Chapter 29
THE EASIEST PUNISHMENT
I KNOCK on the door before letting myself inside the room. There’s no answer, so I press my keycard against the reader and push the door open just enough to peek inside.
The room is empty. But the steady spray of water coming from the bathroom, confirms Henry’s in the shower.
I step in and remove my tennis shoes, leaving them by the door.
Today’s a day off. I’ve spent it recovering, hydrating, and handling some light media obligations.
I faced the fierce Italian Sara Errani yesterday in the quarterfinals and moved on to the semis.
It was a tough, physical two-set match that left me drained.
The heat wasn’t in our favor, but I managed to stay aggressive on my returns and closed it out 7–5, 6–4.
After taking a hot shower earlier, I paid a visit to the physical therapist who gave me a well-deserved massage to help with muscle tightness. Hopefully, it’ll keep me loose for tomorrow’s match.
Henry got lost in the pages of one of his military sci-fi novels when I left for my appointment, which was conveniently held at the hotel.
Before I left, we agreed to do a quick video review of yesterday’s match and a more thorough analysis of Polona Hercog, my Slovenian opponent for tomorrow’s match, once I got back. We’ll grab some dinner after that and call it a day.
The dynamic of sharing a room with Henry has been …
interesting. Not as challenging as I thought it would be.
He wakes up earlier than me, showers, and leaves the room so I can prepare to start the day in private.
He waits for me downstairs with a cup of coffee, we have breakfast together and then head out.
The week has flown by. Our days are fast-paced, busy, and exhausting. By the time we’re back at the hotel, it’s basically dinner, shower, bed.
Grabbing my notebook and pen, I hurry to set everything up on the coffee table so that when Henry steps out, we can dive straight into tape revision.
I plop on the couch and stare out the window at the beautiful M-shaped mountain framing my view.
I wish I could explore more of this city with Henry.
I also feel bad that I haven’t been able to spend much time with my cousins who flew in from Guadalajara to see me play.
But I’m hoping to grab lunch or dinner with them before we fly back to New York.
My phone chimes with a text notification. I ignore it. I’m sure it’s Dad or Drew wanting a recap of the day. Instead, I breathe deep and close my eyes, falling into one of the mindfulness exercises Henry taught me months ago.
Never fails to settle me.
After a few slow breaths, the sound of the bathroom door startles me. My eyes snap open, and there he is.
Stricken. Bare.
A white towel slung low around his hips, the sharp V of his torso, and the abs I’d never had the chance to see until now, impossible to miss.
“I didn’t hear you come in,” he says, his voice shaking around the edges.
Panicking. Unraveling.
Steam spills from the bathroom behind him, and tiny water droplets slide down the tips of his hair onto the bare skin of his sculpted chest and the thick, vicious red scar slashing across his right shoulder.
I suck in a breath.
How did it happen?
Who hurt you like this?
His Adam’s apple bobs.
“I’ll just … grab my things, and I’ll be right out in a minute.”
I can’t make myself look away. But I have to …
“Take your time.”
I glance away, grab my pen, and open my notebook on my lap like a school lesson is about to start, giving him his privacy.
A few minutes later, which feels like an eternity, the bathroom door creaks open.
I lift my head.
Henry steps out, hair damp, face cleanly shaven and scrubbed clean. I catch a whiff of his cologne, fresh and crisp, and so him because, no … I didn’t hide it. There’s no way I would’ve denied my masochistic self the high of it.
He’s wearing a plain, white, long-sleeved T-shirt and gray cotton shorts. Everything about him screams normal.
Casual.
And I feel it. The tiny, sharp sting of disappointment. The silent agreement to pretend.
Of course he covered up.
Of course it’s back to business.
Back to tape revision night, back to nodding and note-taking with a side of pretending I didn’t see.
My chest tightens. I drop my gaze to my notebook, my throat closing around the things I’ll never say.
But then …
A movement.
A shift in the air.
The smell of him, stronger now, announcing his closeness.
I look up just in time to see him grab the hem of his T-shirt, the movement slow and intentional. He peels it over his head, muscles flexing, scar catching the low light like a jagged secret finally dragged into the open.
The shirt falls from his hands, hitting the floor with a soft, defeated sound. He stares at me, and I stare back, letting myself be consumed by the weight of the silent statement he just made.
It’s deliberate.
It’s final.
He’s allowing me to look at the scar he bears like a confession, the pain he’s been dragging like a curse, and the heartbreaking meaning behind it.
