could hear the clatter of wood on wood. The strength that had flowed freely through him only moments before drained. Exhausted, he let the drenched towel fall. His eyes met Asher’s.
So blue, he thought. Her eyes are so blue. And cool, and deep. He could drown in them blissfully. The unbearable heat vanished, as though someone had opened a window to a fresh spring breeze.
“Congratulations.” When she smiled, his fatigue slid away. Strangely it wasn’t desire that replaced it, but comfort, sweet simple comfort.
“Thanks.” He took the racket bag she’d been holding from her. Their hands barely brushed.
“I suppose the press is waiting for you inside.”
The short retort Ty made was both agreement and opinion. On a low laugh she stepped closer.
“Can I buy you dinner?”
The quirk of his brow was the only indication of surprise. “Sure.”
“I’ll meet you at seven in the lobby of the hotel.”
“All right.”
“Starbuck, what do you feel was the turning point of the match?”
“What strategy will you use playing Prince in the finals?”
Ty didn’t answer the reporters, didn’t even hear them as he watched Asher weave her way through the crowd. From overhead Jess watched with a small, fluttering sensation of déjà vu.
Ty got under the stream of the shower fully dressed. He let the cool water sluice over him while he stripped. A reporter from
World of Sports
leaned against a tiled wall, scribbling notes and tossing questions. Naked, with his clothes in a soggy heap at his feet, Ty answered. Always, he handled the press naturally because he didn’t give a damn what they printed. He knew his mother kept a scrapbook, but he never read the articles or interviews. Lathering the soap over his face with both hands, he washed the sticky sweat away. Someone passed him a plastic jug of fruit juice. With the water streaming over him, he guzzled it down, replacing lost fluid. The weakness was seeping back, and with it the pain. He made his way to the massage table by instinct, then collapsed onto it.
Strong fingers began to work on him. Questions still hammered in his ear, but now he ignored them. Ty simply closed his eyes and shut them out. A line of pain ran up his calf as the muscles were kneaded. He winced and held on, knowing relief would follow. For ten agonizing minutes he lay still while his body was rubbed and pounded. He began to drift. Like a mother’s memory of the pain of childbirth, his memory of the pain began to dim. He could remember winning. And he could remember dark blue eyes. With those two visions tangling in his mind, he slept.
***
The floor of the lobby was marble. White marble veined with pink. Madge had commented that it would be the devil to keep clean. Her husband had dryly commented that she wouldn’t know one end of the mop from the other. Asher sat, listening to their comfortable banter while she told herself she wasn’t nervous. It was six fifty.
She’d dressed carefully, choosing a simple crêpe de Chine as pale as the inside of a peach. Her hair fluffed back from her face, exposing the tiny pearl and coral drops at her ears. Her ringless fingers were interlaced.
“Where are you eating?”
Asher brought her attention back to Madge. “A little place on the Left Bank.” There was an enthusiastic violinist, she remembered. Ty had once passed him twenty American dollars and cheerfully told him to get lost.
At the bellow of thunder Madge glanced toward the lobby doors. “You’re going to play hell getting a cab tonight.” She leaned back. “Have you seen Ty since the match?”
“No.”
“Chuck said both he and Michael were sleeping on the tables like babies.” A chuckle escaped as she crossed strong, short legs. “Some industrious stringer for a French paper got a couple of classic shots.”
“Athletes in repose,” her husband mused.
“It kind of blows the tough-guy image.”
Asher smiled, thinking how young and vulnerable Ty looked in his sleep. When
So blue, he thought. Her eyes are so blue. And cool, and deep. He could drown in them blissfully. The unbearable heat vanished, as though someone had opened a window to a fresh spring breeze.
“Congratulations.” When she smiled, his fatigue slid away. Strangely it wasn’t desire that replaced it, but comfort, sweet simple comfort.
“Thanks.” He took the racket bag she’d been holding from her. Their hands barely brushed.
“I suppose the press is waiting for you inside.”
The short retort Ty made was both agreement and opinion. On a low laugh she stepped closer.
“Can I buy you dinner?”
The quirk of his brow was the only indication of surprise. “Sure.”
“I’ll meet you at seven in the lobby of the hotel.”
“All right.”
“Starbuck, what do you feel was the turning point of the match?”
“What strategy will you use playing Prince in the finals?”
Ty didn’t answer the reporters, didn’t even hear them as he watched Asher weave her way through the crowd. From overhead Jess watched with a small, fluttering sensation of déjà vu.
Ty got under the stream of the shower fully dressed. He let the cool water sluice over him while he stripped. A reporter from
World of Sports
leaned against a tiled wall, scribbling notes and tossing questions. Naked, with his clothes in a soggy heap at his feet, Ty answered. Always, he handled the press naturally because he didn’t give a damn what they printed. He knew his mother kept a scrapbook, but he never read the articles or interviews. Lathering the soap over his face with both hands, he washed the sticky sweat away. Someone passed him a plastic jug of fruit juice. With the water streaming over him, he guzzled it down, replacing lost fluid. The weakness was seeping back, and with it the pain. He made his way to the massage table by instinct, then collapsed onto it.
Strong fingers began to work on him. Questions still hammered in his ear, but now he ignored them. Ty simply closed his eyes and shut them out. A line of pain ran up his calf as the muscles were kneaded. He winced and held on, knowing relief would follow. For ten agonizing minutes he lay still while his body was rubbed and pounded. He began to drift. Like a mother’s memory of the pain of childbirth, his memory of the pain began to dim. He could remember winning. And he could remember dark blue eyes. With those two visions tangling in his mind, he slept.
***
The floor of the lobby was marble. White marble veined with pink. Madge had commented that it would be the devil to keep clean. Her husband had dryly commented that she wouldn’t know one end of the mop from the other. Asher sat, listening to their comfortable banter while she told herself she wasn’t nervous. It was six fifty.
She’d dressed carefully, choosing a simple crêpe de Chine as pale as the inside of a peach. Her hair fluffed back from her face, exposing the tiny pearl and coral drops at her ears. Her ringless fingers were interlaced.
“Where are you eating?”
Asher brought her attention back to Madge. “A little place on the Left Bank.” There was an enthusiastic violinist, she remembered. Ty had once passed him twenty American dollars and cheerfully told him to get lost.
At the bellow of thunder Madge glanced toward the lobby doors. “You’re going to play hell getting a cab tonight.” She leaned back. “Have you seen Ty since the match?”
“No.”
“Chuck said both he and Michael were sleeping on the tables like babies.” A chuckle escaped as she crossed strong, short legs. “Some industrious stringer for a French paper got a couple of classic shots.”
“Athletes in repose,” her husband mused.
“It kind of blows the tough-guy image.”
Asher smiled, thinking how young and vulnerable Ty looked in his sleep. When
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