Staying On Top(9)

“There was a segment on some gossip show the other night that insinuated that you’re having some financial trouble. Just calling to check.”

I sank down on the edge of the bed and pinched the bridge of my nose. “What do you mean by ‘insinuated’?”

“By that I mean shaky cell phone video of you at the front desk while multiple credit cards get turned down.”

“Fucking fantastic.”

“You know this is going to severely hamper your ability to get laid.”

“Please. I could get laid if I was homeless,” I teased back automatically.

“Probably true. What’s going on?”

Quinn was a good friend—a better guy than most people believed, truly—but this was embarrassing. I’d let someone into my life who had ripped me off, and instinct and pride begged me to keep my mouth shut.

Then again, if it was going to be picked up by TMZ before the end of the day, there didn’t seem to be much of a point.

“I honestly don’t know yet. Looks like my accountant is shady. Leo’s still trying to get in touch with him.”

“Who are you using?”

“Neil Saunders.”

“Huh. Never heard of him.” He paused, and in my mind, I saw him staring at the ceiling trying to decide what to say. “Well, if you need a friend, I’ll get on the next plane. If you need a loan or anything, I’m good for it.”

“Christ, Quinn, I’m not broke.”

“I know. I trust the prize money from Switzerland is safe—nice job by the way.”

“Thanks.” The conversation felt unimportant to me, as did the idea of playing tennis when I should be figuring out what in the fuck was going on with my financial life.

Then again, tennis was all I had. There was no other way to make that money back, and it was good that my abs were holding up.

“I’ll be okay, Q.”

“What’s the plan?”

“Keep playing. Try to figure out what happened.”

“You know, the same thing happened to Milos Haughlin a few years ago, and call me crazy, but I swear his accountant’s name was Neil.” He paused. “Anyway, I thought you’d want to know about the churning of the gossip mill, and that I’m worried about you.”

“You know me, man. I’ll be fine. How are things with your hot girlfriend? She dump you yet?”

“Amazingly not.” His voice carried the smile on his face right through the phone. “Too bad for you.”

“How’s Toby and . . . everyone else?”

“You mean how’s Blair?”

My cheeks felt hot, which was completely fucking ridiculous. I barely knew the girl. It had to be the fact that she’d shut me down not once but several times that kept me so curious. The denial sat on the tip of my tongue for a second before I swallowed it. Lying to Quinn had a tiny rate of success, thanks to the bastard’s freakish intuition. “Maybe.”

“Sammy, you’ve got to forget that girl. The more time I spend with her, the less I feel like I have any idea what she’s like underneath the man-eating exterior. Not to mention she pretty much thinks you’re a stalker.”

I let another protest go. I’d texted her three times after we’d met in St. Moritz and one of those times was to invite her to the match in Alabama. When she hadn’t shown, I had let it go.

“She’s fine. She was dating some pretty-boy movie star, but that seems to be over.”

“Since when are you up on the happenings of your fellow Whitman Owls? What happened to the standoffish, fuck-the-real-world Quinn Rowland who left me after Wimbledon two years ago?” I paused to heighten my followup, a shit-eating grin on my face that I so wished he could see. “Oh, right. He fell in loooove.”

“You’re a dick.”

“I learned from the best.”

“Fair enough. Listen, why don’t you come down for a visit in December? It would be good to see you, and your parents are close. Em would love to see you again.”

Like being in close proximity to my parents sweetened any deal. “I’d love to see you guys, too. I’ll give you a call in a couple of weeks.”

We hung up, and despite the depressing and invasive event that prompted the phone call, talking with Quinn had made me feel better. Normal. Sure, I’d lost almost thirty million dollars but, no. There was no “but” to that statement. It was a shit ton of money that I had earned, and I wanted it back. There was no way to know how much longer I’d be able to play. I could blow out a knee tomorrow and be done for good, and then what? I had more money than a lot of people, but not enough to last forever.