Chapter 11 Family Pressure
N ico had three rules for surviving Westbridge.
Do not explain.
Do not need.
Do not answer his mother’s calls where anyone could hear the worry in his voice.
He broke the third one at 4:17 p.m. in the athletics media room because Lena Hart was sitting across from him with a color-coded interview prep sheet, two highlighters, and the kind of focused expression that made him feel like she could see the cracks in walls before they appeared.
He was already in a bad mood.
That was not unusual.
According to Jace, Nico’s bad mood was less a temporary condition and more a campus landmark.
But today it had teeth.
The anonymous messages. The donor party. Declan’s name crawling back into places Nico had worked hard to lock. Lena looking at him in the media room earlier like she wanted to help and might actually mean it.
That was the worst part.
People who wanted something from Nico were easy.
Coaches wanted wins.
Reporters wanted quotes.
Donors wanted gratitude.
Teammates wanted him to stop making their season harder.
The university wanted his talent without his mess.
But Lena wanted answers.
And not in the hungry way everyone else did. Not with a camera raised or a caption half-written in her head. She wanted them softly. Carefully. Like she knew every truth had a bruise attached.
That made her dangerous.
Across the table, Lena tapped her pen against the printed sheet. “Okay. Let’s try again.”
“No.”
“You don’t even know what I’m asking.”
“You said let’s try again. That means I hated it the first time.”
She looked up at him.
Cream sweater. Ponytail. Gold hoops. Soft mouth currently pressed into a line of professional suffering.
Nico did not look at her mouth.
Mostly.
“Nico,” she said, “the student-athlete feature is tomorrow. You have to answer at least three questions without looking like you’re being interrogated under international law.”
“I can answer questions.”
“Can you answer them with more than four words?”
“Depends on the question.”
“Great.” She looked down at the sheet. “What does being part of Westbridge Tennis mean to you?”
“Winning.”
Her pen stopped.
She lifted her eyes.
He waited.
“That’s it?” she asked.
“You said more than four words. That was one. Efficient.”
She stared at him for three seconds.
Then she wrote something on the paper.
“What are you writing?”
“Emotionally constipated but punctual.”
He leaned forward. “That better not be on my interview prep.”
“It’s in my personal notes.”
“You have personal notes about me?”
“Yes.”
His chest tightened.
He hated that.
Not the notes.
The sudden curiosity.
The way his body reacted to every piece of attention she gave him, even when it came wrapped in sarcasm.
“What else is in there?” he asked before he could stop himself.
Her eyes flickered.
For half a second, the room changed.
Then she smiled.
Not the fake one. Not completely.
“That you pretend not to care when you care too much.”
He went still.
Lena seemed to realize she had said more than she meant to.
She looked back at the paper quickly. “Question two.”
“No.”
“Nico.”
“No to question two.”
“You don’t know what it is.”
“I’m protecting myself.”
“From what?”
“You.”
Her pen stilled again.
He should not have said that.
Or maybe he should have said it differently.
Or maybe there was no safe way to tell Lena Hart she had become a problem his self-control had not trained for.
The media room was quiet except for the hum of the air conditioner and distant shouts from the practice courts outside. Sunlight fell through the blinds, striping the table between them.
Lena looked at him carefully.
“From me?” she asked.
He leaned back, jaw tightening. “From your questions.”
“Right.”
But her voice had softened.
She heard the lie.
Of course she did.
His phone rang.
The sound cut through the room like a warning shot.
Nico’s stomach dropped before he even saw the screen.
Because he knew.
He always knew.
Only one person called twice when he did not answer the first time and still pretended nothing was wrong.
He looked down.
Mamá.
Lena saw the name.
He knew because she looked away too quickly.
He hit decline.
The room went silent again.
Too silent.
Lena’s voice was gentle when she said, “You can answer it.”
“No.”
“She called yesterday too.”
His eyes snapped to hers.
She did not flinch.
“I’m not judging,” she said.
“That makes one of us.”
“Nico.”
The phone rang again.
His mother’s name lit up the screen.
Nico closed his eyes.
For one second, he was not at Westbridge.
He was eleven years old at a cracked public court in San Antonio, holding a secondhand racket with worn grip tape while his mother sat on the bench in her grocery store uniform, clapping like he had won Wimbledon because he got three serves in a row over the net.
He was fourteen, listening to her tell a coach they could make the payment plan work, even though he had heard her crying over bills the night before.
He was seventeen, signing his scholarship papers while she held his face in both hands and said, “Mijo, you are going to have a life bigger than this.”
He was twenty-two, sitting across from Lena Hart with his phone ringing and the ugly truth pressing against his ribs.
