Love in Straight Sets Read Online Free

as the balls began to pour out of the machine with mounting speed. Soon she was practically grinning with the familiar, comforting thrill of exertion. Although her pulse beat faster, her ever-humming mind calmed and quieted, until all the anxious thoughts and worries that plagued her downtime hours were subsumed by her focus on the crisp, controlled execution of each shot. She bounced in place between strokes, her eyes fixed on each yellow target as it hurtled toward her, becoming so engrossed in perfecting each shot that she forgot Ben was there.
    From the day she first picked up a racket, tennis had been her refuge. The anxiety that always lurked on the periphery of her consciousness was banished only by the intense focus and quick reactions required to guide a yellow ball into a particular spot on the court at a speed and angle that would flummox an opponent. Everywhere else in her life, from the bathtub to the checkout line to the darkness of a movie theatre, she existed knowing that a breath-stealing, pulse-pounding, logic-obscuring panic attack could be only minutes away.
    But on the court she was free. On the court she was in complete control.
    Which made her impending retirement that much more momentous. She’d promised herself she would finally speak to a therapist, but not until after her last match at the Baron’s. As afraid as she was of the panic attacks, she was even more terrified that her anxious edge was essential to her game. Tranquilizers would help dull her nerves, but she couldn’t risk their potential to soften her competitive drive at the same time.
    Although she hated it more than anything, she was convinced she needed the anxiety to win.
    By the time she returned the last ball with a satisfying thwap , Regan’s muscles were warm and loose, her cheeks flushed with satisfaction. She turned to her new coach with a pleased smile, expecting his effusive approval. But the line of concern splicing the space between his brows blew out her happiness like a gusty breeze on a candle.
    “Let me see your forehand stance,” he instructed, crossing to meet her on the baseline.
    Regan moved into position, but her spine stiffened. She absolutely loathed receiving criticism—problematic for a professional athlete—and still struggled not to take it personally. It was another of the legacies left by bullying kids at the country club, and one she wasn’t sure she would ever overcome.
    Ben stood in front of her, his gaze flicking between her hands and her feet. He drew a circle in the air. “And the backhand.”
    Regan switched sides, her skin tingling under his scrutiny as she suddenly regretted the mismatched shorts and sleeveless top she’d thrown on that morning and then shook her head to dispel that thought.
    Since when did she care how she looked in front of her coach? He was paid to be here, and if he had even half a brain cell he’d know better than to comment on her appearance.
    But then again, it was his opinion that counted, not whether he voiced it aloud.
    Am I insane? Regan chided herself as Ben took a slow step to the side. I’m ranked in the top ten and he’s a washed-up nobody with one fluke win to his name.
    Still, she found herself making a mental inventory of her sportswear and planning a coordinated outfit for tomorrow.
    Finally he stepped back with a satisfied nod. “Your racket’s too short.”
    She broke into an incredulous laugh. “No, it’s not.”
    “It most definitely is.”
    “You don’t know what you’re talking about. I’ve been playing with the same racket length since high school.”
    “And are you the same height and weight now as you were then?”
    “Of course not, I was fourteen when I started.”
    “So you were given a smaller racket,” he concluded. “Probably because it was lighter. But an extra half inch would give you a lot more power and bolster your defensive returns. We need to speak to your supplier and get you a whole new set.”
    “This is