Tiebreaker (It Takes Two 2)

“I give you moment, yes? Then we talk.” Katya doesn’t wait for me to answer. Katya doesn’t ask questions; she hands out orders and makes you think you have a choice. Turning on her sensible Gucci loafers, she makes for the door. I press accept with apprehension.

“Bebe, are you okay?”

“I should be asking you that.”

“Broken wrist. But I’m more butt hurt about losing.” The deafening silence that follows makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up straight. “What is it?”

“Grandpa died this morning.”

Everything stops. The earth from spinning. The sun from setting. All that’s left is the heavy pounding of my heart and the voice screaming in my head, telling me that he should’ve had more time.

“Maren? You there? Mare––”

It feels like an eternity passes in silence before I find the energy to answer. “Yeah.”

“You have to come home. He made you the executor of his will.”

And there it is, a trifecta of shit.

* * *

“You’re sure you don’t want to come with me?” I ask one last time as I hurry into the closet of the Four Seasons suite we’ve called home since coming to New York for the US Open.

He’s already declined twice. It’s not like I need him for emotional support. We don’t have that kind of relationship and that suits me just fine. Except going home means I have to come face-to-face with my past and my past is something I’d rather not deal with without a buffer, a bottle of vodka, and possibly a HAZMAT suit.

I try to gather as much of my clothing as I can handle with only one useable hand and end up ripping most of them off the hangers in frustration. Designer clothes for interviews that still have the tags on; I never dress up unless threatened by Katya. Expensive jeans and shirts that I never wear because they’re uncomfortable. And then my actual clothes: threadbare jeans, shorts and more shorts, t-shirts in every color, and polos.

As soon as I walk back into the bedroom, I stop short at the sight of Oliver’s ass comfortably planted in an armchair, legs sprawled apart, one foot up on an ottoman. For a fleeting moment, I consider setting the chair on fire.

“I’ll pass,” he drawls, teaming it with a slanted mocking glance. The tennis ball he’s holding bounces from one big hand to the other. “Do you remember last time? Christ, that was awful.”

Yeah, I remember.

The food was terrible.

The hotel was musty.

The sheets cardboard.

The mattress soft.

What a disaster that was, one I’m not too keen on repeating. So maybe he’s right not to want to come. Dumping the clothes next to the suitcase, I return to the closet.

“How long is this going to take?” he shouts.

“I’m not getting the oil on my car changed.” I can’t keep the resentment that’s been building out of my voice. “My grandfather died. I don’t know…a week. Maybe more. There’s going to be a lot of family bullshit and the estate to sort out.”

My voice peters out. I’m at a loss to understand why my grandfather would’ve made me the executor of his will over my father. It just doesn’t make any sense.

When I glance up, Oliver’s leaning against the doorway with his arms crossed over his designer linen shirt. At thirty-nine, he has a better body than most twenty-five-year-olds. He trains harder than most of them too.

“No, really, don’t trouble yourself. I only had surgery twelve hours ago.” My injured arm throbs like a bitch as I stand there with a load of clothes.

“I can’t believe you’re asking for help. Did that hurt? Saying it out loud?”

I roll my eyes and he smirks. With a lazy push off the doorframe, he comes over and takes them out of my arms, carries them back to my luggage and proceeds to haphazardly stuff them in.

I swear next time I do laundry I’m going to “accidentally” stick one of his red shirts in with his whites. Unable to watch him mangle my clothes for another minute, I march back into the closet to gather my shoes.

“Your mother doesn’t even like me,” he points out as if he needs to justify his decision.

I pause from gathering my sneakers and poke my head out of the closet. “What? That’s crazy. Of course she likes you. Why would you say that?”

“We both overheard her speaking on the phone, remember?”

Oooo, I forgot about that. I drop the sneakers into the luggage. “She was going through menopause.” Kind’a…about six years ago. Not really. “She didn’t know what she was saying.” Oliver’s face projects all the skepticism in the world. I’m a terrible liar and he knows it. “Well, I like you. Shouldn’t that be enough?”

He wraps an arm around my waist and pulls me in. His hands slide down, cup my ass. He grinds his erection against me. “Let’s take a trip when you get back.” I can feel the sly smile on the side of my throat. “As your trainer it’s my job to make certain you get the proper care. And I say you need some serious sexual healing.”