Chapter 20 #2
“You’re the one person I’ve opened up to the most in my entire life, Henry. Even more than Gemma. So please don’t throw that at me when you’re the one applying to colleges in Massachusetts behind my back. When I’ve asked you a million times about your plans, and you keep lying to me.”
“Bells, I’m not going anywhere,” he groans, irritation laced in his voice as he takes a few careful steps toward me. “I’ve told you plenty of times that I plan to stay in New York. That’s where I belong.”
There’s nowhere left for me to go. Henry has me cornered in the bathroom, blocking my only exit.
I turn to check the bathtub’s water level and it’s still less than half full. I let it be.
“Then why did you apply to MIT?” I shove his chest, trying to release some of the pent-up anger and frustration clawing at me. It does nothing to move him. “And what if you’re accepted?” I shove his chest again, but he catches my wrists and settles them.
“I had the application materials ready when I moved back to New York. Your father insisted on MIT since that was the Plan B we discussed after I stopped pursuing a tennis career. This was before Elliot dropped you and your dad suggested I become your coach.”
So they’ve been in touch way before Dad needed him to coach me?
Henry’s suddenly closer, and I have no idea when it happened.
“This was before I saw you again.” He exhales deeply, his gaze locking into mine with those haunting blue eyes I can’t seem to shake whenever he’s not around. “I wasn’t expecting … this.”
“What?”
“To feel this way.”
“How?” I press, my voice raw with frustration.
“Don’t make me say it.”
“Then don’t just stand there on the verge of wanting to tell me.”
I know he has feelings for me. And I’m sick of this half-assed friendship where I’m the only one opening up. Where I’m the only one risking anything.
And yet, whenever I get angry or need a moment to lash out, he swoops in to comfort me. But never in the way I need him to.
I want more of him. And I’m finally done pretending I don’t.
But for some reason, he still won’t trust me with the big stuff. Not completely.
“Bells, we can’t have this conversation right now.” Henry weaves a hand through his perfect dark hair with exasperation. “We’re at the Australian fucking Open. I’m not going to mess this up for you.”
I try to take a step back, but I’m met with the wall.
As if afraid I’ll flee, Henry catches my arms and leans in, pressing his forehead against mine.
“Just answer my goddamn question,” I grit out.
Silence.
At least he’s not looking away, but his refusal to say it is maddening. I’m done with him trying to be noble, with this constant self-sacrificing act. It’s exhausting.
“Water’s ready.” I escape from his grasp and turn off the faucet as a precaution in case I can’t get Henry to leave. The steaming bathtub is filled at that perfect level, and the water is scorching hot, as my fatigued muscles prefer it after a match.
I scurry away, hoping he will follow me as I head straight for my suite’s entrance. He does.
“I think it would be best if you leave,” I say, waving a limp hand at the door.
“I don’t want to leave like this,” he says. “Let’s talk.”
“Oh, Henry …” I snort out a derisive laugh.
“You would rather eat a family-sized pack of Twizzlers than talk to me right now.” He loathes them.
“But if you’re feeling chatty, how about you tell me the real reason you stopped playing tennis?
Or why you avoid carrying heavy stuff with your right arm and massage your right shoulder after hitting rally warm-ups with me when you think I’m not watching? ”
Henry’s expression is sheer terror. He doesn’t seem to know what hit him. He thinks he’s so good at keeping things to himself, but I notice everything. I always have.
We train. Talk. Laugh. Rest. Read. Study. Eat together. All while stealing glances, pretending we don’t notice. We sleep under the same roof, breathe the same air, and feel the same way about each other, whether he wants to admit it or not.
So why, in God’s name, is he so surprised?
“Are you injured?” I push. “Is that it?” There’s no other reason I can think of for him to renounce his lifelong dream.
“What?” he yells back, appalled. “We’ve talked about this.”
Bullshit.
He didn’t deny it, though.
“Take off your hoodie,” I say, my voice shaking with anger. “And the T-shirt, too. Let’s take a look at that shoulder.”
“I’m not playing this game.”
“Which one?” I taunt. “The one where you get caught lying?”
His jaw clenches, fury burning in his eyes.
“Take. Them. Off.” I say, each word a punch of frustration.
He snorts, shaking his head, but the flicker in his eyes isn’t just anger. It’s something else. Something closer to fear.
“If you’re not injured, let’s see that right shoulder you’ve so cleverly kept concealed all these months then.”
“Bells, I’m not—”
“You forget we live together, Henry,” I cut in before he can lie to me again.
“And I know what living with a guy looks like.” Robbie’s always pulling his shirt off after his runs or gym workouts.
He walks around the apartment shirtless after showering, cooling off before getting dressed.
“So unless you’re self-conscious about your body, which I highly doubt that’s the case, you’re hiding something from me. ”
“You’re insane if you think I’m getting undressed in your suite,” he says, his voice low and taut, like he’s bracing for impact.
“I’ve been told worse.”
“I hate it when you get like this,” he says, taking a sharp breath through his nose. “You’re impossible!”
