The Unforgiving Minute (26 page)

Ryan flashed back to how Josh had been, back in LA, and the deep, bewildered pain of a trusting eighteen-year-old who’d been taken apart and destroyed, piece by piece.

“Ry?” Mitch asked, concerned at his continuing silence.

“My name,” Ryan said slowly and distinctly, “is Ryan. Or Betancourt. Not Ry. I don’t want you to talk to me again. I don’t want you to contact me again. I would rather never play you on a court again, but be assured of one thing: when I do, I will beat you.”

The laughter fled from Mitchell’s face as Ryan’s cold, clipped words hit him. He opened his mouth to say something, looking as if he was about to reach out his hand to Ryan’s arm.

“Do
not
touch me. Not if you want to keep playing tennis.”

Mitchell froze. Ryan turned on his heel and strode away. War had been declared, and neither of them would stop until this was resolved, one way or another. The look that had come into focus behind Mitchell’s eyes before Ryan had turned away made that very clear. Ryan had been prepared for protestations, for outrage, even for wheedling and attempting to win him around with outright lies, but Mitchell had known there was no point continuing the pretense.

Ryan shoved his hands into his pockets as he slowed his pace, turning down into the quiet side street where his apartment was. The man was good at what he did, he had to give him that. He obviously knew how to play the percentages without sacrificing time, energy, or pride in chasing a forlorn hope.

Now all Ryan had to do was live up to his words and beat him when they next met on court. That would
not
be a problem. He’d meant every word he’d said to Mitchell. Next time they met, Ryan would slaughter him.

B
Y
THE
time Josh came round, Ryan had rethought his original plan about going out for supper. Instead, he’d cooked it himself. He thought he’d done rather well, certainly better than Stefan’s hasty refusal of his invitation to join them might suggest. The fish was only a little
dry, and the pasta not very overcooked. Nothing a bit of sauce and some vegetables wouldn’t fix.

“Is there a reason we’re not eating out tonight?” Josh asked, staring at his plate and swirling his fork through the pile of pasta tubes. The penne fell apart as he did so, all structural integrity long since boiled away.

“I thought we should talk,” Ryan said. He looked at the carnage on Josh’s plate, then down at his. “This really is nasty, isn’t it?”

“It’s not that bad,” Josh protested bravely.

Ryan looked at him.

“Okay, it’s horrible. But it was sweet of you to try.”

“Sweet? Way to flatten my manly ego.”

“You’re very manly, dear,” Josh said, getting up and pressing a kiss on Ryan’s hair. “Let’s see if you’ve got anything edible in the freezer.”

They ended up with pizza. The amount of cheese it came laden down with might not have been quite what the nutritionist ordered but, as Ryan pointed out, mushrooms counted as vegetables.

“What did you want to talk about?” Josh asked once they’d settled in the living room with their pizza.

“Chase Mitchell,” Ryan said, the words seeming to hang in the air between them long after they’d left his mouth.

Josh went from relaxed to carefully casual. It might have convinced someone who didn’t know him well. “What about him?”

“I saw him today on the street and told him to fuck off.”

“And?”

“I thought you should know he wasn’t happy. Just to be aware, in case he tries to talk to you.”

“In which case it’ll be my turn to tell him to fuck off.” He eyed Ryan with a mixture of shame and anger. “I can look after myself, you know.”

“I know,” Ryan said, except he said it so quickly it gave precisely the opposite impression. “It’s just, you’ve never beaten him since it all happened, have you? He’s under your skin, Josh.”

Josh put his plate down, pushed up from his chair, and walked over to the patio doors, where he stared out at the rain coming down. Along with the anger in his face, there’d been hurt, almost as if he couldn’t believe Ryan would raise this with him.

“I’m well aware of the statistics, thank you,” he said. “What’s your point?”

“I want you to be able to win against him, for your sake.”

“For mine or for yours?

“What do you mean, for mine?” Ryan asked, completely lost.

