33. Sabrina
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.
“You did it, Dad!” she yells, clinging to him, her face alight. “I knew you could.”
“Thanks, Mads.” He sets her down and turns every ounce of his attention on me. “Come here, Curls.”
Nothing could prepare me for the kiss.
Right here, for the world to see, he takes my face in his hands and kisses me. He kisses me like he’s dying and my mouth is the only thing that can save him. The kiss isn’t chaste. No, it’s full of intensity, full of… feelings. I refuse to call it love. Not yet.
I’m thoroughly breathless when he presses his sweaty forehead to mine.
“Hi,” he says, giving me a crooked grin.
“Hi,” I say back, my brain sputtering with static.
“I won.”
“You did.”
He kisses me again, this one a quick peck, and then he’s gone, heading back down to the court.
When he stands on the stage and holds the trophy aloft, I burst into tears. And to think just seven months ago I thought he was insufferable.
When it’s his turn to speak, I’m a blubbering mess.
“This was a hard-fought win. Every day, I’ve worked to get to this place,” he says into the mic. “I can’t begin to put into words what this moment means to me. For the two years I couldn’t tour, I felt as though I was missing a vital organ. When I returned, I wasn’t sure I’d ever play the same. But if anything, I’m playing better. And maybe it’s because of the time off. Because I came back more determined than ever.” He clears his throat. “I want to thank Damian. That was a hell of a game. You were incredible. Truly. Everyone, give this guy some love.”
The crowd obeys, and when we quiet down, he goes on.
“I want to thank all the people who work hard to make this event what it is. The ball boys and ball girls that are out here day in and day out. I also want to thank my team. This win might mean even more to them than it does to me. They’ve seen me at my worst and they encouraged me every step of the way as I climbed my way back to the top.
“I want to thank my daughter. Maddie Girl, you are the light of my life. I’m so proud to be your father and I can’t wait to see what sticker you have picked out for me. I want to thank my… Sabrina. I’m not easy to deal with, but you barged your way into my life and you haven’t taken no for an answer. You…” He rubs at his mouth. “You’ve brought me back to life, whether you realize it or not.”
Suddenly, my image appears on the screen, startling me. I want to melt beneath the scrutiny. With a smile that looks more like a grimace, I lift my hand in an awkward wave that brings out a chorus of laughter. My cheeks heat. Dammit. I hope they find this endearingly amusing, but I’m not sure I could blame them if they’re laughing at me.
“And last,” Noah says, bringing all attention back to himself, thank God. “I want to thank the people here today for keeping the energy up. Without you, I don’t think I would have had the drive to keep going. Thank you.” He tips his head.
As Noah leaves the stage, Fisher turns to me and shakes my shoulder. “How are you holding up after that?”
A peal of uncomfortable laughter escapes me.
He chuckles. “That well, huh?”
“Just about. Come on. Let’s go.” I take Maddie’s hand, scared I’ll lose her in the crowd as we navigate to a more private space.
When we reach a long hall for staff only, she reaches into her pocket and pulls out a handful of stickers.
“Which one do you think I should give Dad?”
I pick through her selection until I find a pink tennis ball holding an orange racket with Tennis Champ scrawled above it. “How about this one?”
“Perfect.” She clamps her hand closed and shoves the rest into her pocket. When she put the dress on this morning, the first thing she did was shove her hands in and say, “It has pockets!”
Of course she did. She’s a girl. It’s what we do.
When we’re escorted into one of the lounge rooms, Noah is nowhere to be seen. My hands still tremble from the adrenaline rush that hit me when he won. Willing them to steady, I smooth them over my dress—a pink and purple floral design that Maddie said made me look like a lollipop.
Within minutes, Noah appears. His coaches and trainers break into a round of applause and rush forward to hug him and shower him in compliments.
When the crowd around him breaks apart, he emerges from it with a smile so large I feel like I’m being warmed by the sun.
He kneels, opening his arms wide for Maddie to run into.
“I’m so proud of you.” She throws her arms around his neck.
With his eyes closed like he’s trying to memorize the moment, he squeezes her back.
She lets him go, but only so she can peel the backing off her sticker of choice and press it to his shirt.
He looks down at it, his grin widening. “Tennis Champ?”
With a shrug, she crumples the backing paper in her fist. “Yeah. You won. You’re the champ.” She pats his chest and gives him a placating smile.
