Love. Set. Match. Read online

  She swallowed hard, pushing down the tears. “It’s not your fault. There’s no way either of us could have known how this would go. Just…find out who did this so I can beat them upside the head with my racket.”

  She ended the call and slid down into the bed, pulling the fluffy down comforter over her head. She should call someone. Zoe needed to know. So did Owen. And Gran. God, what was she going to tell Gran? She pretended to be tough, but she was still recovering from a minor cardiac episode at Christmas time. Gran was going to see those pictures; so were her friends. How could she explain that this was something women today did with their boyfriends? Her grandma still liked to pretend that Emerson was saving her virginity for marriage.

  What would Papa Vic think of all this? For the first time since he’d died, she was glad her grandpa wasn’t here. He would be outraged and threaten to beat up Kole, but while he’d never say it, he’d be disappointed in her. It’d be there in his eyes, in the quiet way his broad shoulders would sag and his gray brows would furrow. She hated disappointing him, hated being anything less than the woman he’d raised her to be. Ever since she was a little girl, she’d always tried to be the best version of herself for him, and she’d only failed him twice. Once seven years ago, with Rob and their stupid secret relationship, and once when she let Kole take those fucking pictures.

  Giving in to the pelting storm of emotions, she let the tears go for exactly twenty minutes. That’s all she could allow herself. As easy as it would be to let it all drag her down, wallowing in the shame and feeling of total violation wouldn’t do her any good. She needed to focus on her career. She couldn’t afford to be distracted, not if she wanted to keep her career intact and win that Grand Slam title this year.

  By the time Zoe and Dera pounded on her door, she’d showered, and all traces of red eyes and puffiness were gone.

  “That bastard! How could he do this?” Dera fumed in between bouts of French expletives.

  Zoe, frantically typing out a text on her phone, narrowed her eyes at the TV screen where every news channel seemed to be running a story about Emerson. “I’ll skin him alive and feed him to the nearest pack of dingoes. Then I’ll feed that idiot Amir to them for dessert. I knew you should never have gotten involved with Naumov.”

  Emerson sat there in a haze. She heard her friend’s unbridled outrage on her behalf and her coach’s righteous, almost motherly anger, but none of it seeped in. Numbness had been her friend in the last few weeks, and she clung to it now, only vaguely aware of her brother showing up in her room late in the morning.

  “Shit, Squeaker. Are you okay?” Owen pulled her against his massive chest for a bear hug.

  Normally, she loved his bear hugs, even when he called her that awful childhood nickname he and Papa Vic had devised because of the noise she made when she hit the tennis ball. His hugs reminded her of when they were little and he’d beaten up the kids at school who teased her for looking too much like their Chinese mother. Unlike her, he’d inherited his six-foot-six height and build from some distant relative on their grandma’s side who once rode across the American plains in war paint and buckskin. Like her grandpa, he had that type of presence that made her think everything was going to be all right as long as he had her back. As much as she wanted to cling to her big brother and let him tell her everything was all right, having him with her didn’t work today.

  “I’m…fine. I’m fine, O.” She pulled away, crossing her arms over her chest.

  He raised one black eyebrow in a move she swore he’d perfected by spending hours in front of the mirror. “Pull the other one.”

  “I can’t deal with this right now. I have a match,” she said, pushing aside his concern. “Have you talked to Gran? I should call her, but I have no clue what the hell I’m supposed to say.”

  “Gran called me a few minutes ago. Amir gave Gran and the uncles the heads-up after he talked to you in case they started getting calls from reporters.” He started to pace. “This is messed up, Emmy. I can’t believe that jackass would do this. He’s lucky I don’t corner him in the locker room and beat him until he’s bluer than the hard court.”

  She sat down on the edge of the bed, her head aching almost more than her heart. She appreciated everyone’s support, but she wished they’d give her a few moments alone to process everything and get her head on straight before her match. “We don’t know that Kole is the one who released the pictures. Amir’s working on that. Until then, we can’t rush to judgement. Lord knows, the press is going to do that enough for all of us. How’d Gran sound? Is she okay? This can’t be good for her heart.”

