Chapter 4
YOUR FOOTWORK IS OFF
“EXCUSE ME?” I drop my half-eaten pizza on the plate and push back my chair.
The room goes silent. Robbie sits next to Gemma, and the sound of him opening the pizza box behind me grates on my last nerve.
I point a finger at Henry.
“He’s going to train me?”
I’m too stunned by his presence to even consider accepting him as my coach. Meanwhile, I’m battling the butterflies churning in my stomach while struggling to keep my rising anger at bay.
“You bet he is.” Dad grins and taps Henry’s back twice. Henry’s face is cold and unyielding. My remark doesn’t provoke a reaction, and it’s driving me to the edge of insanity.
“I’ve already called everyone worth calling today,” Dad says, raising an eyebrow.
“No one thinks they’re a good fit for you right now.
But don’t worry, I’m sure we’ll find someone.
In the meantime, Henry will keep you warmed up on the court since he’s staying with us for a while.
We’re so lucky he agreed to do this on such short notice.
I’m sure Mom mentioned it when she called you earlier. ”
Mom didn’t mention anything about Henry showing up today in her last text. But my face reacts before my mouth does, cluing Dad in on my surprise.
“Henry will be staying here in Manhattan with you guys,” Dad continues. “But I expect the three of you to come home to Montclair on the weekends so you and Henry can practice at the country club, like in the good old days.”
Liam gives me a long look after that. I’m sure he has plenty of questions about this impressive-looking guy standing in front of us. He doesn’t seem thrilled about the news that said guy will be moving in and becoming my new coach.
Why would Henry stay with us? Why is he back from Chicago? If Mom had called like she said she would, I wouldn’t be standing here with a question mark on my forehead and my stomach in an impossible knot.
“That won’t be necessary.” I smile at my dad. “I can train on my own. I’m sure it won’t take you more than a few days to find a suitable coach,” I say confidently. “Besides, how can we trust Henry won’t pack up and leave again in a few days for no apparent reason?”
Without saying goodbye.
But I leave that part out because everyone involved knows how things went down, even if my dad’s pretending to have selective amnesia.
I turn my attention lazily toward Henry, offering him a bitter, tight-lipped smile. Once again, he doesn’t react. He’s basically soulless, as I suspected.
“We’re flying to Beijing in two weeks, sweetheart. You can’t train on your own,” Dad says, his pointed stare failing to intimidate me or convince me that Henry is a good idea. “A fresh set of eyes will do you good.”
Not Henry’s.
“We need to show your sponsors you’re serious about your career,” Dad continues with his spiel. “The China Open will set the tone for what’s to come. Drew’s already hooked on the phone 24/7, trying to get your image cleaned up with the media and the rest of your sponsors.”
Dad crosses his arms at his chest and leans back against the wall.
“If it were up to me, I’d pull you from the tournament and let things cool off, give the press time to forget what happened. But the China Open is a mandatory WTA event, and you need the points. Defaulting would cost you more than press coverage. It’ll hit your ranking.”
Knowing Liam is watching our interactions makes me take a deep breath and think before reacting, a step I usually skip when my dad and I get into a heated discussion about anything tennis-related. I tend to yell first and think later.
Hiding this fiery side of me is not something that comes easy.
When I glance at Liam, he’s leaning against the kitchen counter with his hands resting inside his pants pockets. I hate that our time together got cut short like this. This isn’t how I envisioned the night ending.
“So Henry’s got what it takes to help me ‘set the tone’ and show my sponsors how serious I am?
” I scoff. I know I’m speaking as if Henry isn’t standing here, but he’s not saying anything anyway, and I’m hoping he realizes it’s ridiculous to think he has something to teach me.
“We haven’t seen each other in five years.
So how does he know what I need to improve my game? ”
“You’re over-rotating your backhand,” Henry finally says, cutting me off. I bite the inside of my cheek and purse my lips in annoyance. Because he’s right. Elliot’s been bugging me about it for weeks. “Even if you have a naturally powerful shot, you’re losing stability.”
Sighing, I raise an eyebrow at him, because what the hell does he know anyway?
“Oh, and your footwork is off. But I’ll gladly point that out during practice.” He pulls a small notepad from his back pocket and waves it in front of him. “I took notes, but I’m sure they’ll match yours. Joe tells me you were watching your tapes today?”
He tops it off with an arrogant smile, a carbon copy of the one I gave him a few minutes ago.
