Chapter 8
A brAT
It’s not as bad as I thought it would be. It’s worse.
Henry’s a tough coach. His coaching style is painfully and infuriatingly brutal. I found myself out of breath more than a few times during some of the strenuous drills he claims to have learned from Jacques, his French tennis coach in Chicago.
I peppered him with questions about his time there whenever I stopped to catch my breath because I wanted to know everything. But he dodged them, telling me to watch my posture, check my footwork, correct my grip, or stop fidgeting with my racket strings.
As much as I wasn’t expecting this, I have to admit that I’m impressed with Henry.
He’s a perfectionist. I wonder if Dad knew he had the skill set to be a coach or if he took a chance and Henry turned out to be great at this.
Either way, he’s good. And now I want to throw up just thinking about hitting the gym after this and tackling the afternoon training block right after that.
I’m exhausted.
“We’re done, Bells,” he says, wiping his forehead with his signature chiseled tennis-player forearm.
As I seek refuge under the flimsy sunshade, I notice Henry’s cheeks are bright red.
I lower my trembling body onto the bench and chug from my tumbler as if my mouth were filled with sand.
“You should take off that hoodie before you get heatstroke, Coach.”
Henry raises an eyebrow. “If you want to see me without a shirt on, Freeman, just say the word.”
“You wish,” I shoot back, not missing a beat. “I’m worried you’ll pass out.”
He snorts. “I’m fine, but thanks for the concern.” He grabs a paper cone cup and pours himself some water from the orange dispenser sitting on an aluminum rack beside the bench.
“I wouldn’t drink that if I were—”
You.
He empties the cup over his head, running a hand along his wet face. “Wasn’t planning on it,” he says, shaking his head to flick the water from his hair.
I snap my mouth shut after catching myself gaping at him, unable to look away as he tosses the paper cup into a small garbage bin. He extends his hand, fingers swiveling as he eyes my tumbler. It takes me a good three seconds to react.
“I suggest you bring your own bottle next time, Coach,” I say, sipping my water with raised brows to taunt him.
“I’ll carry one with me tomorrow.” He smiles and seizes the tumbler from my grasp. “I never thought we’d end up here today.” He twists off the lid and takes a long, deep drink. “I used to love it here. It’s a shame to see it in such bad shape.”
“You never mentioned coming here.”
“Yeah, well, I only started coming when I turned fourteen. I’d ask my parents to drop me off here so I could work on my serve while they roamed around the city doing whatever they liked to do.
Jasper’s dad used to run this place back then, but one day he got tired of it and handed the keys over to Jasper. ”
“I see.”
I’m about to bring up the subject of his dad when my phone startles me.
“Hey, Drew. What’s up … Um, no thank you.
There’s no way I’m training full-time at the country club …
Well, because Mom’s always there and, you know, people …
Drew … You know I love you most of the time, but looking for training venues is not in your job description, okay?
So tell my dad we’ll talk about this later.
He doesn’t need to send you to convince me …
What about Liam? … Stop whispering! Is it bad?
… Just tell me … I hate it when you do this.
Just tell me already … Okay. Text me the photographs …
Fine … I won’t… I said I won’t! … Thanks … Okay, bye.”
“Damn it,” I mutter, staring at my phone’s screen.
“Everything okay?” Henry asks, taking a seat next to me.
“I’m not sure,” I reply, watching as Drew’s back-to-back notifications flood my lock screen. I don’t know if I want to look at the pictures of Liam he just sent me. But I know I’ll end up looking anyway. “I guess I’m about to find out.”
I unlock my screen and brace for impact.
It’s a bunch of paparazzi photos of Liam at the US Open from two days ago. Apparently, he sat next to a pretty redhead. There are shots of them arriving together, sitting close, laughing, and whispering. They look … cozy.
What a great way to use the tickets I got him.
I toss my phone on the bench and let out a heavy sigh.
“Is that your Hollywood boyfriend?” Henry asks.
He must’ve seen the photos as I scrolled through them, so he knows it’s Liam.
“Ha-ha. Not anymore.”
I’m beyond annoyed, jealous, and seriously tempted to text him, even though I know I shouldn’t. At least I’m aware of my areas of opportunity.
Henry looks at me with slightly narrowed eyes but says nothing.
Let’s go,” I say, jumping to my feet, resisting the urge to grab my phone and do something impulsive I’ll regret later. “We need to hit the gym.”
“You need to pick up after yourself before we leave, Freeman,” Henry commands in a playful tone, taking another long sip from my water. “It’s the least we can do after Jasper let us borrow his courts, don’t you think?”
“This piece of crap court?” I say, waving a haphazard hand at it.
This is how I operate. I redirect my anger at the nearest target, and in this case, I’m acting out because of this uncontrollable need to talk to Liam and ask about that girl. I’m already thinking the worst. I know most of Liam’s friends, and he’s never mentioned this redhead before.
My insecurities are flaring up, whipping up theories so fast I can’t think straight. I’m zero percent in the mood to pick up balls, even though I know it’s the right thing to do. But this urge to call Liam and demand answers is blazing through my veins.
