32. Noah
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?
“There must be something.” She hums, giving me a moment to respond. When I don’t, she says, “I’ll go first instead. When I was sixteen, I broke up with my first ever boyfriend. He didn’t like that, so he ran me off the road, which caused me to hit a tree. Got this scar from it.” She tugs the collar of her shirt down an inch or two, showing off the white scar streaking over her neck and disappearing beneath the fabric.
“That’s… wow. I’m sorry that happened to you.”
Iris nods in thanks, though she doesn’t speak again. Probably intent on giving me time to sort out my thoughts.
“I think I’m falling for my daughter’s nanny.” The words are out before I have time to decide whether admitting this could be harmful.
Iris smiles that genuine smile again. “What do you like about her?”
“She’s so sassy.” I can’t help but laugh. “She gives me hell and holds me accountable. She’s beautiful. Inside and out. And my daughter loves her too.”
“She loves her too, huh?” She repeats my words, and only then does the implication of what I’ve said hit me.
And my daughter loves her too.
Too.
Leg bouncing and heart rate picking up, I rub at my jaw. “Yeah, I… uh… I guess I’m already there, huh?”
“It’s possible. But I sense something is holding you back.”
Damn. I realize she’s a professional, but we’ve been talking for five minutes, and she’s already got me mostly figured out. Maybe I should be embarrassed. Instead, I figure if I’ve got to do this, then I should just embrace it and dive in headfirst.
“My wife passed away less than eighteen months ago. I don’t want to move on too quickly.”
“And what’s the definition of ‘too quickly’?” she asks, her expression open. “What may be too fast for one person could be too slow to another. It’s up to each of us to decide what our timelines should look like rather than making choices based on what we worry other people might think.”
“When you put it like that…” Cheeks puffed out, I exhale and lean back, causing my chair to let out an annoyingly loud squeak.
“Don’t allow fear to stop you from living a fulfilling life. At every turn, we’re met with experiences that terrify us, yet most end up being worth the risk, wouldn’t you say?”
She makes valid points. On more than one occasion, even my career scared the shit out of me. Damn. I’m starting to think my team was onto something when they pushed me to try therapy.
We chat for an hour, and though we stick to surface-level topics like Iris promised, the discussion goes a shockingly long way toward making me feel better about meeting with her again.
When I end the video call, I’m wiped. It’s like I’ve just completed the most intense workout of my life, yet I never left this chair. Before we said goodbye, she encouraged me to schedule another session, so we agreed to meet virtually the morning of the Wimbledon final. Honestly, something tells me I’m going to need it.
My phone rings, startling me, and unsurprisingly, Fisher’s name flashes on the screen.
“How did it go with the therapist?” he asks when I answer.
“It was okay.”
“Just okay?”
“Mhm,” I hum, spinning a pen emblazoned with the hotel’s logo between my fingers. “I scheduled another appointment.”
“Oh.” He sounds genuinely surprised. Why is beyond me. There’s no way he would’ve let me stop after one session. “I’m happy to hear that. I also called to let you know that Elias is having surgery this afternoon. He’ll definitely be out the rest of the season.”
My stomach knots painfully. Dammit. “That’s rough for him.”
“He’ll recover,” he says, his tone holding a slight edge of bitterness.
I can only imagine all of this has brought up memories of his own career-ending injury. If he hadn’t been so badly hurt, chances are he’d be playing at Wimbledon now, outshining both Elias and me. His talent is natural and raw and unlike any I’ve seen since.
“Are you up for playing? I thought we could work on some drills one on one.”
“Sure.” I stand and stretch. “Just let me change.”
“I’ll meet you at your room in ten.”
After I’ve donned a fresh set of gym clothes, I snag my hat from the top of the dresser and put it on. A smile spreads across my face unbidden when I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I can’t help but think of Sabrina and her admission about how she likes it when I wear it backward.
After all these years, one would think I’d be sick of the constant training. But as Fisher and I set up at our reserved training court, a wave of determination washes over me. I love the sport. I don’t know who I am without it. I don’t think I’d feel like me if I weren’t playing. Obviously, I can’t do this forever, but for now, I can’t allow myself to think about what my life will look like after I retire.
I’m readying to serve to Fisher, racket in one hand and bouncing the ball with the other, when thoughts of Sabrina round with my child bombard me. The image is jolting enough to disturb my rhythm and cause the ball to roll away.
