Chapter 33
SAbrINA
As the tournament has progressed, the crowds have grown, but none have come close to comparing to this.
There’s not one empty seat available as Maddie and I head to the section reserved for Noah’s team and guests.
I’m sweating so badly already that my sunglasses keep sliding down my nose.
I can’t imagine what it’s going to feel like for Noah and his opponent—a German player in his late twenties.
“Is it normal for me to feel this nervous?” I ask Fisher when we’re seated beside him in the players box.
“Yes,” he answers without any sort of hesitation. “I threw up this morning.”
Eyes wide, I inspect him, waiting for him to break into a grin. Instead, he remains serious.
“Oh.” That’s the only response I can come up with.
I wish Ebba was here. We don’t always sit together, but when we do, we have a blast. Today, she’s with Elias, right where she should be, while he recovers from surgery.
“Do you think he can win?”
It’s not that I doubt Noah’s abilities. I’m just new to all this, so I don’t know the first thing about the other players and their strengths and weaknesses. And now that I know that even the court type has an effect on play, I’m more lost than I was before.
Fisher rubs his stubbled jaw. “I think that because of his play style, he has a better chance. But in tennis, anything can happen.”
“Is he nervous?”
Fisher tilts his head left and then right in consideration. “I think so, but he talked to his therapist this morning, so I’m hoping that helped.”
I straighten, frowning in confusion. I’ve been traveling with him for months, and this is the first I’m hearing of therapy. “Therapist?”
His eyes widen. “He didn’t tell you. We”—he points to Terese and Pierce—“made him after his meltdown at the cinch Championship.”
“I had no idea,” I breathe, hoping Fisher doesn’t detect the echo of hurt in my tone. Therapy is a very personal thing. I get that. And our relationship is new. Even so, it stings a bit to find out from Fisher rather than Noah.
“Hey,” he says, his arm brushing mine as he adjusts in his seat. “He just started. I’m sure he’ll tell you soon.”
I wave a hand dismissively. “It’s not a big deal.”
Yes, therapy is a big deal, but he is under no obligation to open up to me about it. For all I know, he plans to mention it to me but isn’t ready just yet. Especially if he was forced into it.
Between one second and the next, the atmosphere in the stadium changes, and I know it’s time for the game to begin.
My heart pounds in my ears as I survey the court. Noah wants this so badly, and I want that for him. He deserves it. Losing the cinch Championship was a blow to his confidence, and this would go a long way in reminding him of how incredible he is.
As they announce him, I sit at the edge of my seat, watching him strut out and wave to the crowd.
He looks incredible in the all-white athletic gear, his hat backward and his dark hair curling around the edges of it.
His face is clean-shaven, making him look younger and even more devastatingly handsome than usual.
Girl, you’re so down bad.
The players shake hands and pose for a photo, and then the coin is tossed. Noah’s opponent, Damian Aberer, according to the video screen, wins and chooses to serve first.
Around me, the crowd is silent. That’s one thing I’ve struggled to get used to. Spectators are expected to keep quiet the majority of the time, especially when the ball is in play. Any sound or movement is highly frowned upon.
The players get their rackets and move into position, and Noah bounces from foot to foot. Even from here, there’s no mistaking the lines of tension bracketing his mouth. At the sight of the deep wrinkle of concentration slices between his brows, I itch to rub it away with my thumb.
You can do this, I chant silently, wishing he could read my thoughts. I know you can.
Beside me, Maddie pokes my knee. “If Daddy loses this time, I don’t think a sticker is going to cut it. I’m not sure even ice cream would cheer him up, so he better win.”
I have to press my lips together to keep from laughing. “Let’s hope for the best. Okay?”
Both hands held up, she crosses her fingers. “I’m crossing my toes too. You just can’t see.”
With a smile at her, I cross my fingers too. “Same.”
The first set lasts nearly an hour, and in the end, Damian comes out on top.
“Don’t let it get to your head,” Fisher murmurs, rubbing his hands together. “You’ve got this.”
During the two-minute rest period between sets, both players sit and take sips of water, and Noah wipes his face and arms with his towel.
God, for his sake I hope he can pull it together during the next set. If he doesn’t, I worry his mood will tank.
When they’re on the court again, a cameraperson zooms in on Noah’s face, and it’s broadcast on the large screen. Maybe it’s wishful thinking, but I swear his expression is more determined than it has been.
