This Much Is True (the sequel to The Senator's Son)

Chapter 9

Emma

Not only was Helen my favorite tennis partner, she'd also become a good friend. I didn't care that she was old enough to be my mom—and maybe that's why I liked her so much—but she listened to my problems now that I felt close enough to tell her them all. We'd been tennis partners about a year and raked in some decent prize money along the way. She'd entered us into every tennis tournament she could think of and to date, we'd won a couple of thousand dollars in prize money which she always insisted I keep. The arrangement made me uncomfortable, but I'd given up fighting with her long ago.

"How was the Big Apple?" she asked.

"I loved it. There's always so much to do. And the food is fantastic."

"Must be nice to eat whatever you want," Helen lamented. "I've never been to New York. I better add it to be my bucket list."

"You won't be disappointed."

"Did Marc try to get a hold of you?" she asked after we'd put in an hour-long practice. We were preparing for our last tournament of the year and like always, Helen was determined to win.

"Marc? The Taylor Tennis Club owner?"

"Yes. I was paying my dues the other day and he was poking around about you. I think he was more than impressed with the summer clinics you put on and wondered if you wanted to do some other projects. You should check in with him on your way out."

My interest was piqued. "I'll talk to him. I could use extra money."

I ventured to the front desk and found a young man there. I'd never seen him before. He was tapping away on his phone and didn't notice or care that I was waiting. When he finally glanced up, he gingerly set down his phone and stared at me like he had a million other things to do.

"Is Marc around?"

"Nope."

He had to be a new hire, but he looked familiar. Where did I know him from? And he looked good, the type of guy who knew he could charm the pants off any girl and his attitude reflected it. "Is he expected back soon?"

"Not sure."

My frustration was building. "Can I leave a message for him?"

"Sure," he said, picking up his phone and ignoring me.

"Are you going to take a message?"

"Oh." He searched around the desk and produced a pen and a torn piece of paper belonging to an old Wal-Mart receipt. He slid them towards me and waited for me to finish. He took the note and read it. He looked at me and frowned.

"Is there a problem?" I asked.

"Not really." His greyish green eyes scanned my face. "You're the one Marc was talking about. He thinks we can save the club."

"What's going on with the club?" I asked with a small amount of alarm. The club being in trouble was all news to me.

The guy grimaced. "Not sure I should say too much. Marc brought me in because I owe him, and I don't want to start any gossip."

"Who are you anyway?"

"Ben Morrow."

He said his name like I should have known it. My brain went into overdrive trying to place him—then it hit me, taking me back to my competitive tennis days. I was probably fourteen or fifteen and every girl with a pulse was in love with Ben Morrow. He was a few years older and had a full scholarship to a tennis academy in Florida. He'd even played junior tennis at the US Open and made it to the semis of a decent-sized tournament once. Since then he'd faded away, or was I the one who'd faded away? Either way, the mighty had fallen if he was back in Minnesota and working at the Taylor Tennis Club.