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.
And with her out of his life, he had nothing to lose.
With this in mind, his shoulders felt looser as he walked to the net for the coin toss. He shrugged when he won it. It was all the same to him. And as he stepped back to the baseline to begin returning Spencer’s smooth warm-up strokes, he actually began to enjoy himself. He loved this game, he rarely had such an equally matched opponent and there was no pressure on his victory. Why not savor the chance to deploy his underutilized talent and be challenged for a change? It was a cool but dry British summer day, the crowd was in a buoyant mood ahead of the women’s final, and he’d always been a solid grass court player. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad. It might even be fun.
For the last couple of minutes of the warm-up they tacitly switched to alternating serves. Spencer was already showboating, firing them across the net, but Ben deliberately kept his shots under control, deciding it was no bad thing if Spencer thought his skills were rustier than they really were. His racket arm almost ached with contained power, and he smiled to himself, looking forward to Spencer’s reaction when he unleashed his full ability.
A chime ended the warm-up period and they moved to their respective seats, Spencer already in need of a drink of water and a swipe of his towel. As they rose to take their positions on the court, Spencer caught Ben’s hand in a tight shake, his smile as thin and fake as his bright orange tan.
“Good luck, Percy,” he began so insincerely Ben was surprised he could force himself to say the words. He leaned forward and sneered. “Because you know as well as I do that Regan doesn’t go out with losers.”
“She went out with you.”
Spencer’s laugh was like ice cracking along a fault line. “Very good. When Regan and I throw our first party together, I must insist you be invited. It wouldn’t be the same without your unique sense of humor.”
Ben wrenched his hand free and stormed to the baseline, all his lightheartedness and amusement soundly banished by Spencer’s words. Regan wouldn’t really get back together with him, would she? Of course he had the money, the fame, the high-end style that she normally prioritized, but she wouldn’t be able to put up with his smug, self-congratulatory attitude. Surely someone who could be with a man like Ben the way they’d been together, with all the openness and passion they’d shared, couldn’t turn around and go for his complete opposite—right?
He looked to the nearest ball girl, but as she threw him two balls he barely managed to catch them, because in that second his gaze landed on the woman sitting in the front row of the spectator box.
Regan’s eyes met his, and the smile she proffered was weak, tentative, apologetic and cautiously hopeful all at once. Des was seated to her left, nodding his encouragement.
She was wearing his UCLA hat.
He turned back to the court with new, steely determination. He knew he’d never be enough for Regan, could never meet her expectations. She was only hours away from winning her first Grand Slam and retiring with an even higher profile—and even greater celebrity to bring to a relationship. In a few months he’d open a magazine and find a spread showing Regan and Spencer grinning and holding hands in her expansive living room, complementing a playful interview about the first couple of tennis.
Ben knew there was unimaginable agony yet to come for him, pain and regret and grief that would bring him to his knees.
But not today.
Today he was going to show Regan everything he could’ve been, everything he still was and everything she was about to lose.
He leaned over to bounce the ball on the court—two, three, four, five times. The crowd hushed and he lobbed it into the air. Then he summoned all that he had—hitting balls against the garden wall under the high Zimbabwean sun, lacing up his shoes in the Baron’s Open dressing room with trembling teenage fingers, cramming for his college exams in between shifts at the country club, running alongside the clear Floridian ocean and marveling at how lucky he was to be alive—and fired a searing shot across the net.
It bounced once, neatly, in the right service box, and then again.
The umpire’s voice rang out over the court. “Fifteen love.”
* * *
Regan held her breath and pressed her clasped hands to her chin as Ben and Spencer fought an extended rally. Spencer scooped a soft shot to land just over the net and the whole crowd seemed to suck in its breath. But Ben leaped across the court to return it, firing a sharp one past Spencer and safely into the box.
As the crowd cheered his masterful display she exhaled gratefully, applauding in earnest. Although it wasn’t a clean sweep, Ben was holding his own, and Spencer’s face was twisted with frustration and bewilderment as victory inched further out of his hands with every point.
In stark contrast to his opponent, Ben’s expression was closed and unreadable. He gave no sign that he was worried, or pleased, or excited, or couldn’t wait for the game to end. It was even a stretch to say he looked focused. His face was utterly blank.
On the other hand, he was obviously twice the player Spencer ever was. His movements were spare, elegant and looked effortless despite the great skill they demanded. His serve was bloodthirsty and he seemed to be everywhere at once. On the occasions the two men found themselves in a rally, Spencer tired easily while Ben’s seamless power never faltered.
