mark. Three, two, . . .”
“What’s up everybody, you’re watching The Sit Down. I’m Mark Mahoney and today I’m hanging out with Lark Sandler.”
Did he just fuck up my name?
“Hey there, Lark. How’s it going?”
“Hi, Mark, it’s going well, but my last name is Saddler.”
He scoffs and stares blankly into the camera. His face changes from a scowl to an easy grimace.
“Welcome to the program. What’s it like to be the AVP champ?”
My brows scrunch together. Is he kidding?
“Well, Mark, I wouldn’t know.”
It’s all I give him, testing the waters to see how he recovers.
Off set, I hear Brenner’s voice. He’s mumbling something to Anna. She shakes her head. I refocus on Mark, who shuffles his paperwork, looking disoriented.
“Right, well then, Lark, what’s next for you?”
A quiet breath leaves my lungs, grateful that I have a question I can answer. Mark shifts in his chair and looks down at the floor.
“I’m looking forward to g
etting right back to work. Holly and I have the Olympics to think about. That’s our focus right now.”
“Speaking of focus and practice, how much would you say that you practice for these types of games?”
These types of games? Irritation claws at my throat, and my hands grip the armrest.
“Actually, I don’t practice at all. I just kind of get out there on the sand and wing it.”
He laughs. “Well, I guess you gotta do what you gotta do. My favorite part of beach volleyball is the uniforms. Do you get to pick out the style and cut of those costumes?”
Snickers of laughter invade my ears. My heart thumps at an erratic beat.
Misogynistic bastard.
Another voice jumps into my earpiece. “Hey, I must say that I’m a huge fan of Holly Landers, your partner. But what happened between you and Jessa McNeil?”
What’s with this line of questioning? A guy in a grey suit pops onto the screen.
“You and Jessa played on the beach volleyball circuit for a long time.”
“Yeah, we had, but Jessa and I have different goals. It’s not uncommon for players to change partners. There’s a respect in the game that way.”
Their laughs come out in tandem. Heat flames the back of my neck and rolls like lava down my spine.
There’s inaudible talking, then the screen goes black.
“What just happened?” Brenner shouts. “What the hell kind of interview was that?”
Anna’s hands fly to her hips. “I have no idea.”
“Was Mark fucking drunk? And what was up with Josiah crashing the interview?”
I push off the chair and settle on my feet. “It’s fine,” I tell Brenner.
He turns to face me. “No, it’s not fine. Don’t settle for that kind of shit, Lark.”
Brenner continues to argue, and Anna continues to bob and weave with the occasional apology. Glancing at my phone screen, I have two hours before my flight leaves. Unless Brenner wants to have lunch at the airport, I have to go.
“Brenner. I have to go.”
“Wait, let me fix this for you. I can get you a decent interview,” he pleads.
I shake my head. “No, please don’t go to any trouble. I need to get to my next meeting.” Not a total lie. It’s just on the other side of the country.
Double Contact Page 3
