Chapter 30
NO ONE FUCKING ELSE’S
I DROP my racket before the ball bounces twice, my legs propelling me forward before I can think. Henry’s already halfway over the railing, vaulting down the steps like a man possessed.
I won.
The crowd erupts, wildly shouting my name from every corner of the stands.
I run to him, the world blurring around me.
We crash into each other at the edge of the court and it’s a tangle of arms and laughter and something so big it nearly knocks the breath out of me. He lifts me off the ground and says, “You played out of your fucking mind!”
I throw my head back and laugh, goosebumps barreling through my body.
The euphoria after a win is intoxicating and addictive.
He puts me down gently.
“You’ve brought me this far, Coach,” I remind him. And it’s true. Henry brought a new energy—a new life to my craft.
His smile falters for a second, but he squeezes my arms and says, “You’re not just picking up a trophy today.
You’re walking away with 280 points that could bump you a few spots in the seedings come Madrid.
This matters. And I’m so fucking proud of you.
Now go shake your opponent’s hand like a good girl. ”
I stick my tongue out to him, walking a few steps back. Then I rush toward the sideline to shake Anastasia Pavlyuchenkova’s hand, congratulating her on the fantastic performance.
She gave me a run for my money.
And just like that, the hours melt away.
The rest of the day slips by in a rush.
Court interviews. Trophy ceremony. Press conferences. Hurrying back to the hotel to get ready for dinner. FaceTiming Dad. And Drew. And Gemma. Reading Robbie’s texts. Reading my mom’s, who is asking for a good bottle of tequila, which, yeah, no.
It’s a lot.
But I’m happy and grateful for my first win of the season, and so ready to bring another trophy home.
The night winds down slowly.
Henry and I return to the hotel after having dinner with my cousins at El Mirador. It was a magical evening full of congratulations, shared smiles, and delicious food. We’re exhausted. Happy. But ready for bed.
We have an early flight tomorrow morning, and the transportation will be waiting for us downstairs at 3:00 a.m. That means Henry’s airport anxiety should be kicking in any second now.
Henry swipes the room card and nudges the door open, his hand brushing lightly against the small of my back, sending sparks straight through me.
“Oh, my God!”
The first thing that grabs my attention is a beautiful, glossy black vase on the table, overflowing with at least one hundred red roses.
It comes with a card and a white box tied with a delicate baby blue ribbon. My trophy sits proudly next to this setup, reminding me why I fell in love with this dream in the first place.
I bolt to see who they’re from.
“They’re probably Dad’s,” I say, plucking the envelope and pulling it open to read the card.
Para la jugadora más necia de todas.
Estoy muy orgulloso de ti.
?Felicidades!
Love,
-Henry
“Henry,” I say, feeling myself thawing on the floor. “You sent these?”
He nods, taking a few slow steps my way, his hands tucked inside his pants pockets.
I’ve been foaming at the mouth since he walked out of the bathroom earlier, all dressed up in a white polo shirt tucked inside a pair of pristine navy-blue slacks, drenched in cologne, and in no way helping my heart rate.
“Thank you. They’re gorgeous.” I say, my voice slightly shaking with nerves. “What’s this?” I lift the white box, reading the round sticker on the bottom right corner: El Puro Cielo.
The way he keeps looking at me makes me weak in the knees.
“Open it,” he says. “I’ve been told they’re the best in town.”
“Let me guess. Lydia?” I chuckle, and he laughs.
“Yes, Lydia.”
I tug on the silky ribbon and crack open the lid to find three extra-large chocolate chip cookies, the kind I’ve been craving all week.
But what does this all mean? Henry has never sent me flowers before. This is my first win since he became my coach, so that must be it. This is his way of celebrating and showing me how proud he is. He says so in the card.
But these are a million freaking red roses.
I slam the brakes.
It’s gotten me nowhere thinking like this in the past. He’s just being nice and supportive.
“Thanks, Coach,” I murmur, giving him a soft punch on the arm.
He smiles. But there’s something tight in it. Something that makes my chest seize for reasons I refuse to examine too closely.
“Now go pack my bags while I get ready for bed,” I order playfully.
We made a bet last night that if I won, he’d do the packing for me. If I lost, I had to grant him one favor of his choosing. Anytime. No questions asked. And now I’ll be flying blind, not knowing what kind of favor he would have wanted to cash in.
I grab a fresh set of pajamas and flee to the bathroom. It’s the only thing I can do to avoid overthinking Henry’s gesture.
Hide.
I close the door, lean back against it, and shut my eyes. As I take a deep, calming breath that does nothing to stabilize me, a few thoughts come pouring to the front of my mind.
Your dad would kill me if he found out.
We can’t. Not now. Not like this.
I made Joe a promise, Bells.
We’re like brother and sister.
I’m delusional.
Sighing, I peel off my clothes and slip into my soft pajama shorts and an oversized, worn-out T-shirt that hangs off one shoulder. I try to shake off the whirlpool of emotions Henry’s stirred up, clinging to the simple, mechanical steps of getting ready for bed.
Brushing my teeth.
Washing my face.
Pretending I’m fine.
My muscles hum with soreness and pride, a slow, grounding reminder of everything I accomplished today. Of the things I should focus on instead.
I step out of the bathroom barefoot, fully expecting Henry to be zipping up suitcases, checking his phone, or counting down the minutes until we have to be packed and ready to leave.
Instead, I catch him sitting on the edge of the bed, his palms pressed on the mattress beside him like he’s ready for a GQ photoshoot.
Frozen.
Watching me with a disorienting calm.
Mercy.
“Chop! Chop!” I tease, attempting to lighten the thick, charged air. He doesn’t laugh. He just keeps staring. “Why aren’t you packing? We have to be downstairs in less than four hours.”