Of course Spencer had a few tricks of his own, and soon the crowd was cheering another of his deceptively soft, unreachable shots. She glanced at the scoreboard for reassurance and found it. Des leaned in.
“Spencer is flagging. Ben’s going to win,” the Scot murmured.
Two hours earlier Regan had been sitting in the hotel bar, nursing a seltzer and lime as she tried to make sense of the catastrophic results of what she’d thought was a great idea.
What hurt most was that Ben hadn’t been entirely wrong in his accusations. As much as she wanted to believe that she didn’t care how much he earned or who knew his name, she had to admit she’d been secretly hoping he loved this match so much that he decided to return to playing pro, or at least build up a schedule of high-paying exhibition matches. She wouldn’t have been too disappointed if he hadn’t, but she thought it was worth a try, especially a
head of the second surprise she had up her sleeve. And she knew he’d grumble and complain, which was part of the reason why she didn’t tell him until the last minute.
She never expected he’d walk out on her.
She’d been stirring her drink, wondering how—and if—she could make this right when Des slid onto the barstool beside her. Too weary to argue or move or even roll her eyes, she just looked at him expectantly, her head overflowing with bigger, more complicated problems.
“I screwed up,” he began without preamble. “I knew the minute I met Ben that in addition to being exactly the coach you needed, he was going to be a serious contender for your heart. I felt threatened and I panicked. I wanted to prevent him from taking you away from me and I didn’t care who I hurt in the process. I was wrong, and I’m so sorry.”
She shook her head, bewildered. “I don’t understand. How could he take me away?”
His smile was sad. “You’re not the only one coming to grips with your retirement, you know. If you were busy traveling the world with a recently resurfaced men’s singles champion who decided to give the pro game a second shot, you might decide you didn’t need a manager. You might even decide you don’t need a middle-aged, belligerent Scotsman for a friend.”
“Never,” she scoffed, looking down at the cocktail napkin under her glass. She wasn’t angry, or vengeful—only tired. As usual, Ben was right. Forgiveness was the answer.
Which brought her to Des’s other assumption.
“I don’t think you need to worry about my globe-trotting,” she’d said quietly, raising eyes that were already welling with tears. “I screwed up too.”
Although they still had a lot to work out between them even after what became a long, heartfelt conversation in the bar, Regan was glad to have Des at her side in the stands.
Down on the court it was Spencer’s serve. His first attempt hit the net, and he smacked the strings of his racket with a hissed curse, while Ben watched him with the same eerie lack of expression he’d maintained since they began.
Spencer’s second serve clipped the top of the net, but it went over accompanied by a collective, tense “oh” from the crowd. Ben lunged forward to return it, Spencer lobbed it back and then Ben fired the ball over the net with such force that Spencer’s answering shot went wild, arcing over Ben’s head to land near the baseline.
“Out,” the line judge yelled with an adrenaline-hoarse voice that encapsulated the excited suspense rolling through the audience.
As Ben caught a new ball from a ball girl, every person in the stadium seemed to edge forward in their seat.
This was it. Match point.
She stared at Ben as though she could will precision and force into his shots. She noted, not for the first time, how simply perfect he looked on that court. From his tanned legs to his confident hands to the enigmatic set of his jaw, he looked as though he’d lived his whole life with a racket in his hand, as though he was born for this.
He looked like a champion.
As Ben moved into position on the baseline, a lone female voice shrieked, “Come on, Percy!” from somewhere in the crowd. Regan’s head snapped up, looking for the source, but she was pretty sure she knew who it was. Ben glanced up as well, as though he too had heard something familiar, but in the next instant the mostly English crowd was shouting the name of their local hero, Spencer, just as they had done for most of the match, and his eyes dropped back to the ball in his hand.
The audience hushed as Ben bounced it five times. He straightened for the toss, gripped his racket and sent the ball across the net with a loud pock.
The serve speed display registered one-hundred-thirty-five miles per hour, but Spencer dove for it and—although he audibly grunted with the effort—sent it hurtling back.
Ben ran to the net to return it, and it bounced just inside the baseline. Spencer jogged sideways to meet it and lobbed it back in a high, sloppy shot that left him stumbling with the force of his swing.
Ben took a step back, watching the ball sail toward him. Then his racket was up, his feet were off the ground and he leaped for an overhead smash straight into the box.
It bounced so high that Spencer had no choice but to watch it soar past him, his racket dangling limp and useless in his hand.
“Game, set, match,” the umpire announced. “Percy.”
