by P. Dangelico
“It’s intimate.” Duh. Gosh, this is hard. “A lot sloppier than coming on your own. There’s a lot of stuff that should only be shared with someone that cares about you. At least, the first time. Because under the best of circumstances, it’s going to be awkward. And no, it does not look anything like porn.”
Annabelle looks less sure of her plan now. Her pensive frown slides back to the television screen. John Cusack is holding up a boom box toward his lover’s bedroom window, serenading Ione Skye because he’s crazy in love.
“Tough call. What do I do?”
“My two cents? Wait till someone boom boxes you. Then jump his bones.”
Chapter Eighteen
Maren
The next few days pass in the same vein. I work out. I go to Rowdy’s, where I’m starting to really get into the groove of things. Noah does an A plus job of impersonating someone with a split personality disorder. He’s either helpful and quiet. Or dismissive and quiet. Those are my two choices. My personal life may be in the toilet and my career in limbo, and yet at Rowdy’s I’m actually having fun. Wonders never cease.
Crystal’s revelation has been lurking on the outskirts of my thoughts like leftovers in the fridge. I’ve been ignoring it. I know it needs to be dealt with, but I also know it will be highly messy and unpleasant when I do, so I keep putting it off.
And, no, it does not make me feel better that he was remorseful afterward. He should’ve thought of that before he let his dick get away from him.
“Jen––when I say run sprints I mean run sprints!” my sister barks at her teenage student. “I don’t mean go for a leisurely jog.” Bebe throws her hands up in exasperation and I curl my lips around my teeth to suppress the laughter.
Today, I mark one more check on Rowdy’s to-do list. I’m watching Annabelle teach a lesson at the local tennis club.
Jen, Bebe’s student, spots me on the bleachers and runs over to introduce herself. Some hero worship happens. I sign her racket and we chat until Bebe barks at her to get a move on. Nothing out of the ordinary for my sister. She was the same way when she was training. Just as hard, if not more so, on herself.
Annabelle goes through the same training method she and I used when training as juniors. All goes well until they start working on the girl’s serve.
Bebe keeps trying to work on shortening the rotational path of the racket without throwing off her balance, which is extremely hard to do. As hard as asking a quarterback to change his throwing mechanics, or asking a person to change how they write. There’s a ton of muscle memory involved and it takes time and focus to change that.
Bebe looks over her shoulder and calls me down. I spring up from my seat and trot down to the court with a pep in my step, surprisingly excited to take part in this demonstration. Sadly, this is the first time all year I’m excited to participate in any tennis-related activity.
“Okay, Jen,” Bebe starts. “I want you to watch Maren’s rotation and how compact it is. There’s less waste of time and energy.”
I go through the motion of the serve sans racket because of the cast.
“Mare, stop tilting your hips,” comes from my left.
“I’m not tilting my hips,” I grumble.
“Ignore the way Maren is tilting her hips, Jen, but you see how efficient her rotation is, right?” Jen nods. Although her expression grows worried as my sister and I go back and forth. “If she didn’t push her hips out, it would be even better.”
Wtf? “I’m not throwing my hips, dammit! Stand in front of me and you can see better.”
My sister arches a snotty eyebrow and tips up her chin. “If you didn’t throw your hips forward, your serve would have a lot more power to it. It’s what, a hundred and one miles per hour? You could get it up to one hundred and ten if you stopped throwing your daggone hips!”
Back molars grinding, I go through the motion again. Annabelle marches over, positions herself behind me and as I’m swinging my arm, pulls my hips back.
“Eek!” My balance thrown off, I almost fall. “You little bitch!”
Then she pulls my hair. “Owwww!”
Reaching behind me, I manage to strike back with a purple nurple to her waist.
“Ouch!!” she screams. Which she follows up by tackling me, and before I know what’s what, we’re rolling around on the ground. All I say to that is thank the Lord it’s a clay court. We both look up into Jen’s horrified expression, glance at each other, and start to laugh hysterically.
