Chapter 19
Sloane pulled into the parking space at Belmond Le Manoir aux Quat'Saisons first. I eased in beside her, killed the engine, and slipped out of my car. Slinging my messenger bag over one shoulder, I circled to the trunk to collect my luggage.
A pair of hotel staff approached with warm greetings. I gave them a polite nod before moving to Sloane's side, taking her suitcase from her hand and passing it to one of the porters. As they wheeled our bags away, Sloane reached for my injured hand.
I'd grown accustomed to her doing this—her habit of performing affection in public. I told myself I didn't mind, but somewhere deeper, I ached for it to be real.
"We still have an hour before the reunion," Sloane said as we walked toward the entrance. "Want to take a nap first? Four hours on the road has to be tiring."
I simply shook my head in response as we were ushered toward the reception. Sloane still hadn't let go of my hand as she handled our reservation. She signed the form gracefully, smiling at the receptionist before accepting the brass keys.
"Aren't you hungry?" I asked as we started up the grand staircase to the first floor. "We could order breakfast service, or grab something before heading to the tennis club."
She shook her head lightly, then offered me one of the keys. I accepted it with my free hand as we stopped before our rooms—neighbors, side by side. "Let's grab a quick breakfast before the club," she said with a small smile, unlocking her door.
I nodded and opened mine as well. A porter carried in my luggage, then left me alone with a quiet bow.
Setting my bag on the couch, I crossed to the window and pulled back the curtains. The Oxford countryside stretched out in soft, familiar hues. A smile tugged at my lips.
"How long has it been, Oxford? Twelve years?" I murmured, the words barely more than a whisper to myself.
I paused, exhaling sharply, before settling onto the couch and opening my messenger bag for fresh bandages. Carefully, I unwrapped the old dressing, replacing it with a waterproof one. The discarded strip landed in the bin with a soft thud.
In the bathroom, I tossed my used clothes into the laundry basket, then stepped under the shower. Warm water spilled over me, and I winced as it struck tender patches of skin. Tilting my head back, I let it run through my hair, sighing when the heat eased the sting in my arm.
When I finished, I dabbed my burns dry with slow precision, wrapped myself in a robe, and towel-dried my hair. As I fumbled for the ointment in my kit, a soft knock startled me.
Sighing, I rose and peeked through the peephole. Sloane. I opened the door. "Hey," I greeted, taking in her outfit.
She gave me a squinting look before stepping past me into the room. "You know you shouldn't just—" She stopped, rolled her eyes at my bandaged hand. "Come here."
She pulled me to the couch, nudged me down, and set her duffle bag on the coffee table. Sitting beside me, she lifted my injured hand and rested it on her lap.
My gaze trailed over her—chic leather biker jacket over a cashmere sweater, slim black jeans, ankle boots. Her hair was pulled into a neat bun.
"You look beautiful," I blurted before I could stop myself. Heat rushed to my face, and I cleared my throat, looking away.
She scoffed but didn't respond. Her hands were steady as she examined my injury. "Will you be able to play like this?"
The skin was healing slowly but steadily. "I'll try, if it doesn't hurt too much. Or maybe I'll just watch you play."
She hummed, smoothing topical cream over the burn. "Don't force it. Or switch to your right hand if you must." She shrugged, finishing the bandage that stretched from my arm down to my hand.
I only nodded, letting her work.
"There," she said. "Now, go get dressed. Didn't you say we'd get breakfast first?"
"Right." I stood, grabbing clothes from my luggage, and slipped into the bathroom.
When I returned, dressed in casual wear, Sloane was still lounging on the couch, back turned. I bent to lace up my combat boots, tucking the hem of my jeans inside, then tied my hair into a high ponytail. "I'm ready."
She glanced over her shoulder, brow arched. "Don't forget your duffle bag."
I hummed and slung the strap over my shoulder. From my luggage, I pulled out a wool overcoat—something Sloane might need later. Then I picked up her duffle bag too.
She gave me a look, shook her head, and rose to her feet.
"Let's go," I said with a smile.
She nodded, and together we left the room. I flicked off the light, locked the door, and followed her out toward the parking lot.
At her car, she slid into the driver's seat while I placed her duffle bag in the back. "Oh, right—take this too," I said, lifting my overcoat before laying it carefully beside her things. "Your leather jacket might not be enough when it gets colder."
Closing the door, I stepped to her side. She rolled the window down and motioned for me to lean in. The moment I did, she caught me off guard—her lips brushed mine in a quick kiss. My heartbeat stumbled into chaos.
I blinked at her, stunned.
"Now, genius, go get in your car," she said, starting the engine. "You're the one who knows where we're eating."
"Right, right," I muttered, hurrying to my car. I tossed my bag in the passenger seat, slid in behind the wheel, and buckled up. Honking once, I pulled out of the lot. She followed, her headlights trailing close behind.
