Chapter 32
NOAH
Elias is going to beat me. I’m one game away from the finals match, and I’m going to lose. At this point, there is no way to turn this game in my favor. Even though we’ve been training together here and there, he’s still better on grass than I am.
He slides across the court and sends the ball back my way. I nearly trip over my own feet as I lunge for it. I miss, but it doesn’t matter.
“Out!”
At least that’s a point in my favor.
During this stage of the Grand Slam tournament, the stands are packed. Though it may have more to do with Elias. He always draws a good crowd. I have to give him credit there. He’s young and charismatic, naturally drawing people to him.
I reset myself, preparing for his next serve. There’s no doubt in my mind it’ll be vicious. Elias isn’t one to cut a person slack, even a friend.
The ball soars my way, and I dive for it.
Fuck yeah. It flies back over the net. He’s ready for it, sprinting forward.
Shit. He’s preparing for one of his infamous drop shots.
After all the time we’ve spent together, I recognize the move.
It’s one of the skills that makes him so hard to beat.
Somehow, I manage to get it and slam it back over to his side of the court.
He runs backward, eyes on the ball, pulling his arm back to hit it.
As if the world has slowed, I can see his every move. His arm is suspended in air, one foot raised. When it comes down, though, it tangles with his other foot, and he goes down hard. He cries out in pain, rolling onto his back, and clutches his knee.
No.
Any athlete in my place would want to win. But I’d never want it to be because my opponent is injured.
Elias rocks back and forth, grunting and holding his shin. A whistle blows and the umpire climbs down from his stand. Tossing my racket, I leap over the net and run to my friend’s side.
“What is it? Your knee?”
With a nod, he hisses through his teeth. “Fuck, I think it’s torn.”
Fuck is right. If the tear is bad enough, he could be out for the rest of the season, maybe longer.
The medics appear, but rather than back off, I loop Elias’s arm over my shoulder and help him up and over to his chair.
As I step back, he looks up at me, the pain in his eyes unmistakable.
Nausea roils in my gut.
Injuries are par for the course in any pro athlete circuit. They’re an inevitability. Even so, I can’t stand to watch someone suffer.
When the medic instructs him to stretch his leg out, he complies but immediately cries out in pain.
Not good. Not good. Not good.
It’s not my job to help; I need to get the hell out of their way. But the need to support him has me nearly crawling out of my skin. I don’t like feeling helpless.
Helplessness was my constant companion when Annie was battling cancer. If I could avoid spending another second in that damn feeling’s company, I would.
At a loss for what to do to ease his suffering, I grab a water bottle from his cooler and crack the lid. He takes it gratefully and sips slowly, his eyes smashed shut. As he lowers the bottle, he peers up at me. The pain radiating from him tells me he knows this is bad.
The umpire calls a medical timeout, and Elias is carried to his training room so he can be examined. I drop into my chair and sip my own water, then force myself to take a few bites of banana.
Several minutes later, when we haven’t received news, I get up, unable to sit still and knowing that if he comes back, I need to be ready to go.
It’s futile, though. My gut tells me he’s done for now.
An injury to the knee like that can be overcome, though it’s usually not worth the risk of making it worse.
Eventually, we’re told that Elias has to retire from the game.
I hang my head and let out a silent curse. I wanted to go to the final, no doubt about that, but not like this.
Chest tight with dread, I gather my stuff up and step aside for my on-court interviews.
“Noah.” A microphone is shoved my way. “How are you feeling?”
I rub the back of my neck and survey my surroundings. “Terrible, honestly. None of us likes to see another injured. I hope it’s nothing too serious and Elias can recover quickly. But I’m certainly looking forward to the final.”
“You already have one Wimbledon win under your belt. How confident are you that you can pull off another?”
I shrug. “It’s impossible to predict what’s going to happen out on the court. Today’s instance is a perfect example of that. But I’ve been training hard and running more, so I’m feeling good.”
When the interview is over, I heft my bag over my shoulder and wave to the crowd. A few people boo, but I don’t let them get to me. It’s not my fault Elias got injured.
Since I’m heading into the final, it means I have a few more interviews before I can hit the showers and meet with my team.
“Is Elias still here?” I ask Fisher as we walk out of our designated training room.
He shakes his head. “No, he was taken to the hospital.”
My stomach bottoms out. “Fuck. That bad, huh?”