  “Her heart’s fine. She’s worried about you and shocked, but she’s handling it better than expected. Uncle Mike and Uncle Tony are keeping away from the news and the computer, and everyone’s taken their phones off the hook so no one can bug them.” He shoved his hands in the pockets of his warm-up pants. “Are you going to be okay to play? Do you want me to sit in your box? My match isn’t until tonight.”

  She flopped back on the bed, the weight on her chest growing heavier. She hadn’t thought about this affecting Owen. He would have to deal with the press questions too. Everyone on the tour knew they were close, and they’d been mixed doubles partners up until a year ago.

  “Shit. They’re going to bombard you too. I’ll have Amir send you the talking points when I get them. Maybe he can get you out of most of the press conference too.”

  “Don’t worry about me. I can handle the jackals. You focus on winning your match. You’ve worked so hard to get here, Squeaker.” Chocolate eyes studied her with the perceptiveness of one who knew her almost better than she knew herself. Although they were close in age—Irish twins as her grandma liked to say—he’d always protected her, always wanted to step in front of her and take the hit. Now she was in a situation where no one else could take the blow. Whoever released those pictures had executed a perfect shot at her, and there was no going back. She had to swing or risk having her head taken off.

  “I’ve got this,” she assured him.

  Except she so didn’t have this.

  All during her warm up, she kept telling herself she did, but as she sat alone in the locker room, she began to realize she was in over her head. Struggling to breathe, she tried to refocus herself and think only about her game. Zoe had kept up a running commentary about what to watch for with her opponent, but now Emerson couldn’t even remember a word of it. All she could think about were those fucking pictures. Some idiot was probably jerking off to them right now. Waves of nausea rolled over her, and she hurried to the nearest toilet, vomiting up the little bit of breakfast Dera and Owen had coaxed her into eating.

  After splashing water on her face, she went through the motions of ensuring her bag was packed exactly the way she liked it. Then she pulled on her tennis dress, wishing the bright cheery yellow and purple geometric pattern felt more like the armor it usually was for her. She thought the pre-match ritual would set her back on even footing, but from the second she stepped up to the service line, everything felt…off. The wave of peace that normally hit her on the court didn’t come. When everything else in her world was wrong, when her dad had rescheduled a trip into town or the kids at school had picked on her, she could come to the court and forget it all.

  But not today.

  Today all the eyes burned into her, penetrating the protective bubble of the court, and instead of rooting her on, they were all judging her.

  Slut. Whore. Wash up. Fake.

  That’s what they were thinking. Those pictures had given her a rush of empowerment when she first let Kole take them, so sexy and kickass and I-am-woman-hear-me-roar. Now that was replaced with fear and anger and hurt. It hurt that someone thought it was okay to let the world see such private pictures. She’d never hurt quite like this before.

  Her knee whispered at her, a dull ache that couldn’t compare to what her heart felt. She bounced the ball for her first service game, trying to find her center. She d
ouble-faulted instead. Her opponent, a young Brazilian player, ranked number thirty-five in the world, returned each serve at brutal speeds, using every inch of her five-foot-eleven height against Emerson. She wasn’t particularly accurate, but soon Em was down a break and struggling to even get her racket to make contact with the ball. This shouldn’t be happening; her opponent, an inexperienced wild card, had made it to the quarterfinals on dumb luck and moderate skill.

  Yet Em’s normally wicked forehand failed her. Her backhand barely cleared the net. Every time she tried to aim a shot to kiss the side of the court before going out, she miscalculated, and the points started to rise against her.

  She fought to get where she needed to be. She even managed to win a few games, but the kid—Isabella something or other—took the first set, and before Emerson knew what was happening, they were at match point. They didn’t even reach deuce once during the match. She managed to rally for a decent volley on the last point, but the ball sailed over the baseline, and the crowd roared.