“Thanks, Mads.” He kisses her cheek. “I love you.”
She loops her arms over his shoulders again and kisses his cheek in return. “I love you too, Daddy.”
He leans in close, whispers in her ear, then stands and strides over to me where I stand in the corner, wringing my hands and willing the butterflies in my stomach to settle. I don’t know if I’ll ever recover from the scrutiny I was under when every camera zoomed in on me.
He steps up to me, his smile turning shy. Boyish, even.
“I didn’t mean to embarrass you out there.”
“I wasn’t embarrassed,” I scoff.
He chuckles. “I saw your face on the screen. You were definitely embarrassed.”
I drop my head and blow out a breath. “It was surreal and a little scary, I guess, having all those cameras pointed at me.”
“It’s okay.” He cups my cheek, gently forcing me to lift my head. “As long as you know I meant every word.”
With a groan, I look away. “Don’t you dare make me cry. I’ll never forgive you.”
“I can’t have that, now, can I?” He hovers closer and presses a kiss to my cheek. “I have interviews to get to,” he says as he slowly backs away. “I’ll see you later. All right?”
“All right.”
With one last hug for Maddie, he’s gone, and within minutes, the room empties out.
When it’s only the two of us and Fisher, he points to the TV mounted on the wall. “You two are welcome to stay here and watch, or you can head back to the hotel. Or maybe go on an adventure.”
I turn my attention to the girl at my side. “What do you want to do?”
Head tilted back, she grins. “Let’s hang out here for a while.” She whirls around and hops onto the couch, quickly making herself comfortable.
Fisher turns the TV on, then heads for the door. “I’ll be back in a bit.”
I eye the couch, wishing I had comfy clothes to change into, then decide to check out the snack table before I join Maddie.
“Do you want anything?” I ask as I pick up a paper plate.
“Just water.” She keeps her attention focused on the TV, clearly anxious for any sign of her father.
I sit beside her, balancing my plate on my knees, and pass her one of the water bottles. When I unscrew the cap on the other and bring it to my lips, it hits me just how thirsty I am. For hours, I was so focused on the game I forgot about everything else, even basic needs like hydration.
The longer I sit, the drowsier I become. Clearly, the adrenaline has worn off, and I feel as though I’m crashing. I can’t imagine how it affects Noah, though he’ll probably be riding the high for days. Two hours later, the interviews are over, and Fisher returns. “Noah’s got a few more things to do, but you might as well head back to the hotel.”
“Did you hear that?” I stand and gather my things, as well as Maddie’s. “Let’s bounce.”
Unbothered, she runs over to the snacks table and snags a piece of chocolate.
“Be safe,” Fisher says as he loads us into a waiting car.
Then we’re off. It takes real effort to keep my eyes open on the short ride to the hotel, but we’re both still awake when the car pulls up out front.
I’m just slipping out of my boots when my phone rings. Certain it’s Lucy, I answer without looking at the screen.
“Sabrina.” At the sound of the voice on the other end—a voice that is definitely not Lucy’s—cold slithers down my spine.
“Yes?” I reply in the sassiest tone I can muster. I’m so sick of the way my parents randomly crawl out of the woodwork and disrupt my happiness.
“Bagged yourself a rich one, didn’t you?” my mother says. “Bet you’re real pleased with yourself.” Her words are slurred, making it obvious she’s drunk, even though it’s only early afternoon in the States.
“Mom,” I snap, grateful Maddie headed straight for the shower. “Why does it matter to you? You’re not in my life. You’ll never be in my life again. Who I may or may not be dating is none of your business.”
“I’m your mother. That makes it my business.”
“No.” My tone is lethal, strong enough to cut like a knife. This is the way I’ve wished I could speak to her for years. For so long, I’ve wanted to stick up for myself, but it’s always been easier to keep the peace. “Being my mother meant you were supposed to take care of me. It meant you were supposed to keep me safe, feed me. You did none of that. I don’t owe you anything.”
She sputters, but before she can form a retort, I hang up and block her number like I should have years ago. Then I do the same with my dad’s. I didn’t want to do it before, but that naive little girl inside me who desperately wanted an apology and acknowledgment has finally given up. I’m done holding out hope that they’ll come begging for my forgiveness because I’ve finally realized that they don’t want it.
I collapse onto the bed, blowing out a breath of air I had trapped in my lungs.
And then I laugh.
I’m free.