Opposites Attract

“you weren’t exactly Mr. Speed yesterday.”
    “Gotta save something for the finals.”
    Asher snorted as she punched the elevator button. “Your conceit never wavers.”
    “Confidence,” Ty contradicted. He liked seeing her this way—relaxed, but ready to laugh or to slap back. Briefly he wondered if she realized she was even more beautiful when she forgot caution. “What about breakfast?”
    “What about it?”
    “Want to grab some eggs after practice?”
    She slid her eyes to his as the doors opened. “Is that your best offer?”
    Ty lifted a brow as he followed her into the elevator. Asher exchanged a polite nod with a middle-aged couple in tweed.
    “Maybe you’d like to take up where we left off last night?” Ty lounged against an elevator wall as Asher gaped at him. “What did you say your name was again?”
    Asher could feel two pairs of shocked and interested eyes boring into her back. “Misty,” she replied, allowing a trace of cockney to color her voice. “Will you spring for champagne again, Mr. Starbuck? It was ever so good.”
    He recognized the light of challenge in her eyes and grinned. “So were you, sweetie.”
    When the doors opened to the lobby, the older couple moved out reluctantly. Asher punched Ty in the arm before she followed.
    In less than an hour they were both concentrating on form and speed and the capricious bounces a ball could take on grass. Was she playing better? Asher wondered as she sprang for Madge’s slice. She felt looser, less encumbered. Indeed, she felt as though losing were not even a possibility. At Wimbledon she could forget the city of London.
    Instead, she could remember the qualifying games at Roehampton, with their anything-goes attitude. Both bad language and rackets had flown. It was a contrast to the elegance and glamour of Wimbledon. Here both the players and the crowd were steeped in tradition. Hydrangeas against a backdrop of rich green grass, ivy-covered walls, limos and chauffeurs. Colors were soothing, mauve and green, as if time itself had sobered them.
    Here spectators would be well-mannered, quiet between points, applauding after them. Even those in standing room would behave, or the chair judge would tell them politely to quiet down. No one hung from the scoreboards at Wimbledon. It was as revered as the changing of the guards, as English as double-decker buses.
    There was no doubt, as one gazed around the immaculately tended velvet lawns, the pampered roses, the dollhouse kiosks and the stands that could accommodate more than twenty-five thousand, that Wimbledon
was
tennis. It was here former players migrated to. It was here future players aspired to. Asher remembered Ty telling her about watching the matches one long-ago July Fourth and making a vow. He had kept it, not once, but four times. More than anything she had wanted before, Asher wanted them to both walk away from Centre Court as champions.
    Behind the base line, Asher stood with a racket and a ball, staring off into space.
    “Had enough?” Madge called out.
    “Hmm . . . what?” Asher’s head snapped around. Seeing Madge standing with her legs spread, hand on hips, had her laughing. “I suppose I have, I was daydreaming.”
    From opposite ends of the court, they walked toward their bags and jackets. “No sense asking if you’re happy,” Madge began conversationally. “You look absolutely miserable floating two inches off the ground.”
    “That obvious, huh?”
    “I won’t pretend not to be pleased,” Madge added smugly. “I’ve always thought you two made a great team. Going to make it official?”
    “I— No, we’re just taking it one day at a time.” Asher kept her eyes lowered as she packed her racket. “Marriage is just a formality, after all.”
    “And pigs fly,” Madge countered calmly. When Asher glanced up with a cautious smile, she went on. “For some, yes, you’re right. Not for you, Face. Why did you stay in an unhappy marriage for three years?” When Asher started to speak, Madge lifted a hand. “Because to you marriage is a promise, and you don’t break promises.”
    “I failed once,” she began.
    “Oh, all by yourself? Isn’t that being a bit self-absorbed?” Impatient, Madge settled her hands on her hips again. “Listen, you aren’t going to let one mistake keep you from being happy, are you?”
    “I am happy,” Asher assured her, punctuating the statement by touching Madge’s shoulder. “Ty’s all I’ve ever wanted,