Chapter 26 #3
It hits me like a delayed reaction, and then I practically squeal.
“Oh my God! Yes!” I’d always wanted to play in Mexico. And this would be my first chance. “I remember you told me about it.”
“I would hate to see you miss that opportunity,” Dad adds. “You know it’s important for me. And I know it is for you, too.”
“What are the dates?” I ask. “Do we have an estimate on when Tim will start coaching me?”
“It’s, um …” Dad pulls out his phone and taps the screen. “The week of April 11th. Tim starts by the end of April. He’ll be coming with us for the European leg of the tour, starting with Mutua Madrid.”
The words settle like ice water pouring down my back.
Henry’s days as my coach are numbered. It shouldn’t catch me off guard. I knew this was coming, but it doesn’t make it hurt any less.
As hard as it is to look at him right now, I’ll hate to see him go. Hate what it might mean for us and how easy distance can turn into silence.
And this time, it feels inevitable.
“Can we go over the tour dates again?” I say, trying to get my mind off Henry and I being separated again.
“Sure,” Dad says, tapping his screen again. “One second.”
“We leave for Dubai on February 10,” Henry cuts in.
“Indian Wells on March 3rd and Miami right after that on the 20th. Madrid on April 27. Rome right after that on May 8th. Then Roland Garros on the 16th. Then, you’re flying back to New York to prepare for Wimbledon.
Your flight hasn’t been booked yet for that, but I suggest doing so on June 14th.
Then, back to the Rogers Cup at the beginning of August. You’re skipping Cincinnati this year to rest and prepare for the US Open, which is at the end of August, as you know. ”
I stare at him, swallowing down the way he’s soft-launching an apology disguised like it’s just good coaching. It’s the I know your life so well I’ve memorized it better than my own vibes that are killing me.
But I’m on to him.
He struggles to say the things that matter out loud, but he remembers I like my milk warmed for exactly twenty-two seconds.
He held on to a tennis ball for almost ten years because it holds special meaning.
He leaves my smoothie on the counter whenever I hit snooze one too many times.
And apparently? He’s memorized my tournament schedule by heart.
Of course he has.
That’s who he is. Just … Henry. Always paying attention. Always getting under my skin. And that’s what wrecks me most of all because I need to stay whole. Not in pieces.
Not because of him.
“That was … thorough,” Dad says, giving Henry a long, measured look. I can practically hear the wheels turning in his head. This is his aha moment, where he probably realizes Henry is not just some guy.
“And helpful,” he adds with a dry little chuckle.
Henry doesn’t react. Classic. Face blank, shoulders relaxed. Like he couldn’t care less about getting caught caring way too much.
Liar.
“I can take her,” Henry says, knocking the air out of my lungs. “If you can’t make it to Mexico, I’d gladly travel with her and keep her safe. Help her tick that box off her tournament bucket list.”
I can’t breathe.
“That was what I was going to suggest,” Dad says, his tone pensive, like he might be second-guessing the plan after all. “What do you say, Belén?”
“I’ll manage,” I say with a one-shoulder shrug, ready to drag this conversation back into safe territory. “As long as Henry promises not to cause a stir in the Mexican tabloids like he did here.”
Henry huffs a laugh, low and tired, and runs a hand through his hair before looking at me.
“I’ve got no intention of taking my eyes off the actual tennis player this time.”
God, I hate him.
And by hate, I mean I hate how easy he makes it sound. How safe he makes it feel.
“Good,” Dad says, still in manager mode. Maybe he’s thinking this whole Henry-caring-too-much thing was nothing but a weird little blip in his imagination.
Dad stands and rounds the coffee table to head out.
“I’ll let the people down in Mexico know, then,” he says. “Congrats on the win today.” He opens the door and holds it, shooting me one of his warm teddy bear smiles.
“Thanks.” I smile back. “I love you. And thank you for everything.”
“Love you too, sweetheart.” He gives me one of those looks that always turns my heart inside out. The kind that feels like pride wrapped in love, like he’s determined to be enough parent for the both of them.
“Go!” I say, feeling the tears pooling in my eyes. He better leave before I start crying. These past few days have been an emotional whirlwind. Leave it to my dad’s gentle heart to make me cry out of nowhere with his quiet way of stepping out of manager mode and back into just being my dad.
He laughs. “I’ll catch you guys later.”