Every person in the stands surged to their feet, erupting in a roar so deafening that Regan couldn’t hear Des whooping beside her. Spencer stormed to his chair, shaking his head and snatching up the towel draped over the back. He glared daggers at his opponent, who stood motionless on the court, seemingly oblivious to the elated pandemonium breaking out all around him. The audience had just seen the upset of a lifetime, and if the delighted chanting of his name was any indication, they were thrilled with his performance.
Her hands froze midclap as she watched him, the heavy rise and fall of his shoulders the only indication that he’d done anything more taxing than walking his dog. The thought of Boris made her heart lurch. She’d only spent one night in Ben’s house, and it had been cut short. Would she ever get to slide into those pine green sheets again, relishing the soft cotton on her naked skin as she waited for a touch she knew would be even sweeter? Would she get to sleep for a whole night in that adorably masculine room, entwined in arms as strong and solid as was promised by the dresser drawer full of medals and trophies?
Would she wake at dawn to his big palms sliding over her bare breasts? Would they meet and buck and melt together in wordless ecstasy? Would they finally drag themselves into the kitchen for coffee and toast? Would Boris push his nose into her lap while she ate? Would they smile at each other across the small table, knowing to their very marrow that this was right, that they were meant to be together?
Or would he simply disappear, leaving her to always wonder what might’ve been?
Ben turned where he stood, but not to wave to the adoring spectators or raise his hands in victory. He scanned the lower stands, and then his eyes locked on hers.
Regan’s breath stalled in her lungs.
He didn’t smile, and he didn’t scowl. His face was maddeningly neutral as he held her gaze for what felt like an eternity. Finally he arched one brow as if to ask, Satisfied?
She began to tremble, unsure of how to react but certain she had to do something. She could practically feel him slipping away, but she had no idea how to hang on.
He glanced down at his feet, and she felt something break right alongside their shared gaze, something deep and fragile and incredibly important.
Then he tossed his racket on the ground and walked off the court.
Chapter Fifteen
Showered, changed and ready to get the hell out of London, Ben was folding a T-shirt when someone knocked on the door of his hotel room.
He slammed the shirt into the suitcase with an exasperated sigh. He wanted to be left alone from now on, as he thought his resolute silence in response to the flood of questions and entreaties from reporters and tournament personnel would’ve made clear. Was a little privacy really too much to ask?
He glanced at the TV, where despite his better judgment he’d put on the women’s singles final. Regan was down two points in the fourth game. Des, her parents, everyone in her entourage would be in the stadium, so they couldn’t be at his door. Probably another vulture from one of the apparel companies, trying to get him to agree to a contract that said he would only wear their shoes forever and ever, ’til death did they part.
“Probably want me to sign in my own blood,” he grumbled as he crossed the room. “I already told you,” he began preemptively as he flung open the door, “I’m not interested in—”
His mouth went dry as he took in the tall, slim brunette standing in the hallway. He looked her up and down, from the long, gangly legs to the green eyes so like his
own, blinking as he struggled to believe she was real.
“I understand you’re disappointed that I’m not your room service delivery,” she quipped in the accent of his homeland, “but if you don’t put your tongue back in your head right now I’m going to start taking offense.”
“Lindsay.” He wrapped his sister in a tight hug.
“You’re crushing me with these orangutan arms,” she complained, but her voice betrayed her as it broke, and then she was sobbing into his shoulder.
“It’s okay,” he soothed, though he had no idea what she was doing in London and if anything was, in fact, ever going to be okay. “Come inside, have a tea and tell me how on earth you got here.”
He released her to boil the kettle and she dropped into one of the chairs by the window, smiling through her diminishing tears. “Regan called me five days ago to say there was a flight to London and a hotel room booked in my name. She thought I’d want to see your match.” She glanced at the suitcase, then back at him with a frown. “Are you leaving?”
He took the chair opposite her, tea completely forgotten. “Did you say Regan flew you out? How did she get hold of you?”
His sister shrugged. “She phoned me at work. I guess there can’t be that many charity workers in Bulawayo with the surname Percy.”
“And she asked if you wanted to see me play?”
“Not just that.” Lindsay peered at him across the table. “Hasn’t she told you? I knew she wanted it to be a surprise, but I figured by now she would’ve filled you in—although you left so quickly after the match maybe she couldn’t find you. I know I couldn’t, that’s why it took me until now to—”
“Stop.” He held up his palm. “Told me what?”
“About the visa. About moving to Florida.”
His stomach tensed. “What about it?”
Love in Straight Sets Page 20
