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and she swallowed against the tightening in her throat.
    And what the hell did he mean by that anyway? Training was about challenge. He knew that better than anyone. He’d challenged her all over the court, until she was ready to drop from exhaustion, and still he’d pushed her. He’d been like that making love, too, when they’d finally taken that step, never fully satisfied until she was so sated she could barely move.
    Gazing at him now, unsure of how she should respond to his comment, she watched his smile become knowing, as though he knew exactly where her head had gone.
    Heat flushed into her face, and she set her teeth. “Can I help you with something?”
    “You were always merciless on the court, but I figured you’d mellowed by now.”
    “So you’re here to critique the way I give lessons?”
    “That forehand is still a killer. The kid never saw it coming.”
    “The ‘kid’s’ name is T.J. Ritchie. And, as you well know, he’ll be a top-notch player because of the way I challenge him.”
    A muscle in his temple contracted. “Not as good as you, though, is he? You just made sure he knew that.”
    She wished she’d left her damn sunglasses on. Then she could have looked away and he wouldn’t have known, but now she had no choice but to hold his gaze and not blink. The ebb and flow of his anger washed over her like a gulf wave eroding the beach, and she wondered why, after so many years, he still held so tightly to it. She wasn’t the one who’d gotten someone pregnant mere days after they’d split. Hell, maybe it hadn’t even been days. Maybe he’d knocked that girl up before she left.
    Okay, she could deal with this. Eye on the ball.
    “You stopped by for a reason?” she asked, pleased at her neutral tone.
    His expression didn’t change as he rose and stepped over the first row of bleacher benches, agile as a cat with none of the cuddly attributes. When he stood beside her, taller by at least six inches with shoulders twice as broad, he pulled a notebook out of his back pocket and flipped it open with professional precision. Game on.
    “The bat didn’t yield any evidence,” he said. “Looks like it was wiped clean before it was buried.”
    The knot in her stomach muscles loosened. Maybe she could avoid the media nightmare after all. Everyone could stop asking her if she was okay. She could get on with the tennis center, with rebuilding her life in Kendall Falls. Everyone could move on . . .
    Except Chase’s manner didn’t say, “It’s over. The case is cold again.” He couldn’t have looked more serious if he’d been aiming a gun at her, his finger on the trigger.
    His features softened, anger yielding to the expression a cop made when he was about to tell you a loved one had just died in a car accident. “Maybe you should sit down.”
    Every cell in her body went on high alert, and she squared her shoulders, raised her chin. “I’m good, thanks.”
    He glanced down at his notes for a moment, and when he raised his gaze, his brow furrowed. “The crime scene guys found the shirt your foreman mentioned. Looks like it was used to clean the bat before both were wrapped in a garbage bag and buried. The bag protected them from the elements.”
    “Lucky break,” she said, not feeling lucky at all. Trapped was more like it. Imprisoned by the past with no hope of escape.
    Chase rubbed the back of his neck. “Our forensics team found blood on the shirt. If you could stop by the lab later to provide a blood sample, they can determine if it’s yours.”
    “Okay.” She heard herself say it, heard her own voice, clear and steady and strong, while inside, she wanted to scream. What good would it do to know if the blood on that shirt belonged to her? They had no fingerprints, no DNA from the attackers. It wasn’t like they had to prove she was at the scene of the crime. She started to say that when she realized Chase watched her with an intense focus that made her heart skip. He wasn’t