Fisher nods solemnly. “Nothing he can’t recover from, but he’ll be out for a while.”
I shake my head. At the level we’re playing at, a full recovery will be a challenge. Injuries bad enough to send a pro athlete to the hospital tend to remain their weak spots for the rest of their careers.
“My guess is he’ll have surgery as soon as possible.”
With a grunt, I rub a hand over my jaw. “Jeez.”
“I know.” Wetting his lips, he peers at Ebba, who’s striding toward us. “Hey,” he says to her. “How are you?”
She stumbles for a moment before catching herself. “I’m okay.” Her tone is softer than usual, and if I’m not mistaken, she’s drinking Fisher in.
Breath held, I look back and forth between them. Sabrina asked about the two of them but didn’t elaborate. Does she know something I don’t?
“Keep us updated on your brother. Okay?” He reaches out like he wants to touch her. At the last second, though, he drops his arm to his side.
“I will.” She forces a smile. “See you around, Noah. Good luck if I don’t see you before your game.”
I nod, lips pressed together. “Thanks. I hope Elias has an easy recovery.”
“Me too.”
With that, she speed-walks away from us. It’s a massive feat considering how high her heels are.
When she steps out of the building, I smack Fisher’s chest with the back of my hand. “What the fuck was that?”
“What was what?” He throws his arms out, the move so wild I’m shocked I don’t catch a stray hand to the face.
“That.” I point to the door Ebba stepped through a moment ago.
“Nothing. We were just talking.”
I squint at my so-called best friend. “There were weird vibes.”
He scoffs, arms crossed. “There were no vibes. You’re insane.”
“I might be insane, but I’m not stupid.” It’s not my most clever comeback, but it does make Fisher deflate a little.
“We had a thing … a long time ago, okay?”
I puff out a breath like I’ve been punched in the gut. “And you never told me?”
He presses his lips together. “We figured it was better to keep it to ourselves, since you and Elias are rivals. It’s a good thing we did, too, since it didn’t go anywhere.”
“I can’t believe this.” Head lowered, I tug at my hair.
Fisher groans. “See why I didn’t tell you now? You’re so dramatic.”
“Me?” I bring a hand to my chest, brows raised. “Dramatic? How dare you?”
He guffaws. “God, you’re fucking annoying. Anyway,” he says, dragging the word out. “Now you know, and please, I’m begging you, don’t bring it up again.”
Fighting a grin, I mime zipping my lips. I don’t, however, make any kind of promise that I won’t bring it up again.
“Go shower.” Fisher shoves me, then wanders away. “You stink.”
The Wimbledon grand slam final is days away. From now until then, I have nothing to do but rest and train. Though my body needs it, the time off allows for my mental state to deteriorate.
I did, however, give in and let my team set up an appointment with a therapist. As I log on for my first session, I’m still not convinced it’ll help in the slightest. But if I bail, my team will know and give me shit.
Rather than the old dude in a sweater I expect to appear on the screen, when the meeting begins, I come face to face with a middle-aged woman with vibrant red hair and large purple glasses.
“Hello,” she says in a polite but neutral tone. “I’m Dr. Booth. Please, call me Iris.”
Iris. The name suits the woman who, from what I can tell by her top and the wall behind her, has eclectic taste.
“I’m Noah.” The words come out ragged, so I clear my throat and try again. “My … uh … my team set this up, so I’m not really sure what I’m supposed to do.”
Her responding smile is patient and kind. Fuck, I hate to admit it, but her serene demeanor already makes me feel at ease.
“No problem, Noah. For now, we won’t dive into anything in detail. This first appointment is more of a get-to-know you session. I’ll ask questions that will help me decide where to go from here, and you’re welcome to ask me questions too.”
“Okay.” I rub my hands together beneath the desk in my hotel room. Sabrina took Maddie out for the day, and I can all but guarantee they’ll come back with another half dozen stuffed animals.
“Why don’t you tell me something about yourself?” She picks up a brightly colored mug and brings it to her mouth.
“Well, I’m a tennis player.”
Her lips curve in an amused smile. “Tell me something I can’t find myself with a quick Google search.”
Hands suddenly damp, I straighten and rub them down my thighs. “Uh … I … I don’t know.”
It feels like the most important details of my life can be found on the internet, and how strange is that? To have all the important parts of one’s existence so easily searchable by anyone with a computer?