“Then stop hiding shit from me!” My eyes widen, a silent plea for him to open up, to finally come clean. “It really is that simple,” I add, my voice barely above a whisper. Defeated.
Henry parts his mouth to speak when he’s interrupted by his buzzing phone. He pulls it out of his pocket, and the ID caller reads Evan King.
“That’s your cue to leave.” I point at the door.
“No.” He silences the call and shoves the phone back into his pocket. He’s going to drive me insane.
“Necio!” I groan, exasperated.
A chuckle slips past his lips, and that does it. He wants to laugh it off, act all cute, and distract me long enough to avoid the truth for a few more weeks until this bubbles up again.
No. Not this time.
It’s time to break the cycle. He needs to know how upsetting this is for me. And he needs to sit with that knowledge.
He’s not getting it. If words won’t work, maybe shock will.
I unzip my jacket, shrug it off my shoulders, and toss it aside. Next, I kick off my tennis shoes and socks, pull my tank top over my head, and let the clothes pile on the floor.
Henry’s smile vanishes.
Not the reaction I was going for.
His eyes darken, locked onto my every move. He’s looking at me like he’s finally allowing himself to feel everything he’s been holding back, and I like to think that, until now, he’s kept it all in. And as much as his hungry gaze sets my skin on fire, there’s nothing I can do with the feedback.
This isn’t about that.
This is my last attempt at making him leave, and I need to stay focused.
Henry swallows hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing.
“What the hell do you want from me, Belén?” His voice comes out low and rough, like his throat’s gone dry and he desperately needs a sip of water.
“I want you to leave,” I say, letting my tennis skirt fall to the floor. I keep my voice cool, like he’s just another interruption in my day. “My bath will run cold.”
Wearing nothing but my sports bra and underwear, I’ve reached the limit of clothing I can take off.
My plan here was to make Mr. Polite uncomfortable with my nakedness so he would leave, but it’s not working.
He’s paralyzed, frozen in place. The only movement I catch is the rise and fall of his chest.
I need to coax him into action.
“You wouldn’t want my dad walking into this now, would you, Coach?”
Henry snaps out of his trance, muttering a string of curses under his breath as he turns toward the door. His hand’s about to grab the handle when he throws over his shoulder, “I know all about your little tryst with Theo Da-fucking-browski.”
“Didn’t know the Chicago tennis scene was so invested in my dating history.”
We never actually dated, but he doesn’t need to know that.
“Theo made sure it spread to every scene.”
“Hmm.” I cross my arms, lifting a brow like it’s news to me. “Good to know.”
I know word got around about our so-called situationship, but what Henry doesn’t realize is that it wasn’t Theo who spilled the tea. His agent thought linking Theo to me would boost his popularity. As if Theo needed it.
By the time everyone found out, it was already over.
Drew, of course, had to dig up the details. He showed up one day with his unsolicited findings, swore he wouldn’t tell my dad, and handed me the information like I’d asked for it. I thanked him and moved on with my life.
Henry’s jaw flexes. “He better not lay so much as a fingernail on you tomorrow, or his trip to Australia is getting cut short.”
And just like that, he leaves.
There you go.
I would’ve given him a standing ovation if I wasn’t still reeling from his sudden burst of jealousy over Theo.
Feeling victorious, I gather my clothes, grab my phone from the coffee table, and saunter back to the bathroom. As I sink into the steaming water, the realization hits me: Henry has feelings for me. Strong ones. And he just handed me the key to rattling him into a fit of hysterics.
Grinning, I grab my phone to send Theo a time-sensitive text. One that conveniently aligns with my dad’s wishes and my new plan.
Should we expect a grand Theo Dabrowski entrance at the Coop Craft Brewery party tomorrow?
I dip my head into the water and wait for Theo to reply, which he does in record time.
I dry my hands, grab my phone again, and read his text.
Theo D: Only if you promise to be there.
Wear something nice.
Theo D: I always do.
You do now after hiring your stylist.
Theo D: I see you haven’t changed.
Do you want me to?
Theo D: What’s the fun in that? But tell me, is it true you’re done with what’s-his-name?
You know perfectly well who Liam is. Don’t pretend otherwise.
Theo D: Yes or no? I’ve missed you.
Yes, it’s over. And no, you haven’t.
Theo D: Why don’t you come over so I can show you how much I’ve missed you?
If he only knew I’m about to take Tim McEnroe for myself …
I’m busy taking a hot bath to relax my sore muscles after today’s grueling match. Which I won.
Theo D: Not surprised in the slightest. I’m on my way to the hotel. What’s your room number so we can celebrate both our wins? My muscles are sore too.
I let out a breath and toss my phone onto the bench beside the bathtub. I know I’m playing with fire, even if I’ve conveniently forgotten how intense things can get with Theo. But that’s tomorrow’s problem.
Tonight is about recovery.
And tomorrow? Tomorrow, Henry better buckle up, because it’s going to be one hell of a bumpy ride.
1 Congratulations, my love. Try to get some rest.
2 Thank you. Of course.