Chapter 17
NECIO
I eat my words and take them back. Henry’s eyes give nothing away. His body language is stoic, and I can’t read him as he sets up the court for practice. My first guess? He’s not thinking about last night’s kiss. It doesn’t seem like it, but it might be better this way.
The last time I checked, my face and lips were pale.
I have no idea how I’m supposed to pick up the racket sitting next to me on the wooden bench, let alone get up and work on my serve like Henry instructed.
Especially when more people than usual linger around the court’s perimeter fence trying to catch a glimpse of my training, as has come to be expected on weekends.
I’ve learned to ignore them.
It’s usually my mom’s nosy friends who can’t stop ogling Henry. They keep forgetting he’s in his early twenties. It’s awkward as hell.
Some of Henry’s friends from school are here, too. The deplorable physical state I’m in today makes me feel exposed and embarrassed. And since I won’t be putting on the tennis pro show they’re likely hoping to see, hopefully they’ll get bored and leave.
“Get up, Belén,” Henry orders without looking at me, but I remain seated. “Let’s go.” He’s not calling me Bells. That’s not a good sign. “I’m going easy on you today because you’re hungover and jet lagged.”
Finally, he looks at me, his lip curling into a wicked side smile I don’t think I’ve ever seen on him before.
He’s onto something. I know it. There’s no chance he’s “going easy on,” not after last night.
It’s painfully clear he’s choosing to ignore everything that happened at Gemma’s, which only makes me want to crawl into bed, shut the blinds, and stay there all day.
“One hundred serves,” Henry says with a clap. “Oh, and no NEHBLing. Once you’re done, you can shake it off with a five-mile run on the treadmill.”
“Shake it off?” I scoff. His idea of going easy on me is exactly what I expected.
“It’ll help flush the alcohol out of your system,” he adds, like that obvious fact is supposed to convince me this is a good idea.
Normally, I’d complain, but I keep quiet.
Henry knows I can barely keep myself upright, which is why I’m staying put until it’s absolutely necessary.
Ten serves feel impossible, let alone one-freaking-hundred.
And if he expects me to hop on a treadmill after that, he better start dialing an ambulance, because I will collapse on the spot.
I dig deep into whatever energy I have left and push myself up with both hands on my thighs. Foolishly, a proud part of me wants to prove I can do this. That I’m fine.
The metallic basket, filled to the brim with tennis balls, sits waiting for me on the service line. At this point, there’s nothing left to do but try.
I turn my back to Henry so he won’t see me take a shaky breath or wipe the cold sweat from my forehead with my towel.
“Crap,” I mutter under my breath, grabbing a ball and instinctively starting to NEHBL.
“I said no NEHBLing!” Henry shouts from the net, arms firmly crossed over his chest. He’s punishing me. He knows how anxious it makes me to serve without my ritual. It’s ingrained in my entire being.
“I’ll keep count so you can focus on your serve,” he says, clicking a metallic tally counter in his right hand. “Go!”
Henry removes his cap, turns it backward, and crosses his arms over his chest again.
I give him a quick, curt nod and look down at my feet, bouncing the tennis ball six times, trying to get in the mood for training—a task that’s never felt harder.
“Let’s go! We don’t have all day!”
I serve. Poorly. Barely.
My shaky hand reaches for another ball, and I give it another go. The ball drifts through the air in what feels like slow motion, ballooning over the net before landing far past the service line. I can’t do this. I’m making a fool of myself.
“It’s out!” Henry shouts.
I know it’s out.
Hearing him say it only makes my racket feel heavier in my hand.
Shutting my eyes, I take a deep breath.
A superstitious part of me wants to blame my terrible serve on not being allowed to NEHBL, but I know that’s not it. My energy is drained, and the unforgiving sun only worsens my deteriorating state by the second.
I keep serving shitty serve after shitty serve, but I’m still counting. Thirty-nine.
Sixty-one more to go.
Henry isn’t calling them out loud, and I can’t take his word for it. Not today. Thirty-nine is way more serves than I thought I’d survive. The truth is, I’m barely putting any effort into them because I physically can’t, and it’s killing me.
More people are gathering around the court, like word spread that Belén Freeman is losing her mojo and everyone wants a front-row seat to the downfall. It makes me feel weak and ridiculous. They’re here for the show. Any show.
I serve my fortieth lousy ball and let my racket drop to the floor, my hands bracing against my knees. I suck in a deep breath and shout, “Forty!”
