“Glad you think so,” he says dryly.
“Do you think Peter Tate would want you to go to the strategic communication meeting?” I ask. “Because it seems like the sort of thing a department chief would do.”
There’s a beat of silence, then Dr. Malone laughs. It’s a good laugh, rich and deep, and his shoulders shake with it.
“You’re persistent, I’ll give you that,” he says, when he finally collects himself.
“I can be, yes.”
The hint of a smile plays on his lips. “I’m on call next Tuesday, so if the meeting’s on Wednesday I might fall asleep.”
“That’s fine. Heather Larkin just asked me to get you there, she didn’t say you had to stay awake.”
“What if I snore? It might be distracting.”
“Do you snore?”
“I’m not sure,” he admits. “No one’s ever mentioned it.”
This isn’t surprising. I doubt many women would kick Drew Malone out of bed for snoring.
“Great,” I tell him. “So, can I tell Heather you’ll be there? In body, if not in spirit?”
He meets my eye. “I have one condition.”
“What?” So long as it’s nothing illegal, I’ll find a way to make it happen.
“Play tennis with me. If you beat me, I’ll go to the meeting.”
At first I think I’ve misheard him. “I’m sorry?”
“Play tennis with me,” he repeats. “That’s my condition. You beat me at tennis, I’ll come to this meeting.”
Okay. There’s no mistaking that, and there’s no way this is a coincidence. He knows.
Someone must have told him. I grew up in Somerset, so a number of people know about my ill-fated pro tennis career. It’s highly unlikely that Dr. Malone recognized me from one of my televised matches, because that almost never happens.
I didn’t play very many televised matches; I wasn’t good enough.
The memories come flooding back. Falling in love with tennis as a kid. Winning the local club’s tournaments, then regional and provincial ones. Convincing my parents to send me to a tennis academy in Florida for my last two years of high school.
Then turning down a tennis scholarship at Stanford to join the pro tour. Winning a little—early round matches at mid-level tournaments—but losing a lot. Having to ask my parents for money because I wasn’t winning enough to support myself.
And finally quitting at twenty-two, with a career high ranking of ninety-seven. Fighting with my dad, and trying to blame him for my failure because he hadn’t believed in me. Knowing deep down that I had no one to blame but myself.
I look Dr. Malone in the eye. “I don’t play tennis.”
He looks at me quizzically. “You don’t play tennis.”
“Nope. But if there’s something else I could do to free up some of your time, like walking your dog?—”
“I don’t have any pets. And my doctor advised me to get more exercise.”
“You look like you get plenty of exercise,” I retort, before I can think better of it.
But’s true; the man is built, with the kinds of veins in his forearms that come from a regular strength training routine. His shoulders are broad, his waist is narrow, and I doubt there’s a spare ounce of fat on him anywhere.
But Dr. Malone is my boss, and it’s probably not appropriate to comment on his appearance. I feel my cheeks heating up, and I notice his cheeks have reddened a little, too.