Sisters, what can I say.
“Jen, you can go. That’s enough for today,” Bebe tells her student between fits of laughter.
“Okay, Coach.” Jen turns her wary gaze on me. “Nice meeting you,” she says to me. The queer look on her face says she’s not entirely sure if she means it. Still laughing, I wave in return.
“You’re right,” I tell my sister. Gripping one knee at a time, I pull it up and over, stretching out my back.
“You’re overcompensating for weakness in your lower back.”
I grunt in agreement. “Coach has gotten lazy. He stopped paying attention to my mechanics.”
“So get a new one. I never liked him anyway.”
“I think I need a break,” I mumble, finally brave enough to voice the truth out loud.
“What?”
“I’m burnt out.” I look over into Bebe’s wide eyes. “I need to catch my breath. You know what I’ve been doing for the last fifteen years?”
“What?”
“Tennis. Morning, noon, and night. I don’t even know how to get around London and I’ve been living there for six years! I don’t have a single friend. What kind of a person doesn’t have a single real friend? And I’m tired. I don’t know if I can do it anymore. Say something. Are you mad?”
“Why would I be mad?”
My old friend guilt rears its familiar head. “Because you want it so badly and I…I don’t, not like I used to.”
“Is this why you never come home? Because somehow you got it in your head I resent you for being able to play?” She gets up on her elbows to stare me down. “If I didn’t like this new prosthesis so much I’d take it off and beat you with it.” Her eyes narrow on me. “Is this why you never ask me to come to your matches?”
A pang of guilt hits me.
“I always send tickets. I don’t say anything because, you know, Mom and Dad never wanted to talk tennis in the house after what happened to you.”
A pair of the latest special-edition Nikes moves into my line of sight. Annabelle sees them too and we both fall silent. My focus climbs from the feet to the face of the man standing over us.
“Oliver…what are you doing here?”
* * *
It’s my parents’ turn to host the Sunday night football barbecue, a tradition they’ve had with their friends and neighbors for as long as I can remember. The backyard is at capacity. Seems like everyone we know has come to watch the Cowboys play the Eagles on the TV they set up in the back yard.
I glance across the collection of heads and find Oliver talking to my father who’s manning the grill. After we left the tennis club we went straight back to my place. Not much was said. Basically, I’m not speaking to him. He gives me an ultimatum and now wants to act like nothing happened? His audacity is breathtaking.
It’s so clear to me now. Spending every minute of our days together has concealed the fact that we’ve been drifting apart. That we’ve been staying together out of convenience.
Being a professional athlete makes for a lonely life. We’re constantly surrounded by people that work for us, whose job it is to keep us alienated from the rest of the world. Which is why a lot of us end up dating those who work for us.
Oliver and I fell easily into a relationship. We were living together by the fourth week of dating. Apart from the obvious physical attraction, he was older, knowledgeable. Successful in his own right. We were both committed to our careers, alike in the best way possible.
Before me, he dated
a well-known actress for years who was prone to drama. Oliver hates drama. I never asked for more than he was willing to give and in return he taught me how to handle living in the public eye. I thought we had everything in common. Now that I’ve had distance and time to consider it, however, it’s starting to look like it was only one thing.
Noah walks into the backyard with Jana in tow and my heart slams to a stop so fast it leaves skid marks. I shouldn’t be surprised he brought her. They’re together––it’d be weird if he didn’t. And yet, I am surprised…and oddly hurt. I know I have no right to be, but tell that to my heart. It feels what it feels.
Noah’s eyes immediately find mine and I let him see it. I let him see that it hurts me to see him with someone else. Taking it all in, the frown, the slouch, the vacant look in my eyes, his expression softens, melts in the sweetest way.
“Darling, can you come over for a minute?” Oliver’s voice carries over the chatter of the crowd. Noah’s eyes follow the path mine take and when he spots Oliver whatever flare of emotion was on his face a moment ago goes null and void. It’s like the curtain falls on his emotions.
