Chapter 9 After Hours
L ena should not have gone to the tennis courts after midnight.
She knew that.
She knew it the way she knew not to answer emails when angry, not to read anonymous comments before bed, and not to stand too close to Nico Reyes when he looked at her like he was trying to decide whether she was a problem or a prayer.
Knowing had never been the same as obeying.
Her phone sat in her hand as she crossed the quiet campus, the last comment from the anonymous account burned into her mind.
Cute. Ask him what really happened after the Vale match.
She had read it too many times.
Once at the donor party, while Nico walked away with his walls back up.
Twice in the car while her father drove home in silence so thick she could barely breathe through it.
Three more times in bed, where the glow of her phone painted the ceiling blue and made every shadow look like a question.
By midnight, she had given up pretending sleep was coming.
So here she was.
In leggings, an oversized Westbridge sweatshirt, sneakers, and the kind of messy ponytail that would have made her father ask if she was feeling all right.
The campus was different at night.
Softer. Stranger.
The brick paths glistened faintly from evening sprinklers.
The old academic buildings stood dark and watchful beneath the moon.
A few dorm windows still glowed gold, little boxes of other people’s lives continuing without scandal, without fake relationships, without brooding tennis players who carried secrets like loaded weapons.
Lena tucked her hands into her sweatshirt sleeves and walked faster.
She told herself she was going to the courts because they calmed her.
That was mostly true.
The Westbridge Tennis Center had been the background of her entire life.
She had grown up with the sound of balls popping against strings, her father’s whistle around his neck, the smell of sunscreen and heat and fresh court paint.
When her mother died, the courts were the one place no one cried in front of her.
Everything there had rules. Lines. Scores. A clear way to win or lose.
Grief had none of that.
Maybe that was why she kept coming back.
Even when the place felt more like a cage than home.
She reached the outer gate and stopped.
The lights were on.
Not all of them.
Just Court One.
White floodlights poured over the court like a spotlight. Beyond the fence, a single figure moved at the baseline.
Serve.
Pop.
Another ball rocketed across the net.
Serve.
Pop.
Lena’s breath caught.
Nico.
Of course it was Nico.
No sane person practiced alone after midnight.
Which, apparently, answered that question.
She stood outside the fence for a moment, watching him.
He wore black shorts and a dark compression shirt that clung to his shoulders and chest. Sweat shone along his neck despite the cool night air. His hair was damp, his jaw set, his movements sharp with exhaustion and fury.
There was no audience.
No cameras.
No Savannah.
No Declan.
No Coach Hart.
Just Nico and the ball and the sound of a man trying to hit something hard enough to stop feeling.
He tossed another serve.
His body arched.
The ball cracked off his racket.
It landed in the box with vicious precision.
Lena should have turned around.
She should have let him have his solitude. His anger. His secrets. Whatever haunted him badly enough to drag him to Court One when the rest of campus was asleep.
Instead, she pushed open the gate.
It creaked.
Nico caught the next ball instead of serving it.
His head turned.
For a second, neither of them moved.
Then his expression closed.
“What are you doing here?”
Lena stepped onto the court. “Good evening to you too.”
“It’s not evening.”
“Good emotionally unhealthy hour to you too.”
His mouth did not move.
Not even a twitch.
Rough crowd.
She walked to the sideline and stopped near the bench, careful not to come too close. His racket hung loose in his right hand. A basket of balls sat beside him, nearly empty.
“How long have you been out here?” she asked.
“Long enough.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the one you’re getting.”
Lena looked at the scattered balls on the far side of the court. “You have practice in seven hours.”
“I know.”
“And a body that is not made of steel.”
His gaze flicked over her. “You came here at midnight to lecture me about rest?”
“No. I came here because I couldn’t sleep.”
That made him pause.
Only briefly.
But she saw it.
Nico looked away first, bouncing a ball once against the court. “You shouldn’t be out here alone.”
The words were gruff.
Irritating.
Protective.
Her heart did the stupid thing again.
“I’m not alone,” she said.
His eyes returned to hers.
The silence changed.
Lena wished it would stop doing that.
Changing.
Deepening.
Turning ordinary words into things with pulsebeats.
Nico looked back toward the service box. “You should go.”
“Probably.”
He waited.
She did not move.
His jaw flexed. “Lena.”
There it was.
Her name in his voice.
Not polished. Not careful. Not like her father said it, with warning stitched through every letter.
Nico said her name like he was trying not to need anything attached to it.
