Free Love in Straight Sets by Rebecca Crowley Page A

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