21. Cathy
21
CATHY
T he next morning, as I finish my breakfast, I find myself sighing out loud. The mansion, grand and beautiful as it is, feels stifling after so many days of being cooped up inside. Ivan’s gaze sharpens, picking up on my discontent.
“Missing something?” he asks, his tone casual, but there’s a flicker of interest in his eyes. “More movies?”
I shrug, not quite meeting his gaze. “I want to be active, you know? Playing sports, doing things outdoors.”
He pauses for a beat, then stands up, a glint of something playful in his eyes. “Come with me,” he says, beckoning. Intrigued, I follow him through the mansion’s twisting halls and out onto the terrace, where an expansive outdoor tennis court gleams in the morning light.
“Tennis?” I ask, a little shocked. I wouldn’t have pegged Ivan as someone who even thinks about sports, let alone plays them.
He smirks, pulling open a case with rackets and a basket of tennis balls. “What, did you think I was all work and no play?”
“You play in a suit?” I scoff, taking the racket he hands me. “Fine, but don’t go easy on me.”
He chuckles, a dark sound that promises he won’t. “I never planned to.”
We take our positions, and he serves the first ball, a powerful, precise shot that has me racing to return it. The match starts out lighthearted enough, with him lobbing easy shots in my direction, his movements graceful but clearly restrained. He’s testing me, as if gauging how well I’ll play with my slight limp.
But after a few rounds, when I slam a winning return his way, I see a glint in his eye—surprise mixed with a newfound determination. Ivan steps up his game, moving faster and hitting harder, his powerful serves forcing me to stay quick on my feet. It’s exhilarating to see him let loose, to see him truly play rather than holding back.
“Is that all you’ve got?” I taunt as I send a well-aimed shot that lands just inside the line.
He raises an eyebrow, a wicked smile playing on his lips. “You asked for it, Cathy.”
With renewed intensity, we volley back and forth, the ball flying over the net with increasing speed. I’m breathless, the thrill of the game and the challenge of keeping up with Ivan pushing me harder than I’ve played in ages.
He’s good—better than I expected—and I catch myself smiling as I manage to match him point for point.
“My father made me take lessons,” he calls across to me. “For many boring years. Tennis, croquet, fencing.”
“I joined in high school, kept me out of the house three nights a week.”
I land an especially tricky shot that has him dashing to the back of the court. He’s forced to scramble, and for a split second, I see a genuine smile, broad and completely unguarded, flash across his face.
It’s a side of him I haven’t seen before, and it catches me off guard, a flutter of warmth breaking through my usual defenses.
“Enjoying yourself?” I call out, catching my breath as he prepares to serve again.
His gaze is steady on me as he spins the ball between his fingers. “Don’t get cocky. I’m just getting started.”
We dive into the next rally, our laughter and banter filling the space. Every so often, I catch him stealing glances at me, an almost boyish mischief sparking in his eyes.
It’s as if the roles have melted away, as if we’re just two people, free from obligations or shadows, enjoying the thrill of a game.
Finally, after a long, exhausting rally, I make a wild swing that misses the ball entirely. It bounces out of bounds, and I bend over, gasping for air, laughing at my own dramatic finish. Ivan, too, lowers his racket, walking over to where I stand, still breathless and smiling.
He studies me for a moment, his expression unreadable but softer than usual. “Not bad,” he says, his voice almost warm, a hint of admiration slipping through his usual reserve.
“Not bad?” I echo, raising an eyebrow. “I practically had you running in circles.”
He chuckles, shaking his head. “Keep telling yourself that.” Then, in a rare moment of playfulness, he reaches out, lightly tapping my shoulder with his racket. “Come on. You’ve earned yourself a drink.”