Everyone in the opera world understood medical issues could cause a singer to temporarily lose her voice, but her career would be impacted in all the wrong ways if word got out that she’d lost her voice for psychological reasons.
Each morning since the funeral, she’d played a recording of her daily vocalizing, hoping the familiarity would ease her breathing enough so she’d naturally begin to sing, but it wasn’t working. Her guilt was literally choking her.
*
As Thad ignored her on the flight to Dallas, she tried unsuccessfully to convince herself she hadn’t been deliberately deceiving him. But the truth was, she’d been afraid he’d discover the secret she hadn’t been able to reveal to Rachel. By purposefully bumping up the volume on the recording whenever she knew he was nearby, she’d knowingly misled him.
They landed, and while Paisley stayed behind to gather the luggage, she and Thad, along with Henri and Mariel, took a stretch limo to the hotel. Olivia couldn’t escape the sinking feeling she’d destroyed a friendship that had become invaluable to her. She had to talk to him, but he was seated as far away from her as he could get. Finally, she pulled out her phone and texted him.
I’m sorry.
He glanced at his screen. She half expected him to ignore her, but he didn’t. Don’t care.
It’s complicated.
This time he did ignore her. She recalled the little she knew about professional athletes and tried again. Haven’t u ever hidden an injury?
He studied the screen. His thumbs moved. Not from my friends.
What about all ur mysterious phone calls and that computer screen u keep hiding.
His jaw set. Business.
She tugged on her bottom lip with her teeth and typed. Forgive me and I’ll have sex with u.
His head shot up. He looked down the length of the limo at her. His thumbs raced over the keypad. Ur trying to bribe me with sex?
I guess. But only once.
You lie to me and now u want to REWARD yourself by having sex with me?
Those capital letters were a clear insult, which deserved a response in kind. It should be obvious by now that I’m emotionally unstable. Which is why I LOST MY VOICE!
As an afterthought, she added a hashtag. #compassion
His reply was brief. #bullshit
She sighed and tucked her phone away.
He glanced over at her. His thumbs started to move and then stalled. He tucked his own phone away.
*
Thad was in a foul mood, and the construction holding up Dallas traffic didn’t help. He was used to Chicago’s incessant road work, but Dallas seemed worse, or maybe his mood had more to do with what had happened this morning. He remembered the sprained ankle he’d once hidden for fear the Dolphins’ defense would capitalize on his weaker side, and the fractured rib he’d made sure no one knew about. But that was different. He had his teammates to think about.
But The Diva had her reputation at stake. She had to deal with audiences who would boo her, with opera companies that wouldn’t hire her, and with music critics who’d rip her to shreds if she wasn’t on her game.
Still, she should have told him because—
Because she should have.
*
Olivia had been doing most of the talking during their interviews all day to cover up his own muted responses. They ended the afternoon in a city garden being photographed for D Magazine. The garden shoot had been Mariel’s idea. Henri had wanted them photographed at a retro pinball arcade. Henri’s idea would have produced more memorable photographs, but in the end, Mariel was clearly the power play in the battle between them, and she’d won.
They hadn’t been back to the hotel for a full hour when he discovered Olivia had run off to the hotel’s indoor swimming pool. By herself. After what had happened in New Orleans, he grabbed his room key and raced to the pool in his gym shorts and a T-shirt.
She was alone swimming the length of the pool. Alone! No couples reclined on the white-cushioned loungers. No kids called out “Marco . . .” “Polo . . .” He stripped off his T-shirt and dove in.
As he came up next to her, her stroke faltered, and her eyes widened under her swim goggles.
“Good move,” he said sarcastically. “Coming down here by yourself.”
The Diva regained her rhythm. “You’re not speaking to me, remember?” She pulled away from him, the threads of dark hair that had escaped from her swim cap clinging to her neck.
It occurred to him that he might be sulking. He’d called bullshit on her. Maybe it was time to call it on himself.
But she was already half a pool length away. She had a strong kick, a long reach, and a smooth stroke—better form than he did. But he was stronger, and he set out to prove it, although being in waterlogged gym shorts instead of swim trunks handicapped him.
As he finally drew even with her, he spotted an ugly bruise on her arm from where she’d been attacked. That mark felt like failure on his part for not keeping a closer watch, but if he mentioned that, she’d only insist she wasn’t his responsibility.
He stayed even with her for a few strokes, the smell of chlorine strong in his nose. When she reached the deep end, she did one of those underwater flip turns he’d never quite mastered and took off again, showing no intention of stopping to talk to him. He pushed awkwardly off the end of the pool. He couldn’t match her style, but he damn well could beat her on endurance. He checked out the clock on the wall.
6:32
It was on. One highbrow opera diva versus one superbly trained NFL quarterback.
6:39
He didn’t try to stay even with her and let her swim at her own graceful pace.
6:45
He chugged along—all strength, no style. One end of the pool to the other.
7:06
Her stroke had grown choppy. She was tiring, but she refused to stop before he did.
7:14
The fading light outside the windows had developed an orange tint. He’d only been swimming for forty-two minutes. She’d been swimming longer.
7:18
It belatedly occurred to him that her bruised shoulder had to be bothering her, yet she refused to give up. He was an ass.
He blocked her as she approached. “Uncle.” He set his feet down. “Damn, but you’re strong.” He took some deep, unnecessary breaths so she wouldn’t feel bad.
She didn’t seem to. They stood in a little less than five feet of water, so he could only see part of what looked like a modest black bikini. Her face was flushed, right along with the tops of her breasts. It was time to get this over with, and he tried not to look at the bruise on her shoulder. “I wish you’d been honest with me,” he said.
She pulled off her goggles and moved to the side of the pool. “It’s not exactly something I wanted to talk about.”
“You push me to talk about things I don’t want to talk about.”
“Like . . . ?” She climbed the ladder, giving him an unrestricted view of her very fine butt. When he didn’t respond, she looked down at him from the pool deck. “Like talking about how being a backup makes you feel? Or what’s going to happen to you when you age out of the game? Or those mystery phone calls you’re always making? Or how about your track record as a serial dater?”
“Serial monogamist. There’s a difference.” She stood above him, water sluicing down her long, strong legs, goggles dangling from her fingertips. “You should have told me the truth instead of playing that recording every morning.”