  She was out.

  For the first time in almost four years, she was out of a tournament before the semifinals.

  She’d worked her ass off for the last two months, coming back from her MCL tear, getting in the best shape of her life, and she’d let a fucking idiot screw her up so much she lost focus.

  Unable to contain herself, she slammed her racket against the hard surface of the court in frustration. Then did it again. She would have slammed it a third time, but the rhythmic clicking of the shutters on the photographers’ cameras at the end of the court stopped her. They were lapping this up. A picture of her smashing her racket would be juxtaposed with one of the racier pictures on the tabloid front pages in the states by morning.

  She pulled herself together enough to shake hands with her opponent, gather her things, smile and wave to the crowd, and get the hell out of there. Amir’s talking points waited in her inbox, but anything she said wouldn’t matter. Not today. Today she was just the slut who let her boyfriend take dirty pictures of her, and nothing else mattered.

  ****

  Conversation hummed all around Rob as he sat at the big desk, preparing for the panel discussion of the latest results from the Australian Open. In the midst of a media shit storm, Emerson Grace had gone out in the quarterfinals to an unknown player from New Zealand. Rob was still reeling from both sets of news. The loss itself would have been enough of a surprise. Em had been on fire during the first rounds of the tournament, barely dropping a game. She hadn’t gone down in the quarters of a major tournament in years, let alone in straight sets.

  But the pictures of Em were what lit a fire under his ass. When he first saw them this morning, he hadn’t known what to think. Like any red-blooded man, his first thought had been, “Holy hell, she’s hot.” As sexy as she’d been at nineteen, she was ten times more stunning now. A man should fall on his knees and thank whatever god he believed in that he had a woman as gorgeous as her willing to wear that lingerie for him.

  Once his initial reaction passed, he wanted to punch something—or someone. It took a lot of trust for Em to let someone get so close to her. He hadn’t known her relationship with Naumov went that far. It had to be Kole, since the pictures looked like they’d been taken not long after she cut her hair short enough to graze her shoulders. For years, she’d worn it long, down to her shoulder blades, but she’d cut it before the US Open last year. Not that he paid much attention to her hairstyles or anything.

  Whoever had posted those pictures was an ass who deserved to have his eyes poked out with hot tongs. Those pictures were obviously an intimate thing that Em had intended to share with her boyfriend, not the whole goddamn world. Em’s trust was hard won—her father’s neglect had seen to that—and when she gave it, she didn’t do it by half measures. The loss of her trust should hit a man like a high-powered serve to the gut.

  Even though he’d lost that trust years ago, Rob’s blood still boiled—partly on her behalf and partly because some primal part of him still saw her as his. The body of the woman he’d introduced to how intimate sex could be, how vital the connection between lovers should be, was plastered all over the Internet, and he honestly didn’t know what to do about that.

  In a roundabout way, it was his fault she was in this position if he wanted to take the masochistic viewpoint. If he hadn’t listened to his dad, if some part of him hadn’t questioned if she was using him for his name like so many women had before and since, if he hadn’t pushed back his instinct to fight for her after the Olympics, she never would have been in a position for Naumov to take those pictures of her. If he’d just told her that he wanted to be with her forever when she assumed he was calling to break up with her, things might be so different now. But he hadn’t. He’d let the doubts win.

  His next thought had been to blame her, and he was still settled there as the makeup girl came to give his face a final pat. How could Em let this happen? How could she be so naive as to think that no one would post those pictures once they were taken? In this day and age, he barely sexted with a woman he was seeing, let alone took naked pictures with her.

  “Rolling in five, four, three, two, one.”

  Rob looked up from the notes he’d stared at blindly during the five-minute commercial break. Bruno Watson was leading the panel, wearing an expensive suit and tie, his ruddy complexion mellowed by a strong coating of pancake makeup. The set lights gleamed off the scalp exposed by his thinning hair, but he carried himself with the confidence of a man half his age. Christiane Quinn, one of the network’s commentators, was seated between Rob and the older correspondent, a stiff smile plastered on her face, her red hair severely short and perfectly styled. She’d played on the tour for a few years before retiring for a less strenuous life on camera.