And then he moves.
Quickly, I toss my notebook and pen on the coffee table and brace for impact.
He crosses the room toward me in three unhurried steps with quiet, unshakable determination and sinks to his knees in front of me. Buries his face into the couch beside my hips, his hands sliding slowly around my waist like he can’t endure the weight of what’s about to happen.
At least not while looking me in the eye.
“I lied, Bells,” he says, his voice muffled against the cushion.
“I know.”
My fingers hover above his head for a second, trembling, before I realize I’ve moved.
But I give in.
I run a hand through his damp hair, trying to soothe the ache away.
He seems visibly distressed. I can feel his chest heaving against my legs, sharp and ragged, his walls crumbling around me like wet sand.
He squeezes my waist.
“I hate myself for it.”
“Don’t,” I mutter. “Or maybe just a little.”
Henry lets out a sad, broken chuckle and lifts his gaze. He stares at me like he wishes he could upload the information directly to my brain instead of having to say it out loud. I know he’s ready to finally open up to me.
I can feel it.
I can see it in his eyes.
I can smell it in the air.
But I say nothing and wait.
While I watch him gather his words, my gaze drifts to his shoulder, taking advantage of the fact that he’s exposed himself to me.
Physically, at least.
For now.
I trace a finger down the scar, and he allows it. He lets me press my palm against it while I silently beg him to tell me what happened once and for all.
“Can I sit with you?” he asks, his voice raw.
I nod and make space for him next to me.
“For the longest time,” he says, reaching for my hand, “I thought I was protecting myself from feeling more pain by keeping this from you. But I’ve reached a point where it’s become more painful to lie to you. To not be able to share myself entirely with you, as you have with me.”
He grips my hand tighter. His thumb running over my knuckles, slow and nervous.
“My dad didn’t die of a heart attack,” he says, dropping his gaze and rubbing the back of his neck.
I blink, confused.
“He died in a car crash.”
I press a hand to my chest, aching for him all over again.
“And it’s all my—”
His voice cracks. Tears pool at the corners of his red-rimmed eyes.
“It’s my fault. It’s all my fault.”
“Don’t talk like that,” I whisper, leaning into him, desperate to take his pain away. “You can’t blame—”
He lifts his hand and closes his eyes as if forcing himself to gather the pieces before he shatters.
“I was in the car with him when it happened.”
“What?”
The room tilts around me as pure, unfiltered fear flows through my veins. Just the thought of how close he was to dying himself makes my soul wilt.
He didn’t just survive a tragedy.
He’s still carrying it on his shoulders. Stitched into his skin and written all over his scar.
I inch closer to him, as close as he’ll allow me.
Henry lets out a slow breath and sniffs, swallowing down the tears threatening to break free.
His eyes flutter close for a second, as if throwing down a line to pull out the memories from the darkest part of his mind.
He opens them again, clears his throat. and straightens his posture.
Steeling himself.
“Madison and I had been dating for a while,” he says, his voice cold with a hint of detachment. “She’d introduced me to her parents, but I refused to introduce her to mine. For several reasons. But she kept pushing. Said it made her feel like I wasn’t serious about us. So, eventually, I gave in.
“We planned to have dinner with my parents that day. So Madison met me at the tennis complex where my dad was supposed to pick us up and drive us to the restaurant. My mom was going to meet us there after work.
“My dad arrived on time,” he continues, his voice dipping low. “Showered. Well dressed. And drunk.”
I shake my head and let out a ragged breath through my nose. I can feel Henry’s disappointment. His sadness. The despair bubbling just beneath the surface of his skin.
“I noticed right away,” he goes on. “I knew the signs. Even when he smiled like nothing was wrong. So I offered to drive before he pulled away. But he refused. And I didn’t want to make a scene.
“I thought …” He stops, his throat working. “I thought to myself, well if he made it all the way here, he couldn’t be that drunk. But I was wrong. I knew it the second I sat down. His eyes weren’t right. They never were when he drank. I should’ve made him stop. But I didn’t. I just let him drive.
“I wasn’t sure if Madison was catching on.
I’d never told her my dad had a drinking problem.
All she knew was that he used to play for the Yankees and that my mom worked with my uncle.
I barely talked about my parents with her.
Barely talked about them at all. But as we drove there, my dad started slipping.
Pressing too hard on the brakes. Missing a stop sign. Going a little too fast.