The drive was short—about twenty minutes to Oxford Brunch Bar, enough for a quick meal before the reunion. I parked out front, killed the engine, and stepped out just as she switched hers off.
I waited by the entrance until she joined me. Opening the door, I let her step inside first before following. We found a free table, and I pulled out a chair for her before taking the seat across.
"Want your usual?" I asked, smiling. "Like the old days?"
Sloane tilted her head, elbow propped on the table, chin resting in her palm. Her eyes lingered on me with quiet curiosity. "It's surprising you still remember what I like."
I gave a small smile and stood. "Wait here—I'll order."
At the counter, I asked for her favorite—the Sunshine Plate—and my own, the Breakfast Brioche. When I returned with the trays, she was gazing out the window, lost in thought.
"Here's your breakfast, Sloey," I said, sliding her plate in front of her.
"Thanks." She straightened, cutlery in hand. "So... what's the plan? Should we fake it—just exes? Or tell them we're married?"
I leaned across the table, grinning. "Up to you. What do you want to tell them?"
"Let's tell them," she decided, then smirked. "We're legally married anyway. But here's the catch..."
She motioned me closer. I leaned in, and she whispered her idea. A laugh burst out of me, and for the first time, I heard her giggle—genuine, unguarded, the kind I hadn't heard in years.
"So," she said, holding out her hand. "Do we have a deal?"
"Deal," I said, clasping it.
?·???°???°???·?
We'd agreed Sloane would arrive first. Five minutes later, I was still sitting in my car outside the location, hands idle on the steering wheel. My phone chimed—a message from her.
I opened it to see a photo of her with the other tennis players from our batch. Another message followed: Come on now.
Smiling despite myself, I grabbed my duffle bag, stepped out, and made sure the car was locked before heading straight to the concierge.
She greeted me warmly, confirmed the reservation under our batch, and gestured me toward the facilities.
After I signed the document—Sloane's name already logged with the others—she handed me a locker key.
I thanked her and made my way to the changing area. The locker room was empty when I stepped inside. Setting my duffle on the bench, I unzipped it—and let out a quiet laugh.
"She really knows how I like it," I murmured.
Inside was the outfit Sloane had chosen for me. She'd insisted on preparing both our gear and handed me the duffle the moment we landed in London. I carried it into the changing room and dressed.
A crisp, slim-fit white polo with a structured collar. Tailored tennis shorts. Dior sneakers. A lightweight warm-up jacket I zipped up. Sweatband on my right wrist. Custom visor with my initials.
I couldn't help but smile as I folded my travel clothes neatly, tucked them into the duffle, and pulled out my racket. Locking everything away in my assigned locker—boots included—I pocketed my phone and headed out.
Coming, I texted Sloane as I walked toward the courts.
The venue had been rented out exclusively for us. At the benches, a small group of about ten players had already gathered. But Sloane wasn't among them.
"Rory!" the group called out, cheering as I walked toward them.
"Hey, guys!" I grinned, exchanging a series of high-fives. My eyes swept the area, searching. Where is she?
The group caught on immediately. "Looking for Sloane? She's with Maychelle. Don't tell me you actually missed your ex, Captain?"
I chuckled, shaking my head. I was about to sit when a ripple of teasing laughter made me pause. Turning, I froze.
Sloane.
I swallowed hard, my gaze snagging on her outfit. Sleeveless polo top—same brand as mine. White tennis skirt with a sharp side slit. Dior sneakers. Sweatband on her wrist. A visor with her initials gleaming.
The group gasped in unison, covering their mouths.
"Ohhh," they echoed.
"What kind of sorcery is this?" someone laughed. "Don't tell us this is a coincidence! Couple outfits?"
Sloane groaned and walked right past me, sliding into a seat beside Taylor, the captain before me. She gave me the faintest smile before quickly looking away. The group picked up on the exchange instantly, and the teasing doubled.
My face heated. Maychelle came up behind me, hands on my shoulders. "Why don't you sit beside your ex?" she teased, steering me toward Sloane.
I swallowed and sat, bumping Sloane's shoulder lightly. She didn't react, her body as casual and relaxed as ever. Her hand rested on the bench space between us. Without thinking, I reached for it, intertwining my fingers with hers.
She nudged me sharply, shooting me a warning look.
I acted as if nothing happened, gaze fixed straight ahead, still holding her hand under the table. Around us, snacks were passed around, some of the others already on court, others chatting.
Sloane sighed, pouring herself a glass of orange juice and taking a long sip without glancing my way.
"Why don't Rory and Sloane team up against the previous Captain and Vice-Captain?" Maychelle suggested, eyes twinkling at Taylor.
Taylor laughed. "What's this? Captain and Vice-Captain versus Captain and Vice-Captain?"
"I don't see why not," Sloane shrugged, finally cutting her eyes toward me. "Though I doubt the former captain here can even play." She tried to tug her hand free, but I held firm.
I arched a brow. "Why don't you try me?"