Henry stands and moves toward me, slow and sure, like a man stepping into something sacred. Or like he’s about to wreck both our realities and can’t make himself care anymore.
I don’t move.
I don’t breathe.
I don’t fucking think.
He stops in front of me, all six feet and two and a half inches of him towering over me, so close I can feel the heat radiating off his body.
“I can’t do it.” His voice is a whisper, a broken confession.
I blink up at him, confused, my mouth dry, my pulse thundering in my ears. Refusing to let my heart betray logic. It’s the only thing that’s kept me sane since he came back into my life.
“Don’t worry,” I say. “I know it’s late. I’ll help you pack.”
He shakes his head. Takes another step. Tucks my hair behind my ears and cups my face like I’m something precious.
“I want you, Bells,” he rasps, the words scraped from somewhere deep inside him. “I need you. I always have. And it’s been killing me to keep pretending otherwise. To keep pushing you away because I’m too fucking scared to ruin the one thing I can’t live without.”
For a long, shivering moment, we do nothing but stand there, breathing each other in.
“And don’t you dare tell me I haven’t hurt you,” he says, wrecked. “I know I did. I know exactly how it felt. I’ve lived with it every goddamn day since.”
He falters, like it physically hurts to keep talking.
“I’m done second-guessing myself when it comes to you. The only way I feel happy and whole and fucking alive is when I’m near you. And I’ll take whatever you’re willing to give me. But I hope …”
He leans down slowly, giving me every chance to pull away.
“I hope it’s not too late. And that you still want me that way.”
I fist his shirt and stand on tiptoe to reach for him like I might never get the chance again.
Openly.
Freely.
Reciprocal.
He meets me halfway, taking my mouth like he’s been starving for this.
For me. His fingers dig into my thighs as he lifts me off the floor.
I lock my legs around his waist. There’s no patience left, only wild, gasping collisions.
Only desperate hands and frantic hearts, crashing through every wall we ever built between us.
Our kisses are messy and aching, like we’re racing against time. Like this moment might slip through our fingers if we don’t hold on to it.
“Be mine,” he says against my throat, his voice hoarse with need and fear and something … deeper. “Say yes,” he pleads into my ear, every nerve-ending rioting from being deprived of this feeling for so long. “Because I can’t be anyone else’s.”
He carries me to the bed and slowly lowers me onto it.
“I’ve always been yours,” he says, lifting the hem of my T-shirt and pressing soft, worshipful kisses to my stomach, tracing patterns with his lips as if memorizing every inch of me in case the world rips me away from him tomorrow.
I throw my head back, relishing the feeling of his hot mouth on me. Sucking, biting, kissing. And the words he mutters against my skin like a prayer.
“You’re mine?” I weave my fingers through his hair and toy with it.
He slides over me, leveling his face with mine.
“No one.” He grabs my wrist.
“Fucking.” Brings it to his lips.
“Else’s.” And kisses it, making my chest clench up.
“Will you put me out of my misery?” He pulls up my t-shirt, gathering it roughly in one hand, exposing one of my breasts, and running his tongue around the nipple.
He lets out a soft, guttural sound.
“God, you’re perfect.”
“I’m yours.” As I always have been.
He smiles and buries his face in the crook of my neck.
There’s no me without Henry. There never has been. I tried existing in a world where he wasn’t a part of it, and I was failing at it. Horribly. Miserably.
Until he came back.
It’s like my soul doesn’t know how to live without him.
“Tell me to stop and I’ll do it,” he says, sliding my t-shirt over my head. Tossing it aside.
“Don’t,” I whisper, raw and certain, leaving no room for doubt. “I want you. All of you.”
I might pass out from the need alone if I can’t have him.
Grabbing the hem of his shirt, I yank it over his head, tossing it aside like I might combust if I don’t claim him the way he’s claiming me.
“Take these off,” I mutter, hooking my fingers into the waistband of his pants, urgency dripping from every word. “Please.”
“Greedy little thing,” he groans, kneeling over me, his knees bracketing my hips as he pops the button of his pants and drags the zipper down. I help shove them off with my foot, desperate, both of us laughing quietly into the chaos of it.
“Do you have a condom?” I ask, feeling safe and ready. For this. For him.
I’ll shrivel up and die if he doesn’t.
He freezes and blinks once.
“I … yeah. I do.” He laughs quietly and a little awkward. “I don’t usually—fuck. I didn’t think I’d actually need it. I packed one and tried not to think about it.”
“I know,” I cut in, already smiling. “Shut up. It’s okay.”
His shoulders drop with relief, and his forehead touches mine. He cradles my face like he’s still catching up to the moment.
“I’ve never done it before,” I say, terrified. Excited. “And I want it to be you.”
Henry goes perfectly still. Doesn’t blink. Doesn’t breathe. Like I just knocked the air out of his lungs.
“Jesus Christ, Bells,” he whispers. “You have no idea what you’re doing to me.”
He kisses me, his tongue parting my lips in a swift, tender stroke that dissolves me in his arms.
He breaks off the kiss and pulls back to look me dead in the eyes.
“I swear I’ll take care of you,” he says. “I’ll go slow. I’ll stop if you even look at me wrong.”
“Okay,” I whisper back. “I know. I’m ready.”
“Then I’ll spend the rest of my life making sure you never regret it.”
I press my palm to his chest, feeling the wild beat of his heart matching my own, and kiss him again. The world tilts off its axis until there’s nothing left but the feel of his whispered promises sinking into me.
Nothing left but him and me.
“I love you,” he says, sliding my shorts down my legs. “So fucking much.”
And for once, we don’t hold anything back at all.
We stop building walls. We tear them down, every last brick, every last fear.
“I love you,” I gasp, his touch, his weight against mine, dragging me under like a riptide. “Don’t you dare leave me again.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t survive it.”