She stepped closer to the baseline.
“Why won’t you tell anyone what Declan said?”
His grip tightened around the ball.
Wrong question.
Too fast.
Too direct.
But the anonymous comment had followed her all night, and Nico’s silence was starting to feel less like stubbornness and more like a locked room with smoke coming under the door.
He turned away. “Go home.”
“No.”
He gave a short, humorless laugh. “You always this good at following instructions?”
“Ask my father.”
“I’d rather not.”
“Smart.”
That almost got him.
Almost.
His mouth twitched, then flattened before it could become anything human.
Lena moved to the basket and picked up a ball. “Do you ever stop fighting?”
He watched her carefully, like she was a wild animal or a press conference. “When I sleep.”
“And when you don’t sleep?”
His eyes stayed on hers.
“Then I come here.”
The honesty was so quiet she almost missed it.
But it landed.
Hard.
Lena looked around the empty court. The lines glowed under the floodlights, clean and merciless. The net cut the space between them in half. The whole world had shrunk to blue surface, white lines, and the boy everyone thought was too angry to hurt.
“I come here too,” she said.
Nico’s brows drew together. “At midnight?”
“Not usually.”
“Good. I was worried this was a hobby.”
She smiled faintly. “When I was little, I used to come with my mom.”
His face shifted.
Just a little.
Enough to make her regret saying it and want to say more.
“She played?” he asked.
“Badly.” Lena laughed softly, the sound disappearing into the night. “Beautifully badly. She had terrible form and refused to take correction from my dad, which drove him insane. She said tennis was more fun if you didn’t make every swing a moral test.”
Nico’s gaze stayed on her.
“She sounds smart.”
“She was.”
The past tense sat between them.
Nico heard it.
Of course he did.
Lena rolled the ball in her palm. “After she died, I stopped playing.”
His expression softened by half a breath.
Not pity.
Thank God.
She hated pity almost as much as she hated being underestimated.
“Why?” he asked.
Lena looked toward the far baseline.
Because her father had looked at her too carefully every time she picked up a racket.
Because the courts had started to feel haunted.
Because everyone kept telling her how strong she was, and quitting quietly had been the only rebellion she could manage.
Because grief made her hands shake, and she did not want anyone to see.
She gave him the simplest truth.
“It stopped feeling like mine.”
Nico did not answer.
He just stood there, holding his racket, watching her like he understood ownership and loss better than he wanted to.
Then he nodded toward the ball in her hand. “You still remember how to serve?”
Lena blinked. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me.”
“I’m not serving.”
“Scared?”
She laughed. “Of embarrassing myself in front of you? Deeply.”
“Good.” He tossed another ball toward her. “Do it anyway.”
Lena caught it on instinct.
“This is a terrible idea.”
“You like those.”
“Only professionally.”
His eyes glinted.
There he was.
Not soft.
Not safe.
But closer.
Lena walked to the baseline with the ball and immediately became aware of every part of her body.
Her ponytail.
Her old sneakers.
The fact that Nico was watching her with the intensity of a man studying match footage.
“No coaching,” she warned.
“You need coaching.”
“You haven’t even seen me play.”
“Your grip is wrong.”
She looked down.
Annoyingly, he was right.
“Fine,” she said. “Minimal coaching.”
He crossed the court.
Her pulse misbehaved.
Nico stopped behind her, close enough that his heat reached through the cool night air but not close enough to touch.
For half a second, she wondered if he did that on purpose.
Kept himself just outside permission.
“Turn your hand,” he said.
“I know.”
“You don’t.”
“I was being humble.”
“You were being wrong.”
She turned her head enough to glare at him. “You’re a very encouraging coach.”
“I’m not a coach.”
“No. You’re more like a haunted motivational poster.”
His mouth moved.
There.
A smile.
Tiny.
Gone almost immediately.
But real.
Lena felt absurdly victorious.
Nico reached around her, then stopped.
“Can I?”
The question was low.
Simple.
It should not have made her chest ache.
“Yes,” she said.
His hand covered hers on the racket.
Warm. Calloused. Careful.
The world narrowed again.
His fingers adjusted her grip, slow and precise. His other hand hovered near her elbow, not touching until she nodded without meaning to. Then he guided her arm into position.
“Loosen up,” he said.
“I am loose.”
“You’re holding the racket like it owes you an apology.”
“You’re one to talk.”
His breath moved near her ear.
Not a laugh.
Almost.
“Fair.”
Lena swallowed.
This was stupid.