“Twenty-three!” Henry shouts back.
“Excuse me?” I grimace, a heaviness building behind my eyes, threatening to explode into the worst possible headache. His tally counter is clearly broken.
“Twenty-three okay serves,” he clarifies. “The rest don’t qualify as such.”
“Henry … please,” I say between heavy pants, mostly to myself, but I know he can hear me. His frown suggests he might feel sorry for me, yet the slight flare of his nostrils makes it clear he’s mostly furious.
He refuses to cut me any slack for last night. He’s probably regretting the kiss too, but not for the same reasons I do. I hate that my impulsiveness hurt Liam. That part’s sitting heavier than the hangover.
But even if Henry wants to pretend he didn’t get lost in that kiss, the way he touched me, with that quiet urgency, proved he wasn’t just into it; he would’ve gone further if I’d let him. If the circumstances had been different.
All I care about right now is keeping our friendship intact … if possible.
“You’re not even trying,” he grits out, the annoyance crisp in his voice as he closes the distance between us. His statement couldn’t be any further from the truth. I am trying. He’s just too pissed off to see it.
“Well, you’re not letting me NEHBL!” I say with an exasperated chuckle.
“You and I both know that’s not why you’re embarrassing yourself.”
I’m well aware …
“And what do you want me to do?” I whisper. “Go back in time and ask Paxton to bring me water instead? I can’t change what happened last night. What’s done is done.”
“You, of all people, should know better,” he says, stepping into my personal space, looking down at me like he’s trying to scold the truth into me. He bends down, picks up my racket, and twirls it once in his hand.
“If it makes you feel any better, I hated the gin and what it did to my head. So it’s safe to say I’m never drinking again. But please …” I add softly. “Can we call it a day and go home? I barely slept last night.”
He looks at me like he couldn’t care less, and I know it’s a lie.
“Alcohol is a disease, and we might have it too,” he says.
“You and I … it’s in our blood, waiting to wake up.
I don’t want you screwing up your career because you had a few drinks while you were sad and fighting with your boyfriend.
That’s how it starts. One night turns into two, then three, and before you know it, you don’t remember how to stop. You become just like—”
He cuts himself off, his jaw ticking.
“Like my mom?” I finish for him.
“Yes,” he says, voice low and cold. “And my dad.”
“I literally had two and a half drinks. That doesn’t put me in risk of becoming an alcoholic.”
“Lower your voice,” he commands. His overly authoritative tone makes my blood boil. “People are watching.”
And they are. But I don’t give a flying fuck about people.
“They’re all here for a show, aren’t they?”
“Alcohol already cost me my tennis career,” he snaps. “And I won’t sit here and let that happen to you.”
He stalks away.
What?
“Henry! Wait!” He doesn’t stop, so I go after him. “What do you mean?”
My heart’s in my throat now. What the hell is he talking about?
“Give me one good serve,” he challenges, glancing back at me. “I’ll let you NEHBL, even if you’ve forgotten how to do it correctly. Then we’ll get you something to eat. Drew’s waiting for us at the restaurant. He’s got some big news to share with you.”
He hands me back my racket and starts to turn away.
“Tell me what happened, Henry.”
He knows exactly what I mean. I need to know what made him stop playing tennis. It’s so frustrating that he won’t give it to me straight. Maybe he started drinking, too. Maybe that’s the real reason he quit. The real reason he hated watching me drink last night.
“One. Good. Serve,” he enunciates each word like a prayer.
I give my racket handle a quick twirl and stride toward the service line.
“Necio!”1 I shout over my shoulder, huffing in exasperation.
“I heard that, necia!” he calls back.
I shake my head. He’s so infuriatingly stubborn. I regret teaching him so many words in Spanish, and I hate this feeling of wanting him to hold me right now when I feel like shit.
Can’t we just watch a movie, eat snacks, and talk all night? I just need my Henry. But he feels so far away now, buried under this strict tennis coach persona I can’t stand.
It’ll take a while for Henry to ease back into his usual self. And I know he’s right. I messed up by drinking last night. But as much as I keep telling him I’m not planning to do it again, he won’t listen.
I shouldn’t have kissed him while I was drunk, but I couldn’t help myself. And I can’t stop thinking about how he kissed me back. How he held me tight, pulling me in like he wanted it just as much … right until something made him yank away violently, like he regretted all of it.
The memory keeps looping in my head, and I hate it.