Off the Record
Page 19“Are you done?”
Liz shrugged. “Don’t use that face with me.”
“What face?” he asked, scrunching his brows together.
“Your campaign face. All serious with no emotion. I know you’re thinking something underneath there,” she said.
“You don’t want to know everything I’m thinking.”
“I beg to differ,” Liz told him.
“We’ll get to that later,” Brady said, shaking his head. “For now, let’s get on the same page, like calling my secretary to get hold of me.”
“How are you going to know it’s me if I give a fake name?”
“Well, choose one now and then I’ll know it.”
Liz shrugged. “I don’t know what to choose. What do you want me to be—Sandy Carmichael or something?” she asked, chuckling.
“Sure,” Brady agreed. “Sandy Carmichael it is then.”
Liz rolled her eyes. “Really?”
“You picked it.”
“Fine,” Liz said. It was an alias, after all. It didn’t matter.
“That’s the main thing,” he said, checking his watch. “There’s some more, but we can talk about that later. I think my time is up.”
“All right,” she said, standing as he did the same. “Should I contact you or…will you contact me?”
Brady smiled. “Already anxious to see me again.”
“As if you aren’t to see me,” she whispered.
“Touché,” he volleyed. “Until next time, Ms. Carmichael.”
They walked away from their booth and toward the front. He smiled at her, but was clearly trying to conceal his pleasure at being in her company. Liz was sure she wasn’t hiding it as well as he was.
She stopped him at the door. “Good-bye, Senator Maxwell,” she said sweetly, looking up at him with anything-but-innocent eyes.
Liz turned to leave, but he put one hand on her sleeve. She looked back at him curiously. “I’m sure I don’t have to remind you about this, but,” he said, as the bell clanged overhead, “this is strictly off the record.”
Chapter 12
GAME, SET, MATCH
Liz’s feet carried her the couple blocks back to her house, but she didn’t remember the walk. She had just agreed to carry on an affair with Brady Maxwell. She was jeopardizing her career, her potential (nonexistent) relationship with Hayden, not to mention her privacy, for this man. Not just that, but she was now keeping a secret from everyone in her life. No one could know.
She felt very alone standing in her living room at that moment. Would it always feel like this? Victoria was back home, and she couldn’t talk to her about it anyway. Brady wasn’t able to come to her. She only got to be with him on his terms. Yet sitting around at the diner with him that morning, she couldn’t think of anything else she would rather do. Her world felt upside down, and she had let him do it. Had she really even fought him at all?
But what leverage did she have? She wanted to be with him. He made her feel alive. However she could have him, she would. That was his leverage. He had figured it out when he had tested her backstage at the auditorium. He had her hook, line, and sinker.
She was dead tired, but sleep wouldn’t pull her under. Her mind kept repeating what had happened this morning. Over and over she obsessed about every detail of their morning breakfast. He was going to such lengths to be with her; that had to count for something. She knew the terms. She knew what she had gotten herself into, and yet…
All she wanted to think about was how good he looked in regular clothes, the stubble on his chin, the way his hands held his coffee mug. Was she losing her grip on reality? This was just a guy!
She buried her head into her pillow in frustration. This was not just a guy. This was Brady.
And that was the damn point! How could she feel like this for him? He wasn’t a bad guy, but he was the guy she was sharpening her pitchfork over in the paper! And the guy she was spreading her legs for in the bedroom. It didn’t make sense. How could she have such duality when she thought about him?
When she realized she definitely wasn’t going to be getting any more sleep, she kicked her feet off the bed and shuffled around her room aimlessly. She needed to do something to clear her mind or she would be warring with herself all day. Throwing her hair into a slicked-back ponytail, Liz pulled on a white tennis skirt and top, laced her shoes up, and grabbed her racket on the way out the door.
Thankfully the tennis courts weren’t that far from her house. Liz had competed in high school on the state level and won a few championships, but never anything spectacular. She had been recruited for tennis by a few smaller schools in Florida, but she had wanted to go to Chapel Hill, so the offers hadn’t even been enticing. She felt a loss at not having hours and hours where she had to play each week. She’d had a tennis instructor since she was little, and moving here without her had been a struggle. It had taken Liz a while to find someone she liked in the area, but the woman was incredibly busy. Liz sometimes found it hard to fit into her schedule.
Today she would have to hope that someone would be there to play with her. Half of the people who frequented the courts were either older and couldn’t swing the racket the same anymore, or too young for it to be entertaining. The university students didn’t come to this court, since most of them lived on campus and used those courts.
Pulling into the parking lot, Liz cut the engine and slid out of her silver Honda Accord. Her muscles tensed as she swung the racket methodically, anticipating the impending exercise. It was hard to think about much else when a small tennis ball was whizzing toward you.