“It must be embarrassing for you, having such a pathetic boyfriend.”

Anger flared in Ryan until he realized what Josh was trying to do. “Nice try at changing the subject so you can storm out, full of righteous indignation,” he said. “It won’t work.”

Josh’s shoulders slumped. “What do you
want,
Ryan?” he asked, sounding weary all of a sudden. “I know exactly what’s going on every time I step out on the court. I
know.
I’ve tried everything. I don’t want it to be like this, but I can’t change it.”

It sounded a little too much like a speech Josh had given too many times before. He could only imagine how hard Roger Andrews and Carlos must have ridden his ass about this very subject. Not knowing the history, it must be baffling to them. Mitchell was a good player and might be expected to win some of their matches, but Josh was far better. The balance should easily have gone to him.

“Hey,” Ryan said, standing and going over to Josh. He put his hand on Josh’s shoulder carefully, not sure if he’d be welcome.

Josh sighed as he stared out over the damp grass of the backyard. “I hate being like this. I hate that he’s still winning over me, all this time later. But when I get out there and he smirks at me, all I can think is how pathetic I was, and the things he knows about me. It feels like I’m back there all over again, and he’s the one in control.”

“You don’t get angry?”

“Of
course
I do,” Josh said roughly. “But then he’ll say something to me as we’re changing ends, or he’ll look at me a certain way, and it all gets twisted round again.” He huffed out a short, irritated breath. “Ryan, I know exactly what’s going on when I’m out there. I just haven’t found a way that works yet to stop me doing it, okay? I know you mean well, but I don’t think you’re going to magically come up with anything new.”

“Okay,” Ryan said. “But you’re not on your own in this anymore.”

“I am out there,” Josh returned sharply, then relented. “Sorry. I know how you meant that. Just, when I’m out there, and it’s me and him, it feels pretty damn lonely.”

“There is one thing,” Ryan said after a minute. “Every time you think you’re stupid for falling for his tactics, you’re calling me stupid too, because he used some of the same ones on me and I didn’t spot a single one of them. You’re not stupid just because you don’t expect another person to be out to destroy you.”

Of all the things he’d said,
that
was the one he saw hit home, though Josh didn’t respond.

“I’m having a beer. You want one?” Josh asked, the abrupt and graceless change of subject indicating that this conversation was
over.

Hell, why not. It was only Saturday evening and Ryan wasn’t due on court until Monday.

“Sure,” he said easily and sat back down in front of the tiny TV while Josh went to snag a couple of bottles from the fridge. British TV seemed to be complete crap, but he finally found a channel showing an old Clint Eastwood Western, in which he embarked on an odyssey of revenge. They spent the rest of the evening deriving vicarious pleasure from Clint killing the bad guys, one at a time. At least, Ryan did, and from the way Josh was relaxed against his side by the end of the evening, he thought the same was true of Josh.

Cleaning his teeth before bed, Ryan looked at himself in the bathroom mirror. It was stupid and pretentious and ridiculous of him to even think it, but something in that movie had made him think. He’d been pouring his energy and time into getting revenge on Chase Mitchell and that was fine, but he didn’t want it to become his motive for everything. Ryan sighed and rested his forehead against the cool mirror. He loved tennis and he loved Josh, and he needed to remember those two things and remember who
he
was. He didn’t think he could look his parents in the face ever again if they knew he’d threatened Mitchell with physical violence that afternoon. If he let his hatred of Chase Mitchell become so important to him that he lost his integrity, or lost sight of what was really important, then that bastard would have won twice over.

Joining Josh in bed, he proceeded to let him know, with touches and kisses, and maybe just a little bit of teasing because a worked-up Josh begged more prettily than anyone he’d ever known, that he had no intention of letting himself be distracted from the things he loved.