My father greets me with a soft smile when I walk over. Oliver wraps an arm around my shoulder and I instantly stiffen, which doesn’t stop him from pulling me closer. “I wanted to let your family know that there will be a wedding soon.” Oliver flashes my father a toothy grin. His social media smile, I call it. Also known as fake af. “The sooner the better if it were up to me.”
Umm…
While Oliver smiles down at me, I’m pretty sure my face is stuck in the other F position. Also knows as wtf. My father’s eyebrows shoot up. Somewhere in the background, Bebe gasps. And I hear my mother mutter, “Dear Lord.”
Basically, he gets the same reaction from my family as if he’d announced that he’s into anal fisting, hates football, and is a vegetarian. Which he is. Strict, not even lacto-ovo. Though by the looks of him and his blood work, he makes an excellent case for it.
I look over my shoulder and watch Noah’s back retreat, walking out the same way he came in only a short while ago.
* * *
I was out of the house as soon as I heard the shower running this morning. The time has come for a serious discussion about why this is no longer working and it needs to be done after I calm down. We didn’t say a word last night. I was so angry he’s lucky to be alive this morning. All I did was escort him to the other bedroom and announce that I wasn’t going to discuss anything in the state I was in. He didn’t push, knowing that it was only going to end badly for him if he did.
Knox and I are behind the bar doing inventory when Oliver waltzes into Rowdy’s and slides onto a barstool. He removes his sunglasses and hangs them on the open collar of his shirt. “Oliver Wakefield, Maren’s fiancé.” He extends a hand at Knox.
“We’re in the middle of inventory,” I tell him, my tone indicating he’s not welcome. I don’t even address the fiancé bullshit.
Knox’s brows lift ever so slightly. “Knox Evans, nice to meet you.” Knox’s paw swallows up Oliver’s hand.
“What are you doing here?” I feel inclined to ask.
Oliver’s attention returns to me. “Can we talk?”
“Yeah, sure.” I walk around the bar and he slides off the barstool and stands.
Knox looks between us and excuses himself. As soon as we’re alone, I unload.
“How could you do that to me? You think announcing an engagement in front of an audience is going to shame me into marrying you? Did you honestly think I was going to go along with it? ’Cause I’ve got news for you, I have experience being shamed publicly and this little maneuver of yours is nothing compared to what I’ve been through.”
He looks momentarily flummoxed and that’s just too bad, he forfeited the right to know what I’m referring to the minute he decided not to work on our relationship.
“I wanted you to come home and I didn’t know what else to do. Yes, I may have been a bit precipitous––”
“Precipitous?” I interrupt, jaw hanging in disfuckingbelief. “You never asked me. I never said yes. You’re bullying me into marriage. Do you hear how bad that sounds? I’m starting to believe it’s no longer about getting married and more about you getting your way.”
“Would you have said yes?” he asks quietly, a pensive frown in place.
I look at the man I once believed would be the last lover I would ever have. It took coming back here to realize we were stuck in limbo, treading water. Stepping closer, I brush a palm over his white cotton button-down. Because I still care about him…and because there’s a lot to be said about loyalty and Oliver is loyal.
“No––and you can’t be surprised. You know things haven’t been good this past year.” I look up into his dark blue eyes. I see loss and sadness. Those are clearly there. What I don’t see is pain. “I know you felt it too.”
After a curt nod, he looks away.
Noah walks in with a dishtowel draped over his shoulder. His hard stare bounces between me and Oliver. Basically he sees us holding each other, and yet is clueless about what’s really going on. The vein in the middle of his forehead makes an appearance. Without a word, he walks behind the bar and starts…cleaning. Good Lord.
“Look, Ol…” I stop, distracted by the vibe burning the side of my face. Compelled to look to the right, I find Noah staring back. “Can we have some privacy, please?”
For a minute Noah doesn’t move, simply glares, chest puffed, tattooed arms crossed. Oliver returns an equal glare. It’s glares, glares everywhere. Noah finally sees the error of his ways and moves further down the bar to do whatever he’s pretending to do so that he can continue to eavesdrop.