Jerk.
“As you can see,” Dad says quickly, “Henry’s already watched yesterday’s tape. So why don’t you two compare notes tonight before you head to training tomorrow? It’ll save you time.”
Shit.
“Ah, sure. I … yeah,” I stumble with my words, bobbing my head. I glance at Liam, and that gives me away.
“You haven’t watched them, have you?” Dad grumbles.
I shake my head once and cross my arms in front of me.
“Nope.”
“Ay no, mijita en serio.”1 Dad scrubs a hand down his disappointed face. “?Ves porque no quiero que tengas novio?”2
“He’s not my boyfriend! We’re—” I snap my mouth shut, but it’s too late. My dad has already pinned the blame on Liam, and now he’s walking away with a snort, frustration etched across his face.
But is Liam my boyfriend? I still don’t know what we are, but we’re not nothing. I want us to be something, and today certainly felt like we were heading in that direction.
Liam says goodbye to Robbie, Gemma, and Dad. He approaches Henry, extending his hand. “I’m Liam, by the way. Not the boyfriend,” he says with a painfully sarcastic chuckle. “Nice to meet you, mate.” He jerks his chin at me and shuffles away with a dry, “Good luck, Belén.”
“Liam, wait!” I grab my phone from the table and hurry after him, but he’s already waiting for the elevator down the hall. “Liam!”
“Are you for real, Belén?” he says over his shoulder, stepping into the elevator. I follow him, not caring that I’m barefoot. “Don’t you dare say you denied it to protect yourself from your father.”
“Well, I don’t know what we are, Liam. I thought we were just hanging out. We’ve never talked about … us. I’ve never had a boyfriend before, so I don’t really know how this boyfriend-girlfriend thing works.”
“We’ve known each other for eight months, Belén. And I’ve been patient and discreet,” he says, stepping out of the elevator into the lobby, shaking his head. “Just like you asked me to be.”
“Liam, wait!” I follow him out. “I want to talk to you. I’ll follow you barefoot around New York if I have to.
But Gemma will kill me if I ruin my pedicure.
” My weak attempt to lighten the mood falls flat.
He stops and turns to meet my gaze, and I offer a genuinely warm smile that still doesn’t seem to work on him.
“Am I wasting my time here, Belén?”
“Of course not. It’s just that—”
I don’t even know how to finish that sentence.
I care about Liam. I really do. And I love spending time with him when we can.
But that’s the problem. We can never find the time to be together, to get to know each other, and to take things to the next level.
The attraction is there, though, palpable and undeniable.
His hesitation is mostly my fault. It’s hard for me to open up to him, to show him my feelings and what I’m made of, because, if I’m honest, I don’t know where to begin. I wonder if he’ll still like what he sees if I step out of the shadows and reveal myself to him.
All I know is I’m angry most of the time, even if you can’t tell by looking at me. Any little thing can set me off, and I’ll take every chance I get to act out. Every single day. Every single time.
Sometimes, it’s hard to like myself, so how am I supposed to be liked by someone else?
Someone like Liam, who couldn’t be kinder or more caring.
He texts me before every game to wish me luck and sends me flowers after every tournament, no matter what city or time zone I’m in.
Whether I win or lose, he somehow manages to get a fresh bouquet to me.
I’m an idiot.
My easy and playful interaction with Liam today reminded me of the butterflies I felt when I met him.
It was my birthday, and we were in Melbourne at a Coop Craft Brewery event during the Australian Open.
I remember feeling relaxed and excited about winning that day. I was moving on to the next round.
Everything seemed perfect. Then Liam swooped in and captivated me. He made me laugh and asked for my number. It was the most perfect day ever. I didn’t think he’d call or text, but he did. All the time. But with us always busy traveling, getting past screen time has been hard.
As much as I’ve tried to hide that awful part of me, it’s impossible. He got a glimpse of the real me a few days after we met, when I lost in the quarterfinals and walked into the press conference with a terrible attitude. I still wince at the memory of that day.
The problem is I always get so upset about being angry to the point that I forget what was bugging me in the first place.
Then I crawl into my mental cave and shut the world out for a few days as the unyielding shame kicks in.
I’m aware of my mistakes, but I rarely have the nerve to admit them.
Instead, I pretend to be confident about my actions, only to end up scaring people away.
And deep down, I don’t want to feel alone. But I do.