Chapter 26
PLAYED LIKE AN OLD PIANO
Her face is splotched from the effort. It was a tough game. For her. But this is a Grand Slam. No one’s here to make it easy.
Today, I’m all about doing what needs to be done. Playing the part. The picture-perfect athlete my dad and Drew always wanted me to be. It’s keeping me focused, and more importantly, distracted.
After dropping my stuff in the locker room, I head out for my mandatory post-match interview.
“You didn’t need to go that hard on Evan,” Henry says, scolding me. He’s in coach mode now, not Henry mode. He knows that’s the only version of himself I’ll listen to right now.
“You had this one in the bag from the start. Evan’s no match for you, and you knew it. But you went wild on her anyway.”
His concern sounds legit. But there was no other way for me to do it.
“There’s no need to burn yourself out when you’ve still got matches to play.”
We’re in the media room, waiting for me to go next, and I’m nowhere near burning myself out. Dad’s out there somewhere with Robbie and Gemma, but I haven’t talked to any of them today. Everything’s a mess, and I don’t have the emotional verve to fake it.
I don’t know how Gemma’s doing, having to sit next to Robbie for an entire match like last night didn’t happen. I care. God, I care. But I’m maxed out. There’s nothing left in me to fix anything that isn’t happening on these courts.
A few other players roam nearby, but I’m glad Zoya’s got the day off. The odds of seeing her are slim to none. Explains why she had no problem playing hostess in her suite last night like tomorrow only happens to other people.
Patting the sweat off my face with a hand towel, I listen to Henry without talking back or arguing. It’s all part of staying focused on the only thing that makes sense right now, the only thing that feels real.
The exhaustion is settling in now that the adrenaline’s gone, and without hesitation, I admit that it’s finally caught up to me. But it was worth it. I had to channel my frustrations somewhere. Unfortunately for Evan, she got caught in the crossfire.
“This is the Australian Open,” I reply in a soft, controlled tone, my eyes fixed on a blank spot on the cream-colored wall. “I couldn’t risk it. Not after China.”
I take a swig of my watermelon Sportaid, still refusing to look at him.
Losing today wasn’t an option, and I did what I had to do to ensure there was no way Evan could slip through the cracks of my emotional instability. I was either going to play like a savage or risk being a complete mess out there.
And no, I didn’t add the K to my NEHBLing ritual. Not yet at least, even though I promised Henry I’d give it a try someday.
It reminds me too much of him.
It took a whole lot of human interaction avoidance and hip-hop blasting through my headphones just to get in the zone this morning. So, no, I wasn’t about to start tweaking my neurosis.
“You have to follow the rules we have in place,” he snaps.
He’s not being chill, and I’m weirdly impressed by how little it affects me. I can’t connect to the roughness in his tone. Mentally, I’m somewhere else entirely.
This must be what zen actually feels like.
It’s a shame, though, that things had to get really ugly before I learned how to shut the door on all the bullshit.
Henry kneels in front of me with narrowed eyes, probably checking to see if I’m dead inside, but he has my full attention.
He just thinks he doesn’t because I’m not interrupting every other word he says like I used to.
This time, I’m listening and giving him his place as my coach.
Not that I didn’t before. It’s just that I was always too quick to react. Too quick to talk back.
“Yes, I’m aware of the rules,” I say once it’s my turn to speak, still not looking at him.
I can’t. And I know he wants me to, but his blue eyes and those thick, dark lashes will be the death of me if I so much as glance his way.
I’m afraid they’ll break the trance I managed to put myself under this morning.
That they’ll toss me straight back to where I was last night: shattered to pieces.
“Don’t overdo it if it’s not necessary,” he insists. “I was worried you would dislocate your shoulder with the way you were serving. You don’t want to risk your spot in the finals with a fourth-round, self-provoked injury.”
“You’re right,” I say, and he is. “I can’t be reckless.”
I could’ve won this match without going to the extreme like I did. Still, I desperately needed to let off steam, especially after my mom called at 9:00 a.m., throwing off my focus with her belated birthday wishes.
After thanking Mom with a monotonous tone, I reminded her that my birthday was yesterday, to which she replied, “But it’s still your birthday in New York.” And since she wasn’t technically wrong, I agreed: “You’re right.”
And she was.
Maybe I suffered all day yesterday without reason, playing the victim to her carelessness. Or maybe she could’ve just called while it was still my birthday on my time zone and saved me the heartache.