The door clicks shut. The suite turns into a vacuum, and the only thing that exists is Henry and me and the sound of our breaths. We stare at each other as if hopeful that everything pending between us, every word, every confession, will be magically fixed.
We know better.
I don’t know what to say or how to start putting things back together. I’m so overwhelmed.
“Can I sit with you?”
I nod. Take a deep breath. Watch him stand and settle beside me.
He grabs my hand without my permission, and I allow it. Allow his familiar warmth to seep through my skin and fill me with the kind of peace that only Henry can provide.
“Hey,” he whispers. “Please look at me.”
His thumb caresses my hand, and I soak in the comfort , bracing myself for what I need to say. The one thing that might save us both.
“Bells, please.”
I lift my gaze and stare straight into his ridiculously perfect eyes.
“I’m looking at you,” I say, feeling the storm of feelings bubbling up in my chest, desperate for an outlet.
“I’m right here,” he says, his voice low but steady. “And I’m so fucking sorry.” He pauses slightly between each word, letting them breathe, letting them reach into my mind and settle there once and for all. “For everything.”
“I’m sorry, too,” I say. “I didn’t stop to think about how dealing with Robbie must’ve been a trigger. You don’t deserve to go through that ever again. I didn’t see it yesterday. But I do now, and I’m sorry.”
“I’m used to it.” He squeezes my hand and brings it closer to him.
“You shouldn’t be.”
He shrugs.
“I still hate you,” I mutter.
“I know.”
“It ebbs and flows,” I admit. It’s the truth. “And it’s not just about what happened last night.”
“I know that, too.”
He comes closer, wrapping his arms around me.
Slowly. Carefully. I lean into the embrace, resting my cheek on his warm, steady chest. He leans back, pulling me with him.
Now we’re on our side, face to face, and Henry’s firm grip around my back and waist is the only thing keeping me from sliding off the sofa.
“Thank you for offering to take me to Mexico,” I say. “Means a lot.”
“Of course.” His nose touches mine in a gentle, deliberate way. It makes my breath hitch. “I’m excited.”
“Someone could come in,” I remind him.
Yesterday, he seemed nervous about anyone coming into the suite and seeing him “half-naked” when I asked him to take off his hoodie. And it all comes crashing back. The lies, the omissions. I can’t do this anymore.
“I don’t care anymore,” he says.
“You should.”
You still do.
Henry’s lips graze mine, but I back up. Slowly. Not recoiling. It’s more of an If I kiss you, I’m coming undone, and I don’t want to sort of way. It’s already taking all my available willpower to do so.
Henry wants to kiss our problems away, but I can’t look past the fact that he still doesn’t trust me with the truth. I know he’s not ready to open up to me. He’s made it clear, and I need to stop forcing him to do so, or we won’t recover from this.
It’s hard to believe he’s had a change of heart since last night.
I want this. God, I want him. But not like this. Not when I’m the only one bleeding out in the open.
“We shouldn’t,” I say. “You were right. Now’s not a good time.”
He frowns. Nods.
“Okay.” He runs his arms tightly around my waist and helps me into a seating position.
He hesitates. “Why?”
“Because we can’t kiss our way out of things you still won’t say out loud.”
It lands. I feel it in the way his jaw flexes. In the way his hands fall away from me like he knows I’m right. Like part of him hates that I’m right.
“And besides,” I add, softer now, “you said it last night. You said we couldn’t. Not like this. Not yet. And I agree.”
“I also said I was going to stop by your room after dealing with Robbie,” he says. “To talk to you. And I know I didn’t have the chance to do so. But—
“Were you going to tell me about your injury?”
The seconds tick by in slow motion.
“No, that’s … I—” He cuts himself off.
I can’t make myself feel mad about this for the tenth time.
That only confirms my decision.
“We’ll still be friends. You’ll keep being my coach and my future travel buddy to Mexico, if you’re still up for it. But nothing else. I can’t—” My voice wants to crack, but I steel myself. “I can’t want this halfway, Henry.”
He’s silent. Too silent.
His throat works like it hurts to swallow. And after a breath, something slips. In his posture. In his eyes. I don’t know what it means, but it stays with me anyway.
“Whatever keeps me around.”
1 It’s the Abierto GNP Seguros (Monterrey Open). I’ve already told you about it, remember?