I can’t believe I’m debating whether to call him or not when the answer is simple: I shouldn’t. But I still want to, even if Drew made me promise I wouldn’t. Twice.
“Easy,” Henry says, standing up, his body towering over me. He’s so big now, his broad back and lean, powerful, military stance would intimidate me if I hadn’t known him since I was running around in diapers.
I still want to know what happened to his face. The scar slicing through his eyebrow gives him a rugged edge, but he’s still so ridiculously handsome.
And now his face is distracting me from the subject at hand.
“Jasper’s not only a good guy, but a good friend of mine, so pick up the balls and put them in the bucket.” The playfulness is gone from Henry’s tone now that he’s noticed my attitude. “We won’t leave until it’s done.”
Henry couldn’t be more annoying right now. I’m obviously going to clean up after myself, but it’s the authoritarian way he’s addressing me that makes me feel attacked. I hate being told what to do, especially when I’m already planning on doing it.
“Sure, Coach,” I reply, grabbing a ball by my feet.
I hurl it toward the empty basket, missing it and hitting the metallic mesh dividing courts two and three instead.
That’s when I spot a group of kids looking our way, their small fingers gripping the other side of the fence.
Luckily, the ball didn’t go anywhere near them.
Cálmate, Belén1 …
“They’ve been watching you train for the past half hour. Hadn’t you noticed?” Henry says, picking up a few balls around us.
I hadn’t.
“People look up to you now. Kids included. You need to set an example of what it means to be a professional athlete. You’re in a position of influence, whether you like it or not. That includes being mindful of the things you say and do. You can’t be a brat.”
Taking a deep breath, I try not to think about Liam and that redhead sitting next to him on the bleachers—or about Henry calling me a brat. The worst part is I know he’s right. But I can already feel the spiraling heat intensifying and creeping up my spine.
I’m not holding a grudge against Henry. I’m gripping it, clutching it, digging my nails into it. I want to keep my mouth shut, but my mind insists on crafting a reply to every single thing that’s said to me. I don’t know how to keep quiet. It feels compulsory to always have the final word.
“You’re asking me to be mindful when you left five years ago without a single word about it?”
There … I said it.
Henry drops the balls he collected into the basket and marches over, stopping right in front of me.
He leans in to whisper, “I know I fucked up, okay? And I know you’re furious about it.
I saw it in your eyes when I arrived at your place last night.
But this is not the time or the place to talk about it. I can explain.”
“Explain what, Henry? How you’re a heartless dick who never cared about me in the first place?” I counter. “Spare me the motivational bullshit and stop judging me, because you don’t get to do that, not after you abandoned me the way you did.”
“What happened to you?” Henry murmurs, clearly taken aback.
You, Henry. You happened.
“This is not the Belén I used to know.” He shakes his head in disappointment, scanning me from head to toe as if trying to figure out what went wrong with me.
“This is who I am. Who I’ve always been.”
Lies. I know it, and so does he.
He lets out a low, bitter laugh.
“You keep forgetting that I know you better than most. And yes, you’ve always had a strong personality. I always liked that about you. But this attitude? It’s cynical and immature.”
I’ve always had issues with Mom, but Henry anchored me and made it easier for me to manage my emotions. When he left, I had no one to turn to who knew me like he did. Who understood as much as he did without me needing to explain myself.
“Well, I changed then.” My hands fly up before I rest them on my hips. “This is who I am now. So you’d better get used to it.”
“You certainly did. I’ve been watching your matches.
Watching you play. You’re good. You could be the best out there if you wanted.
But instead, you choose to be angry all the time over the smallest things.
And I get it. It’s easier to explode, lose your shit, trash your racket, and blame it on personality,” he says, his blue eyes drilling into mine as I scowl at him.
“Since when did you become such a wise man?” I tilt my head and cross my arms over my chest. “A lot has happened since you left that you don’t know of, and you weren’t here for it.”
You weren’t here for me when I needed you the most.
“I’ve been dealing with my own shit as well,” he replies, his voice growing darker, restless. It’s enough to remind me that his father is gone and that I have no clue what he and his mother have endured these past months.
It makes me feel like total crap, because whatever I’ve got going on with my mom doesn’t begin to compare to what he’s dealing with. But there’s this metal wall rising around me, blocking me from admitting how wrong I am and how right he is.
What does he want me to say?
I stare at him and take a deep breath. His words sting because they’re honest and true, and if I keep talking, I’ll only embarrass myself more than I already have.
I want to apologize, but there’s a knot tightening in my throat.
As much as I try to swallow past the shame and sadness, I can’t, so I stay quiet and hold his gaze because it’s the least I can do.
“I’m going inside to thank Jasper,” he says, his tone clipped as he walks away. “And please … pick up after yourself. Nobody here cares about your celebrity boyfriend drama.”
My tongue pulses with pain from biting it hard enough to stop myself from replying, from telling him my anger and attitude aren’t all about Liam.
They’re about him, too. And as much as Henry’s right about everything, he’s getting on my nerves, under my skin, and inside my head.
The deep, velvety timbre of his voice is still reverberating in my eardrums.
I hate him so much right now, and I suck so badly at it.
1 Calm down, Belén.