“It’s over, Oliver,” I say softly. I don’t want to hurt him. I might not be in love with him, yet despite his actions I care about him deeply.
Oliver’s stubble-covered jaw stiffens. “Fine. Take more time––it’s on you if your training suffers.”
“No.” It leaves my mouth much more easily than I expected. A steady calm washes over me at the realization that this is without a shadow of a doubt the right thing to do.
“No?” He scoffs. “That’s it? No––after six bloody years?” His anger is palpable, the volume of his voice increasing with every word.
Beyond Oliver’s shoulder, I vaguely notice Noah’s head pop up. He’s abandoned pretending and given us his full attention. Call me psychic because I can see where this is leading and it’s nowhere I want to go.
I take his hands in mine. “This has been a long time coming.”
Oliver’s face goes flat. “It’s him, isn’t it? The wanker with the tattoos. Who is he, Maren, schoolgirl crush?”
“The wanker that owns this joint, asshole. The one that’s about to throw you out,” the wanker down the bar shouts.
I can deadlift twice my weight and these two idiots are going to fight over me? Really? And before noon, no less? Come on.
Squaring up, Noah throws his towel onto the bar top and Oliver turns to face him. This is what they call cock fighting.
“So,” I start, nodding, my gaze moving between idiot number one and idiot number two. “Are we all gonna go Kung Fu fighting? Cuz I’d like to get a turn.”
“No Kung Fu necessary, baby. Just good old-fashioned fisticuffs,” rejoins idiot number two from the far side of the bar.
“Baby? Who the fuck do you think you are!” Red-faced, Oliver charges. Noah vaults over the bar. And I spare no time jumping into action, placing myself between Oliver and the man I intend to clobber the stupid out of as soon as I get a chance.
“Stop it! Noah, stay the hell out of this. It’s none of your business.” I look up at Oliver who is busy making chopped meat out of Noah with his razor sharp glare. Tugging on his shirt, I say, “Oliver, come on. Let’s go outside.”
He leans his chest into my good hand, warning me that I couldn’t stop him if he didn’t allow it. A tense moment passes before he pulls back and wraps his fingers around
my hand, the one pressed over his heart. Taking it, he leads me toward the door. I catch Noah ready to pounce out of the corer of my eye and mouth stay.
Outside, the sky is carpeted with clouds as far as the eye can see and as melancholy as the scene below. We walk to his rental car hand in hand. At the car, he leans against it, stuffing his hands in his front pockets. Trying to appear unaffected right now seems pointless but he tries anyway.
“Who is he, Maren?”
“I’ve been trying to tell you for weeks.”
“The business partner,” he offers drily, new understanding in his eyes. Shaking his head, he pauses while I squint up at him. “I knew something was off.”
“He has nothing to do with this.” The skeptical look he shoots me is his answer to that. “Remember when we met––how I told you the last relationship I was in had ended badly and I wasn’t looking for anything serious? He was the bad relationship.”
“Ah.” For the first time I see resignation in his faraway gaze. And with it, a small hole opens up in my chest, the ache already building.
We’ve had some great times together. Oliver was with me every step of the way as I climbed the ranks of the WTA. For my greatest victory––Wimbledon. And my most painful defeats––the US Open. A large part of my success belongs to him. Despite everything, I am going to miss him.
“This isn’t about him and you know it. You didn’t want to hear that I’m burnt out, or that this was a blessing in disguise.” I hold up my cast. “You didn’t want to hear that I’m having fun here because it doesn’t fit your idea of what our life should look like…your agenda.”
I don’t go on even though there’s a lot more I could say. Like the fact that neither of us really knows the other––not really. Which is absurd since we’ve been sharing a roof and a bed, working together nonstop since the day we met. That neither of us digs past the surface because we’re afraid that we’ll discover what we already know in our hearts––that we have nothing in common except tennis and winning.