She, too, was stunned by my agreeable reply. I could feel it from ten thousand-and-something miles away. My attitude led her to let me off quicker than usual. A new insight.
The call ended with a simple “Good luck” and no further explanation as to why she skipped Australia. Not that I asked. I wouldn’t dare go there, especially not before a big match.
Not that I don’t already know the reason.
Henry stands with a sigh. I can feel the frustration oozing from his every movement. It’s like he doesn’t know what to do with me now that I’m not snapping or storming off.
Sorry to disappoint. Turns out, I’m capable of being calm. But I never thought that being pleasant, obedient, and a good listener would make people this uncomfortable.
“Miss Freeman, you’re next,” someone from the staff informs me. I stand from the chair with a smile, and Henry grabs the towel and Sportaid before I can hand them over.
Still, I don’t glance at him. And this time, he doesn’t say, Be nice, before I head out for my interview like he always does. This new, numbed-out way of living is doing wonders for me. It’s not what I thought peace would look like, but it’s a start.
From now on, I’ll leave all my fire on the court. And as I take my seat for the interview, I rest easy in that knowledge.
After thirty-something long minutes of answering questions from the media, it seems like we’re finally done, but a man in the back raises his small notepad for a final question.
The moderator allows him to speak.
“Miss Freeman,” the reporter says, flipping through his notepad with theatrical innocence.
“This morning’s Melbourne Weekly cover features your brother and coach following Zoya Kruschenko and her publicist Abigail Sloane around the hotel lobby and finally getting into an elevator together, reportedly for a, and I quote … ‘private mixed doubles afterparty.’”
He chuckles like he didn’t just light a match.
Knowing her publicist was there explains a lot. Leave it to Zoya Kruschenko and Abigail Sloane to turn a hotel elevator into a PR landmine. And leave it to my brother and Henry to walk straight into their trap.
“Care to comment?”
The room holds its breath. Henry’s jaw tightens. And, somehow, my hands stay perfectly still on the table.
I meet the reporter’s eyes and lean forward.
“Sounds crowded.” The words land sharp and flat. Not playful. Not embarrassed. Just … done. I let the pause stretch to twist the knife. “Good thing I prefer singles.”
People chuckle as I sit back and bring the water bottle to my lips while the reporter tries to laugh it off like just doing my job here, but nobody’s laughing with him.
Henry’s staring at the floor like he might combust. And that’s the moment Drew and Dad choose to walk into the press conference.
I lift my brows, cool and collected.
“Any more tennis questions?” I say, looking around the room. “Or are we just here to talk fanfiction?”
Drew’s mouth flies open. It quickly turns into a smirk like he’s proud of me for standing up to myself without flipping over a table.
The moderator thanks me for my time, ends the press conference, and announces that the next player will arrive in fifteen minutes.
I stand and shake the moderator’s hand with a smile.
Dad and Drew whisk me away from the media tent like there’s been a sudden outbreak of the plague. Henry trails behind, carrying my stuff like a disgruntled sherpa who did not sign up for this expedition. Not that he ever lets me carry my own stuff anyway.
“We’re skipping the luncheon,” Dad says.
Bless him.
“I’ve got a list of things we need to go over,” he adds. “Best to handle it back at the hotel.”
Fine by me.
“Where are Gemma and Robbie?” I ask as Dad keeps steering me toward the reserved parking area where our assigned driver usually waits.
“Vlad took Gemma back to the hotel right after your match,” Dad says. “She’s still jet lagged. And Robbie? Still MIA. Probably sleeping it off. Or regretting his life choices. Or both.”
My Gemma.
If I hadn’t left my phone back at the hotel, I’d be blowing up her phone right now. I cannot wait to talk to her. To tell her every detail. To bitch about how dumb Henry and my brother were last night. But mostly? To hug her tight and remind her that whatever happens next, we’ve got us.
And Robbie …
I can’t believe he flew all the way here just to act like a complete idiot and miss my matches. If he has a shred of self-preservation left, he’ll stay far away.
“These fools got played like an old piano,” Drew says, dropping a copy of Melbourne Weekly onto the coffee table of my suite like it’s evidence in a criminal trial.
Henry stares at the cover with a clenched jaw while I fight the urge to grab it and analyze the three neat little circles in the bottom right corner with a magnifying glass.
Circle one: Robbie chatting with Zoya and Abigail like they’re long-lost besties.