  “Welcome back,” Bruno said. “As you just saw, former number two player Emerson Grace, currently in the middle of a fall from grace, was knocked out of the quarterfinals of the Australian Open only moments ago.”

  The asshole chuckled at his own cleverness, and Rob barely managed not to roll his eyes.

  Thankfully, Christiane stepped in before Rob had to. “I must say, Bruno, it was quite a shock to watch Emerson play today. She’s always so accomplished, so in control. Her usual poise was nowhere to be found on the court.”

  “She was definitely in her head,” Rob said. “She’s one of the players you can count on for laser focus, for a highly intellectual game. When she loses, it’s not because she overthinks her shots or makes unforced errors.”

  Bruno snorted. “My sources tell me she’s been making more than her share of unforced errors off the court, even before she took nearly four months off due to a minor knee injury. Today’s loss was merely a symptom of that if you ask me. It’s such a shame when the female players let outside drama affect the game.”

  Rob’s temper spiked. He didn’t know where Bruno was going with this, but he got the feeling he wasn’t going to like it. Bruno’s reputation for being more critical and ruthless toward female players was going to be a problem today—likely a big one.

  “Now, Bruno—” Christiane started, her jaw clenching a little.

  “Come on, Christiane. You were a player. Are you telling me that a fight with your boyfriend or a bad story in the press didn’t affect how you played your next match?”

  Rob cut in. “I think that’s true for all players, not just women. We’ve all had bad days and lost matches we shouldn’t have because of stuff beyond our control off the court.”

  Just off the camera, Joey gave him a warning look. She wanted him to let Bruno do his thing; she’d made that clear in the makeup room earlier.

  “Beyond her control? Gee, Rob, I don’t know. I’m not sure any of the problems Emerson is having could be described as beyond her control.”

  Rob itched to wipe the smug look off the bastard’s face.

  Christiane’s smile faltered a little. “It was sad to see her so off her usual form. I had high hopes for her this
tournament. This should be her year to win a Grand Slam. But I’m not sure we should comment on such intimate aspects of players’ personal lives when we don’t have all the facts.”

  Bruno shook his head. “I think we are here to comment on the players’ personal lives when their personal lives so blatantly affect their game at a major tournament, regardless of facts. I also think that we would be remiss if we didn’t talk about Emerson’s problems. She’s long been held up as a positive influence for women and girls alike, and I must say I’m deeply disappointed in the recent news stories and rumors about her. Aren’t you, Christiane? You’ve got a young daughter who’s a juniors player now. Do you want her looking up to someone like Emerson Grace now?”

  “Well, I—” Christiane’s shoulders sagged. “I don’t honestly know what to think of the latest stories and pictures that have come out about Emerson. She’s a superb player, and before this there’s never been a hint of scandal attached to her, but I do find the pictures in particular problematic.”

  “Exactly!” Bruno crowed. “She’s supposed to be held up as an example to girls like your daughter. What kind of lesson is she teaching those girls if she’s taking pictures of herself in slutty underwear? In this day and age, that’s just reckless and irresponsible. She should know better. Those pictures combined with the stories of her cheating on world number one, Kole Naumov? I think we know what we can call Emerson Grace, and it’s not a champion. Don’t you agree, Rob?”

  Rob stared at his colleague, then glanced at Joey. She was eating this shit up. Ratings points flashed in her eyes like a cartoon animal spotting a bag of money and seeing dollar signs. As the new kid on the block, he should fall in line and join in with Bruno’s commentary or at least take Christiane’s stance. That’s what they all expected of him, but anger shimmered through him, worse than it did after a bad call on the court or his parents forgot his sister’s birthday. Protectiveness roared to life, battling back whatever reservations he might have about Em’s decision to let the pictures be taken. Em didn’t deserve this. No woman did.