Her eyes narrowed. She rolled them dramatically, and this time I released her hand, standing. "I'm in. Though I might have to use my non-dominant hand," I said evenly.
Taylor clicked her tongue at me. "Don't come crying when you lose." She gestured at Maychelle, her old vice-captain.
"I won't be crying," I hummed. "We're not going to lose."
Sloane crossed her arms, throwing me a look. "Really? Then prove it. If we lose, you're treating everyone later." She brushed past me, picking up her racket as she strode to the court.
Taylor laughed, clapping me on the shoulder. "Good luck teaming with your ex."
I clicked my tongue, unzipping my jacket and folding it neatly on the bench. Picking up my racket, I followed Sloane onto the court.
I grabbed a ball and tested my swing. Pain shot up my arm, making me wince. Sloane noticed immediately.
"You're seriously playing with that injury?" she muttered under her breath, masking her concern by slamming a practice shot across the court.
"I can manage," I whispered back, forcing a stretch.
She exhaled sharply. "Ro, this isn't a real tournament. Stop being so competitive."
"Sorry," I smirked. "That word doesn't exist in my vocabulary."
She rolled her eyes, shaking her head as we took our positions. Then she gave me the subtlest nod.
Taylor tossed the first serve. The match had begun.
The court felt sharper than I remembered, each bounce of the ball echoing like a challenge. My bandaged arm throbbed against the racket handle; every swing tugged at the burn beneath it, a reminder that my body wasn't the same.
"You can do this," I whispered to myself as I swung at the first smash. Pain shot through me, but I didn't let it linger. Sloane returned the next hit, driving the ball to the far court. The first set was brutal—serves, volleys, smashes, each one trading like the old days.
Twelve years had passed, yet Sloane and I still read each other without words. Instinct guided us into rhythm: my defensive baseline strokes feeding into her sharp net play.
"Ro," she called as the ball came my way. I braced myself, aiming to smash—but it hit the net. I blinked, panting, as the first set slipped from our grasp.
I groaned, laughing as I wiped my face with the sweatband. Sloane didn't speak, but I felt her eyes linger on me between rallies. She didn't need to say it—she knew the burn in my arm, saw me adjusting.
"You okay?" she asked quietly during the changeover.
"Not yet," I mumbled, forcing a tighter grip. "But I will be."
Her lips pressed into a line, unconvinced, yet she didn't argue. That was Sloane—always letting me crash if I insisted on flying. Just like that. My Sol.
The second set began, and something shifted.
I found rhythm again, letting my right hand carry the lighter strokes while my left, wrapped and throbbing, handled the heavier ones when it counted.
We fell into our old unspoken language: my baseline drives feeding her volleys, her net kills sealing the points I couldn't.
We won the set, 6–4, slapping hands at the baseline and bumping our sneakers like idiots—a gesture from the past.
Our teammates roared from the sidelines.
"Still doing that?" one called.
"They're practically synced up!" another shouted.
Heat pricked my ears, but I didn't pull away. For a moment, I forgot the years, the distance, the bitterness. I just moved with her again.
The final set dragged us to the edge. Every point stretched like rope across a canyon, ready to snap. My lungs burned, my arm trembled, but I pushed through—stubborn as always.
"Don't," Sloane hissed at the changeover, leaning close so only I could hear. "You're going to hurt yourself, Ro. Don't kill yourself for this."
"I'm not done," I told her, chest rattling from the effort. "Not yet."
Her eyes softened, but she didn't press. She knew once that look was in my eyes, there was no stopping me.
The rally was brutal once again—volleys back and forth, each shot hammering against my chest like a reminder of everything I'd lost, everything I refused to surrender. Then it came: the briefest gap down the line.
Pain flared as I shifted, raising my racket with my left hand, the burn screaming beneath the bandages. My body moved on instinct, faster than thought. I unleashed it—the dead shot. A searing drive skimmed the paint, impossible to reach.
In. Game... Set. Match.
The court erupted—whistles, claps, teasing shouts.
"Dead shot DeLacroix is back!" Maychelle hollered, laughing and gasping.
"Don't tell me you two never stopped practicing together!" another teased, earning waves of laughter.
I bent over, catching my breath, every muscle shaking. Before I could straighten, Sloane was already laughing, running toward me. She slammed into me with the same reckless joy as the old days, nearly knocking me off balance.
"You're insane," she whispered, breathless against my shoulder. "You still had that shot... after everything."
I held her, ignoring the sting in my arm, letting the world spin as if twelve years had never happened. Around us, teammates whistled, voices carrying the old rhythm of camaraderie.
"Just like old times!"
"Gosh! I know you're exes, but you two play like a damn couple!"
Sloane pulled back just enough to look at me, cheeks flushed, her grin softening into something fragile. For a moment, the world blurred—the match, the pain, the years lost between us—and it was only her eyes holding mine.
And I realized: winning had never felt this heavy. Or this alive.
For the first time in years, I felt her walls crack—and mine trembled with them.