Page 111 of This Could be Love

“You…”

“But the only thing I am in your presence is…happy.” He reached for my hands and looked deep into my eyes. “And damn proud. I mean, what you do out there, the way you play and fight for every point, it’s just…intense.Youare intense.”

“Intensely intimidating, you mean.”

His expression saidFair. I deserved that.

“Intense in the sense that the caveman in me would have loved to have run out onto the court and tell everyone that you belonged to me.”

“You got that I lost, right?”

“You didn’t lose. You just didn’t win.”

“Since when have you become so philosophical?”

“Probably since the moment I started wearing long pants.”

I had to laugh.

“Jokes aside, I can’t wait to ditch them.” Wriggling his nose, he tugged at the stretchy cotton. “I sweat like a pig during the match.”

“How on earth did you even get a ticket? Wasn’t it sold out?”

“I hit up my neighbor. She’s got some serio connects.” He grinned, and my eyes almost popped out of my skull.

“Kayhelped you?!”

“I went over there and told her that I wasn’t ready to give us up. And that I would never stop you from living your dream.”

“And that convinced her?”

“Um…no.” He laughed. “But, at some point, she realized I wasn’t going to go away. And I had to promise her that I’d only profess my love to youafterthe match.”

His reply reminded me that he’d done that numerous times. And that I still hadn’t responded.

“Is that yours?” Ana Bozovic asked, pointing to the black van with a US Open logo on the side. I hadn’t heard her come up and was too confused for a moment to answer. My glance drifted to Vince, whose shoulders had tensed up. As if he knew how much depended on my answer.

“Yeah, I’m going to the hotel.”

The expression in his eyes changed. As I began to move, he stayed put. I looked back over my shoulder. “You coming?” I looked down at his pants. “I know a place you can get rid of those.”

* * *

“Better?” I asked and checked how his shorts were sitting. He’d exchanged his polo for a loose-fitting blue T-shirt that brought out the color of his eyes.

“Tons. I jumped under the shower for a sec. Hope that was okay.”

“Of course,” I said, though the image of him there made it hard for me to concentrate.

“Somehow when crying about all your lonely nights in hotelsyou managed to leave out the marble bathtubs and king-size beds,” he said as his eyes scanned my room, which was really more of a suite. It was tastefully modern and luxurious. There were flowers in a vase and a bowl with perfectly polished apples.

“The promoters book the hotels for us.”

He raised his eyebrows. “All of you stay in these kinds of rooms?”

“Not all of us,” I admitted. “Depends on your ranking.”

He moved to the window looking out onto New York City’s skyline. The setting sun reflected in the skyscrapers.