Shaking my head, I jog after it and swipe it from the ground.
Where the hell did those thoughts come from?
I take a deep breath and blow it out. The last thing I need to be thinking about is my daughter’s nanny carrying my child.
With one more cleansing breath, I serve, hitting the ball with a grunt and sending it flying over the net toward Fisher. He returns it, and I run to my right, splaying my arm out in front of me in order to make contact.
When the ball bounces on his side of the court, he chases after it with a laugh.
Playing like this, with my friend rather than my coach, always lifts my spirits.
We’ve been playing for close to an hour when Maddie and Sabrina appear.
“Daddy!” Maddie shouts, her little feet pounding on the court as she barrels toward me.
I toss my racket down and scoop her up. Sure enough, she’s got a stuffed animal I’ve never seen before dangling from her hand. One I’m fairly certain is either a potato or a bean.
“How’d you guys know we were here?” I ask.
“Fisher.” Sabrina crosses her ankles and drops to the court behind me. She’s wearing some sort of pink athletic dress with gold stitching in a celestial pattern, along with her favorite boots.
“Giving away my location?” I holler across the court.
With a chuckle, my best friend bounces the tennis ball up into the air with his racket over and over. “Yep.”
I set Maddie on her feet, then turn to face Sabrina. “Play with me?”
She purses her full lips and looks from me to Fisher and back again. “I don’t know how to play.”
“All you need to do is hit the ball.”
For now, that’s enough.
With a sigh, she picks up a stray ball and tosses it into the air, then catches it. “You think you have the guts to take all this on?” She gestures to herself.
There’s no stopping my smile as I hold my hands out in front of me like I’m contemplating the size of them. “Yeah, I can handle it.”
Maddie giggles, garnering my attention. “Are you guys flirting?”
Sabrina makes a sound that has me worried she’s choking on air.
“Um…” I scratch the back of my head.
Behind me, Fisher bursts into laughter at the predicament I’ve landed myself in.
“Yeah,” I say, grimacing. “I guess we are.”
“Good.” She gives me a double thumbs-up. “I’m going to sit down.” With that, she skips over to the fence and sits next to Sabrina’s bag, where she digs through the tote until she finds her iPad.
Fisher, whose expression is full of too much amusement, lobs the ball he was using back over the net. “Let’s see what you’ve got, Sabrina.”
Cringing, she clambers to her feet. “Sports aren’t really my thing. I’m not very coordinated.”
I jog after the ball, and once I’ve scooped it up, I circle around to Sabrina. “Don’t worry, Curls. I’ll go easy on you.”
With a sigh, she splays a hand on my abs and pushes. I remain where I am. If she’s trying to push me away, she’ll have to try harder than that.
“Fair warning: I may not be athletic, but I’m insanely competitive.” She does a dramatic hair flip and tosses me a wink over her shoulder, then saunters to the opposite side of the court with an exaggerated sway of her hips.
Fuck. I can’t take my eyes off her.
Fisher steps up beside me and slaps my arm. “You’re so fucked.”
I sigh. “I know.”
Sabrina’s seen me play dozens of times already, so I resist the urge to show off, and rather than go over the rules, I focus on having fun. I toss the ball up and hit it over the net so it bounces in front of her.
It isn’t until it bounces a second time—an out if this were a real game—that her racket makes contact. When the ball hits the net, she groans.
Fisher makes a similar noise. “Please, never let me see you hold a racket like that again,” he says as he strides over to her. “You’re asking for a broken finger.”
“What?” she asks, holding the racket out and inspecting her grip.
“You’re hitting with your finger on the handle like this.” He takes it from her and demonstrates, stretching his index finger along the grip where it meets the shaft. “Fist it?—”
Sabrina interrupts him by breaking into a fit of giggles.
“Jesus.” He pinches his brow. “I see why the two of you like each other. You’re perfect for Noah. You both have the sense of humor of a seventh-grade boy.”
Sabrina holds one arm out and pinches the hem of her skirt in a mock bow. “Thank you.”
“Just hold it like this. Please. I beg of you.” With a shake of the racket, he hands it back to her.
“You’re funny when you’re all flustered,” she calls after him.
He lifts a hand and bats at the air like he’s batting off a mosquito.
