Eleven Teagan
Eleven
Teagan
I pushed thoughts of a six-foot-three chocolate tennis star out of my mind and focused on business the rest of the week. Although the Gems offered to help me out financially, I don’t want their money, not if I can avoid taking it. I hate failing. It reminds me of when the choice was out of my hands and I had to walk away from tennis, something I loved, something I was good at. It broke my heart as much as losing the man I loved.
Speaking of Dominic, I’ve not heard anything from or about him. I’m sure that will change when I attend today’s tennis tournament committee meeting. How did I let Charity talk me into agreeing to help? Having to play the game once in a while to schmooze is one thing, but a full-blown tournament? It’s for a good cause, but it’s putting me in Dominic’s path. If it was up to me, I’d put a wide berth between us, but it’s not my decision. He’s the star they’ve hired to promote the event.
I put on a maroon Nike tennis dress and a pair of matching sneakers. I slick my hair back with a headband and I’m ready for battle. I’m hoping for zero drama, but now that Dominic has signed on, all bets are off.
“Are you prepared for all the hoopla that will accompany having someone of Dominic’s stature at the tournament? Tickets will sell out,” I warn Charity when I arrive at one of the country club’s meeting rooms mid-Saturday morning.
Her eyes gleam with excitement. “That’s what we want. We’ll be sure to retain enough tickets for the committee and country club members, but having Dominic is a game changer.”
Several other committee members arrive and Charity calls the meeting to order. I learn they’ve set the date along with a fundraising goal of two million dollars, which is quite ambitious. The event will be open to country club members, friends and members of the Phoenix community. I try to be enthusiastic. My sole goal is to garner business for Williams & Associates. I push my feelings about Dominic aside and focus on what’s important.
When Charity and Mitzi ask for volunteers, I raise my hand. “I’ll help.”
“That’s great, Teagan. We appreciate you, as a new member, stepping up to the plate.”
The rest of the meeting continues with discussion about weather contingencies, players, attendance, streamlining the sign-up process and stepping up efforts to recruit sponsors. Somehow, without my agreeing to it, my name has been offered up as a player.
“But I haven’t played in years,” I respond quickly. I don’t want to be in front of a crowd again where my every move is assessed.
“C’mon, Teagan,” Laura Ragans, one of the other committee members, says. “We saw you the last couple of weeks and you’re better than most of us.”
I sigh with defeat. “I think my efforts would be better served behind the scenes.”
“Don’t worry,” Charity replies. “You’ll be great.”
And just like that, my worst fears about playing again are realized. You can’t give candy to someone with a sweet tooth and not expect them to eat. Tennis was my life. My entire world revolved around that court. If I have to play in the tournament, it means I’ll have to play my best. I’m scared of another injury, but the doctor always told me I didn’t have to give up tennis entirely. He’d said I could play recreationally. But I hadn’t wanted to. It was all-or-nothing.
I chose nothing.
It scares me to get back on the court. I’m an athlete, or at least I was. I only know how to aim for a win, which means I’ll need practice and lots of it.
* * *
After the meeting is over, I head down to the courts. I need to practice my footwork, timing and serve. After checking the schedule, I find my favorite, court seven, and head over to practice.
After lining up the ball machine, I walk to the baseline. I’m not worried about my stance or my grip on the racket, which come naturally, but when I played with Charity a couple of weeks ago, I didn’t always connect with the ball. Typically, I like to hit big, with a spin inside out. I also need to make sure my backhand is in an open stance with my shoulders parallel to the net. I hit the on button to begin.
An hour in, I feel encouraged and move to turn off the machine when I’m interrupted by a masculine voice that says, “Your backhand has never been the prettiest. I always told you it makes you flat-footed.”
The hair on my nape rises and a shiver races through me. I don’t have to turn around to know the owner of that voice. I’d hoped to avoid hearing it after I failed to meet with him. Apparently, that’s not to be.
I swing around and see Dominic Fletcher standing on the court. He’s wearing a bemused expression and looking quite dapper in Nike shorts and a white polo while I feel drenched in my tennis dress. A ball swings by my face and I quickly rush across to the other side of the net to turn off the machine.
“What are you doing here, Fletcher?” I ask, glancing up from my task. I ignore the butterflies swarming in my belly.
“I’m here to practice, same as you.”
I roll my eyes. “You don’t need to practice. There’s not another Grand Slam for months.”
“Still keeping up with the sport?”
“I’m not deaf and blind,” I respond.
He snorts. “Would it hurt you to play nice in the sandbox?” He walks closer and stops several feet shy of me, but that doesn’t mean I’m not affected by him.
I tell myself he has no power over me. He can’t have it unless I give it to him. “Why are you really at the club?”
“Maybe I’m here to see if the edge you once had is really gone. I mean, if you’re going to play in this tournament, you’ll need some pointers.”
I roll my eyes. “I don’t need them from you.”
Since I allowed myself to look him up recently, I devoured his stats and know all his averages, including who he’s beaten and who’s beaten him. Dominic is a formidable player.
“I’m the number-one player in men’s tennis, Teagan. You could learn a thing or two from me.”
“On how to run when the going gets tough?”
Dominic sighs and rubs his bald head. “There you go again. Still stuck in the past. We don’t have to be enemies.”
I glare at him and move away. “We’re definitely not friends.”
“Agreed,” he says. “I extended an olive branch, which you snubbed by tearing up my card, by not calling or meeting with me.”
“Can you blame me?”
He rolls his eyes. “Whatever. I’m trying to help you so you don’t look like a fool, but if you’d rather not be up to snuff…”
His words make my back stiffen. “This—” I point to him “—is precisely why I didn’t want to play in this tournament to begin with. I wanted to be behind the scenes.”
“You and I both know you love the spotlight.”
“Same as you,” I respond, and notice the edges of his mouth tighten. “If you recall, having all that attention didn’t turn out too well for me. I was once the darling of the media until I wasn’t. I don’t wish to relive that again.”
“Then why come back here?” he asks, motioning around the courts.
“I don’t owe you an explanation.” I turn away from him, pick up my racket and grab my tennis bag. I’m not about to tell superrich Dominic about my money troubles and that my membership at the country club is a last-ditch effort to save my fledgling real estate brokerage.
His dark eyes narrow, and I can tell I’ve struck a nerve. “No, you don’t owe me anything, Teagan, but I’m here and I’m not going anywhere. Your tournament needs a star, and I’m it. Unless you have someone else up your sleeve, I suggest you deal with the fact I’m here to stay.” He surprises me by walking past me to the ball machine.
“What are you doing?”
“If you don’t want to play, then I guess I’ll practice alone.”
I sigh. I don’t want Dominic here because his presence reminds me of who I used to be and never will be again. It’s hard to forget everything I lost, but he’s right about one thing. If I intend to play in the tournament, I’ve got to improve. My serve is not what it once was. Back in the day, I hit a 125-mile-per-hour serve, but those days are long gone.
“Fine!” I say, tossing down my bag. I’ve always had a competitive streak when it comes to Dominic. “I’ll play.”
He raises an eyebrow. “With me?”
“Is there anyone else on the court?” I ask, cocking my head.
He chuckles. “I love it when you’re feisty, Teagan.” He tosses the tennis ball at me. “Your serve.”
“Why do I have to go first?”
“Because you’re the one who needs practice.”
I hate that he’s right. I watch him saunter across the hard court to the other side of the net. Dominic has a confident stride that lets anyone looking know he’s sure of himself and who he is. His swagger is one of the things that attracted me to him in the first place.
And apparently, nothing has changed. He still makes my heart go flip-flop.