She walked into the clubhouse with a smile. A teenage boy ogled her from behind the counter as she checked in.
“Is Tana in today?” Liz asked hopefully.
“Oh. Okay. Thank you. Is there anyone else teaching today who isn’t paired with someone?” she asked.
He checked the paper again. “Hank doesn’t have anyone for the next half hour. Want me to get him?”
Liz groaned. She didn’t like Hank. He was all power, all bulk. He didn’t understand the finesse that her instructors had always drilled into her. He thought that he could overpower his opponents and typically worked with students with a bit more muscle mass than her. But really maybe she needed to muscle Brady out of her thoughts.
“Hank will do,” she said softly.
The boy radioed for Hank as Liz walked out of the clubhouse and toward the tennis courts. The sun was already overhead beating down on her, and it was proving to be a blisteringly hot day. Running around on the court with no protection from the sun, pouring her heart and soul into the movements—yeah, that sounded like the perfect afternoon.
Hank appeared on the court a couple minutes later. He was in his late twenties and had played tennis in college, though not for Chapel Hill. He was one of those guys who had decided to coach to make extra money after he graduated, and never stopped. He was over six feet tall with broad muscular shoulders and a buzzed blond haircut. She secretly wondered whether he was balding and trying to hide the receding hairline.
“Morning, Hank,” she said politely.
“Been a while since I’ve seen you, Liz,” he said with a toothy smile that she had grown accustomed to.
“I didn’t have an appointment with Tana.”
“Well, I only have thirty minutes. So let’s get started,” he said. Hank walked across to the other side of the tennis court. He stood imposingly across the net from her and she took a moment to ready herself.
She breathed in through her nose and out through her mouth. She could hear the players on either side of her court. Thwack. Pause. Thwack. Pause. Thwack. That was the right rhythm. That was the beat of her drum. The air buzzed all around her, and everything felt singled down to this one second.
Her vision narrowed as she focused in on Hank tapping the ball against the hard green surface and catching it repeatedly. He spun the racket in his hand, letting it rotate three times before grasping it tightly. He bounced the ball against his racket twice and she saw him smile. She knew then that he was ready.
He threw the ball overhead and, when it crested the peak, smacked it with the racket. She took one steadying breath as it sailed toward her as fast as he could muster—and that was pretty fast. Liz jostled her feet back and forth as the ball hit the opposite corner, and then she returned it with a powerful swing.
They volleyed back and forth for position, each coming out ahead at one point or another. It wasn’t an even match. Liz knew that going into it. Even if she had more skill in the subtleties, he was overall a more skilled player than she was. When he won, he gloated, but it was better than if she had beaten him. He was a sore loser too.
Liz tossed her racket onto the ground and rested her hands on her knees. Her breathing was coming out in gasps and sweat poured down her back, chest, and forehead. Some of it spilled into her eyes and she had to blink away the salt. She wiped her face with the back of her forearm. It didn’t help much, but it didn’t make it any worse.
“I’m beat,” she said, feeling like flopping over onto the court right then and there.
“You put up a good match,” Hank said, paying her a compliment. That was unusual.
“Thanks, but you kicked my ass.”
“I don’t think my body can take it,” she groaned, straightening with difficulty.
“Next time, I won’t go easy on you.” Hank smacked her back good-naturedly and she nearly fell over. He chuckled and helped right her. They walked back down toward the clubhouse together. Liz’s breathing still wasn’t even by the time they got there.
“I have another student, but you really should come back and play sometime, Liz. Hard to find good opponents who aren’t instructors,” he told her.
Liz nodded. Exhaustion was already taking over. “Yeah, I’ll be around. I’m working on the paper, running the election column and following the races. I think I’ll be swamped, but let me know when you’re open and I’ll work around it.”
“Oh yeah! I read your article about Brady,” Hank said, snapping his finger like it had just come to him.
“Yeah, did you like it?” Liz asked.
“I thought it was good. I like Brady, though, man. He’s a good guy.”
“Do you uh…know him?” Even here, when she had let herself get to the point of exhaustion, she couldn’t escape him.
“Yeah, he played basketball here my junior and senior years of college. I came home to every game that I could,” Hank told her.
“Cool,” she said with a shrug.
“Next article should be about his career here playing basketball. Do you know how many points he scored or how many games he started in?” Hank asked.
Liz just smiled. “No, I don’t.”
“I can write up a profile for you for your next piece. Just quote me,” he said with that grin.
“I’m sure it’s available on the Internet.”
Hank laughed. “You’re probably right. Let me know when you’re free for another game.”
“Will do. See you around,” she said, waving as she walked out of the club.
It only took a couple minutes to get back to her house, but she couldn’t stop thinking about Brady. Even when she was playing tennis, smacking a tennis ball as hard as she possibly could, he still returned.