W
IMBLEDON
was both like and unlike any other tournament Ryan had played so far. The fans were just as enthusiastic—Ryan spent so long chatting to them on Autograph Island that he was almost late for his second-round match—and the corporate hospitality was depressingly similar the world over, but the sense of history that the place exuded set it apart. It was the oldest tournament, and it had a history unlike that of any other tournament. The grass courts, the tradition of playing in whites, the Royal Box and the lack of advertising all combined to create a special atmosphere.

“You
have
to try Pimm’s when you get a chance,” Elena had told him. “It’s delicious. Like drinking alcoholic fruit salad.”

“Sounds positively wonderful,” he’d said dubiously.

It turned out she was right, of course. It
was
delicious, though he reserved his right to be suspicious of any drink that came with that amount of stuff bobbing around in it.

While all the extraneous things were fun to experience, a shiver ran down Ryan’s spine as he stood in front of the wooden boards on which the name of each winner of the Gentlemen’s and Ladies’ Singles was inscribed in gold leaf. So many truly legendary players whose names echoed down the years, and here he was, Ryan Betancourt, playing on the same courts.

Ryan’s progress through the tournament was inexorable. He was new to the Wimbledon crowd, and they quickly took him to their heart due to his big smile, his love of the game, and the acrobatic if somewhat graceless dives he made in his determination not to let any ball go out. As he got further into the tournament, seats for his matches were at a premium, and the crowd roared every time he ended up splayed out on the immaculate turf of the All England Club. He might have taken it amiss had it not been for the fact they roared just as loudly whenever he played a good shot. They liked their cheap entertainment, but they also appreciated their tennis.

Josh, too, was moving through the ranks in a relentless march toward the final. As was Chase Mitchell. Ryan hadn’t seen him since that encounter on the high street, but he watched for the results of each of his matches. If things worked out as Ryan intended, he and Mitchell would meet in the semifinal. Ryan couldn’t wait. He did, however, first have to find a way through Rouze, who he was playing in the quarterfinals.

That wasn’t easy. The match went to five sets, and then a tiebreak, with the score standing at 15-14 to Ryan. It was Ryan’s serve.

The crowd, which had been getting increasingly loud and excited as the tiebreak advanced point-by-nail-biting-point, was now silent. The only noise in the hushed court was the sound of the ball on the turf as Ryan bounced it three times. This was it. His chance to take the match, which would put him through to take down Mitchell in the semis. To avenge Josh for everything that bastard had put him through. He paused for a moment, then the ball was in the air and he whipped it down the center line. The only sign of its passing was a puff of white dust hanging in the air and the roar of the crowd. Rouze hadn’t even moved.

Ryan was into the semis. More importantly, he was into the semis and going to play Chase Mitchell.

Chapter 26

O
N
F
RIDAY
afternoon, Ryan arrived at the Club well-rested, hydrated, fed, and ready to go. He was going to play the best tennis he had played in his life, because losing this match was not an option. Walking to the locker room, everything seemed to draw in, his focus narrowing until peripheral sounds and disturbances stopped registering. He was aware of Mitchell’s presence, but all he could see was Centre Court and the match that awaited him there.

As they walked out together onto court, they were greeted with rapturous applause. Mitchell had always been a popular player and there were plenty of his fans in attendance, some of them wearing cowboy hats. Ryan thought they looked plain silly in the hallowed precincts of the All England Club. Ryan, as the new Wimbledon darling, had attracted his own enthusiastic supporters. The crowd was just as ready as Ryan for this semifinal.

Mitchell won the toss. It was the last thing of any import he
would
win, Ryan determined as they started to warm up. For the first time, as he stood at the other end of the court from him, Ryan let himself look at Mitchell properly. The expression in Mitchell’s eyes as he met Ryan’s gaze chilled him. He didn’t know how he could
ever
have believed that the man whose eyes looked like those of a snake, cold and ready to strike, had been the person he’d pretended to be. For his mom’s sake, Ryan made a mental apology to snakes for the unflattering comparison before preparing to receive Mitchell’s first serve of their five-minute warm-up.