Page 23 of Hard to Love

“That’s the rules.”

“Whose rules? Why not just break the rules, be smart, and don’t get stranded? Seems pretty simple to me. Then you can have any woman you want. Life’s too short to be strapped to any woman.”

I look up from my desk at the utter confusion blanketing Greg’s face. “Because that’s not the rules,” he repeats.

“Greg, here’s the deal, sometimes you need to make your own rules. Sometimes you need to break a few now and again to change the situation you’re in. It’s the people breaking the rules who are the ones succeeding. So screw having just five. Don’t get stranded at all and then you can have all the women you want.”

“Yes, sir,” he says and clears his throat, clearly uncomfortable with my commentary and advice.

“The whole theory implies that you could only get these women if you were stranded. Why not have the confidence that you could land them in everyday life?” I shove some papers in my briefcase and look back up at him. “Confidence is paramount in this career, Greg. Even if you don’t think you can land someone, you have to pretend that you can. You have to fake it till you make it.”

He stands there quiet for a beat as he shifts on his feet and frankly, I’m proud of myself for having this much patience. Normally I’d have run him off by now. But the poor kid is gangly and slightly clueless despite his more than impressive job performance since he’s come on board.

“So you’re telling me you think I’d have a shot at her?” he asks and it takes a second for it to register what he means and even longer for me to clear the shocked-as-shit look off my face.

Especially when his words feel like flint to my temper. It’s a reaction I don’t expect nor want. Stevie is nothing more to me than a client I don’t want as a client.

“I’m telling you that she’s a pain in my ass.” And no, you’ll never have a shot with her. “A royal one at that who I now have to babysit because she’s determined to ruin herself or her career or perhaps both.”

“I’d be glad to come and assist you.”

“I’m sure you would.” I chuckle. “I’m sure you would.”

STEVIE

“BETTER BUT YOU’RE STILL OFF. You need to add more lift to the racket.”

I think I’m going to die.

“You’re not getting to the ball fast enough. Speed up your footwork.”

Screw you, Kellen.

But aren’t I the one who’s screwed? Aren’t I the one who was seeded in the top five in the world only to now feel out of shape and off my game?

There’s no one else to blame but yourself.

I shove the thought away as I gulp in air. Isn’t a girl allowed to grieve? Isn’t she allowed to fail a little in the process?

At the same time though, the women I chased down on the court, beat, and then outranked are now breathing down my neck. Are now threatening to take that rank I worked for back.

“C’mon, Stevie. Get there,” he shouts as he hits one to the corner of the court that is just beyond the reach of my racket. His hiss of disappointment is a loud echo in my head that piles on top of the dissatisfaction I feel everyone has with me these days. Freaking par for the course.

I hold up a middle finger to him as I gulp water, and his laugh reverberates around the empty court. The last thing I need is to be lectured right now. Dare I say I’m actually enjoying myself?

The squeak of my shoes on the court. The jolt to my forearms when I hit the ball in the sweet spot. The burn of my muscles as I repeat the same stroke over and over. The satisfaction of the ball landing perfectly just inside the line.

At least the indoor tennis courts provide us with air conditioning and cover from the sun or else I would be hurting on a much larger scale.

The problem is, even though I’m sucking major wind, there is peace in being here. A feeling of rightness. For the first time in weeks, I feel settled and maybe that’s because I’m on the court. In the place I’ve always found comfort.

Where I feel closest to my dad.

It’s also a double-edged sword because every time I look across that net, I expect to see my dad there. I expect to see his red hat and stern look that tells me I’m not working hard enough. I expect to hear “Game on, Stevester,” in that gravelly voice of his that demanded more from me even when I didn’t think I had more to give.

But somehow, I’d find it for him. Somehow, I’d dig deeper again and again until he’d give me that slight nod of his chin that told me he was satisfied. No words of praise, just that nod and—

“Again,” Kellen says when I walk back to the fault line. Another ball comes at me to hit.