When I took this job, I never expected I’d be invested in his career, but I’m growing to enjoy the sport—even if I’m still wrapping my head around how the point system works—and I want to see Noah succeed.
“Forty-love.”
“What does love mean?” I ask Fisher as quietly as I can. “I haven’t figured that out yet.”
“Love means zero.”
“Why not call it zero, then?”
“There are a few theories floating around out there. One of which is that if a player has zero points, then they’re playing for the love of the game, despite the losing score.”
Hmm. I like that.
I’m still smiling when Noah scores his first point of the second set. Instantly, he stands taller, like it’s a much-needed confidence boost for him. From that moment on, he’s a new person. He dominates the set, and in the end comes out on top.
Noah wins the third set as well, but the fourth one comes out in Damian’s favor, forcing the game into a fifth and final set.
“I’m going to be sick,” I say, clutching my stomach.
Fisher grunts like a caveman, looking a little pale himself.
So far, they’ve been evenly matched. Fisher wasn’t kidding when he said anything could happen.
Shit. While I have full faith in Noah, it’s not going to be easy.
By the time the fifth set begins, both men look exhausted. They’ve been playing for hours. Damn. I might run most mornings, but there’s no way I’d have enough stamina to make it through three sets, let alone five.
As they play, the crowd gets a little rowdy. We’re all on the edge of our seats. We’re so vocal, in fact, that we’re scolded by the umpire multiple times. I feel like curling into a ball and rocking back and forth. I don’t think my heart rate has slowed one bit since the game started hours ago.
Please, I beg the universe. Please give him this one. If anyone deserves it, he does. He’s lost so much and worked so hard. Please let him have this.
I might not be a tennis aficionado, but even I had heard of Wimbledon before taking this job. It’s a big freaking deal. If he loses, he’ll be devastated.
Inhaling a deep breath, I sit up straighter and home in on the ball. The rally lasts about eight shots, a longer number than usual, and Damian gets the point.
Come on, Noah. You can do this.
Noah bends at the waist and rocks back and forth as he readies for Damian’s serve. His face is wet with sweat, but he doesn’t seem to notice.
Damian fires off his serve, but it hits the top of the net.
The ball boy sprints onto the court to pick it up, then dashes back to the side.
Damian pulls another ball from his pocket and bounces it.
On screen, he wears a mask of concentration, but I swear his hand shakes, either from nerves or exhaustion.
With a flick of his head to force his blond hair out of his eyes, he tosses the ball.
This one makes it across, and Noah swerves to his right, planting his feet in time to hit it with force.
Those thighs are impressive.
Sabrina! Now is not the time to be checking out your boss’s thighs. Get a grip.
But they are very impressive. Biteable, even.
Noah pulls ahead by two, but minutes later, they’re tied again.
Outside, I’m cool, calm, and collected. At least I think so. Inside? I’m a nervous, anxious wreck.
I take measured breaths, willing my anxiety to abate. When I get like this, I tend to hold my breath, and the last thing I want is to make a scene by fainting.
I can imagine it now: being hauled out of here on a stretcher, Noah freaking out and losing the game because of my inability to control my breathing.
“Are you okay?” Fisher asks, knocking his knee lightly into mine.
“I’m great.”
He gives me a doubtful look. “All right.”
When the game reaches a tie and they’re forced into a tiebreak, I’m fairly certain every person in the stadium is on the edge of their seat.
Every rally, I find myself gripping Fisher’s forearm, my nails digging into his skin. If it bothers him, he doesn’t say. He’s too focused on the game to notice my hold anyway.
I’m sweating profusely; this time it has nothing to do with the temperature and everything to do with my elevated stress levels.
Breathe, I remind myself again. It’s become my mantra, and I find myself so caught up in it that when cheers ring out and Noah collapses onto the court, hands on his face, my heart stops.
“What happened?” I have to shout to be heard over the sudden pandemonium around us.
Fisher stands and yanks me out of my seat. “He did it. He fucking did it.” With a whoop, he throws a fist into the air. When he turns to me, his face is wet with tears. “I knew he could. I fucking knew it.”
“Woo hoo! That’s my dad!” Maddie cheers with her hands cupped around her mouth.
The next thing I know, Noah is getting up from the ground and running toward the crowd. Security meets him as he hurries through the stands and straight for us.
A cameraperson follows closely, documenting his every move.
In less than a minute, he’s there, hugging his coaches and moving down the line toward Maddie and me. He picks his little girl up and hugs her tight.