“Ready?” I ask her, bouncing the ball in front of me.
“Hit me.”
This time, I hit the ball with a little more force than I intended, and it sails right past her. With a scream, she dives out of the way, but not before it catches the side of her calf.
“Noah!” she yells, bouncing on one foot and holding her leg with her free hand.
I cringe. Shit. She’s going to have a nasty bruise.
“I didn’t mean for you to literally hit me.”
Heart in my throat, I toss my racket to the ground and dart around the net. “It was an accident.”
At her side, I ease her to the ground and crouch low so I can inspect her leg. With a gentle touch, I brush my fingers over the spot.
Rather than recoil or cry out, she shivers.
I arch a brow, lips curving into a smile. “Cold?”
“Yes.” She sniffs, the lie rolling off her tongue easily.
“Hm.” Releasing her, I stand and hold out a hand to help her up. “It’ll bruise, but you’ll be fine.”
“Thanks.”
When she makes it to her feet, she stumbles, but I catch her easily. I lean in to kiss her, but by some miracle, I come to my senses and catch myself before I can make contact. Yes, Maddie has been clear that she wants me to date Sabrina, but she’s eight. She can’t really know what’s best for her. There’s a chance that if this all becomes real in her mind, she’ll be upset. It’s in my best interest and hers not to go all in right in front of her just yet. I want to be sure this thing between us is serious before we tell her.
Sabrina notices my hesitation, her face falling, and steps carefully out of my hold, averting her gaze.
Silently, I curse myself. For all the care and concern I have for my daughter’s feelings, I’ve unintentionally hurt Sabrina’s.
Jesus, I suck at this.
“I think that’s enough for today,” she says, bending at the waist and picking up the racket.
Shit .
Without allowing myself the chance to overthink my actions, I grasp her wrist and pull her to me.
“Wha—” is all she gets out before we collide and I lower my mouth to hers.
The kiss is too short, and I’m left wanting so much more.
“What was that for?” she asks, palm against my heart.
I press my forehead to hers. “I’m far from perfect, and all this is new to me. I don’t know how to navigate all of this while protecting Maddie’s heart, but I don’t want you to think that you’re not important to me.”
Lips pressed into a line, she studies me, her eyes going misty. “I don’t… I’ve never been important to the people who should have cared most about me.” She sniffles. “That’s all I want—to be treated like I matter.”
I hold her gaze, hoping she can see the sincerity in my expression. “You matter to me.”
She has no idea how special she is. In a matter of months and without trying, she’s thawed my grumpy bastard heart and helped my grieving daughter find happiness again.
“Am I?” Her tone is soft and full of vulnerability.
“Yes. Without a doubt.”
Behind me, approaching footsteps have us both turning.
Maddie skids to a stop in front of us. “Can we get ice cream?”
I can’t help but laugh. Here I was worried about how she’d react if she saw me kissing her nanny, and all she cares about ice cream.
“Yeah, Mads.” I ruffle her hair. “Let’s get ice cream.”
With a joyful shout, she darts toward Fisher. “Uncle Fisher, we’re going to get ice cream.”
She takes his hand, and without turning back, she drags him toward the court’s exit.
“That kid,” I mutter, shaking my head. “She knows how to play me.”
Laughing, Sabrina collects a stray ball, then pops back up. “No, you just want her to be happy, so you say yes to everything she asks for.”
I humph. “Are you saying I spoil her?”
She shrugs and absentmindedly rubs at her leg.
My heart sinks. Shit. Feeling awful, I make a mental note to snag the arnica gel from my bag and apply it to her calf.
“Some might call it that,” she says. “But I think you just love her and feel bad that you can’t always be around.”
“I do,” I admit. “I hate that I can’t be there for her all the time. I wonder every day if I’m making the right choice by continuing to play tennis.”
“You are. I promise,” Sabrina assures me. “Maddie still has you and Fisher and Ebba.”
“And you,” I add.
She smiles up at me. “Yeah, she’s got me too.”
I pack up the rackets and extra balls, then take Sabrina’s hand and lead her toward the parking lot.
Though she tries to hide it, she can’t wipe the smile from her face. She wouldn’t have any doubts about my feelings if she knew how much I love her already, but I’m too scared to say those three little words. Soon, though, I will. I don’t know how long I can hold them back now that I’ve admitted it to myself.