That bigger life still sent money home every month.
That bigger life still depended on one scholarship, one season, one body that could not afford to break.
“Nico,” Lena said again.
This time, it was not a push.
It was permission.
He hated how much he wanted it.
He answered.
“Hola, Mamá.”
Lena immediately reached for her papers like she was giving him privacy.
She did not leave.
He was grateful.
He hated that too.
His mother’s voice came through warm and strained. “Nicolás. Finally.”
“I was in a meeting.”
“You are always in a meeting, practice, class, or pretending not to be tired.”
“I’m not tired.”
A tiny snort from Lena’s side of the table.
Nico glared at her.
She looked innocent.
Badly.
His mother sighed. “Sofia wants to ask you something.”
Nico’s grip tightened on the phone. “Is everything okay?”
“Yes, yes. Stop sounding like an old man.”
“I don’t sound like an old man.”
“You sound like your tío when the air conditioner breaks.”
Lena’s lips twitched.
Nico turned slightly away from her. “Mamá.”
There was a rustle on the other end, then Sofia’s voice burst through.
“Nico!”
He softened before he could stop himself.
It happened every time.
His sister had that effect. Annoying. Bright. Impossible to stay hard around.
“What did you do?” he asked.
“Why do you assume I did something?”
“Because you’re calling me through Mamá.”
A pause.
“Okay, rude but fair.”
Nico heard Lena’s quiet laugh.
He looked at her.
She was watching him now.
Not with curiosity this time.
With something worse.
Warmth.
Sofia continued, “I need you to look over my college essay.”
“When?”
“Tonight?”
“Sofia.”
“What? You’re awake all night anyway.”
He rubbed a hand over his face. “Who told you that?”
“You just did.”
Behind Sofia, his mother said something in Spanish about him working too hard. Sofia responded too quickly. They argued for three seconds, fast and familiar and home.
Nico’s throat tightened.
Then Sofia said, “Also, is Lena there?”
Nico froze.
Lena’s eyes widened.
“No,” he lied.
Lena’s brows lifted.
Terrible liar, her face said.
Sofia gasped. “She is! Oh my God, put me on FaceTime.”
“No.”
“Put me on FaceTime or I’ll tell Mamá about the gossip account.”
Nico’s blood went cold. “You’re not reading that.”
“I’m eighteen. I can read.”
“Not that.”
“Nico.”
“No.”
Lena held out her hand.
He stared at it.
She mouthed, It’s okay.
No.
It was not okay.
Nothing about this was okay.
Letting Lena near his family felt like opening a door he could not close. His mother would hear softness in Lena’s voice and start hoping. Sofia would take one look at Lena’s smile and decide she belonged somewhere Nico could not afford to put her.
And Nico—
Nico did not want to know what would happen to him if Lena fit.
Sofia’s voice sharpened. “Nicolás Reyes, if you don’t put me on FaceTime, I’m texting her myself.”
Lena’s eyes danced. “She has my number?”
Nico covered the phone. “Don’t encourage her.”
“You’re scared of your sister.”
“I respect threats.”
“Healthy.”
“She’s terrifying.”
Lena smiled, and it did something stupid to the center of his chest.
He switched to FaceTime before he could think better of it.
Sofia’s face filled the screen, all bright eyes, dark curls, and immediate judgment.
“Oh,” she said.
Lena leaned into view. “Hi.”
Sofia stared at her for one dramatic second.
Then grinned. “Okay. I approve.”
Nico groaned. “You’ve known her for three seconds.”
“I have instincts.”
“You have Wi-Fi and no supervision.”
Lena laughed.
Sofia pointed at the screen. “Are you the fake girlfriend or the real one?”
Nico nearly dropped the phone.
“Sofia.”
“What? It’s a fair question. TikTok is confused.”
Lena’s cheeks went pink.
Pink.
Nico noticed because apparently his brain was now dedicated to cataloging every dangerous thing about her.
“We are not discussing this,” he said.
“So fake,” Sofia decided. “But with potential.”
Lena covered her mouth, laughing silently.
Nico glared. “I will hang up.”
“You always say that when I’m right.” Sofia leaned closer to the camera. “Lena, blink twice if he’s being rude.”
Lena blinked twice immediately.
Nico turned the phone away from her. “Betrayal.”
“I like her,” Sofia said.
“Of course you do,” Nico muttered. “She’s nosy.”
“I’m charming,” Lena said.
“You’re both problems.”
Sofia brightened. “See? He gets affectionate through insults.”
Lena looked at Nico.
He looked away.
His face felt too warm.
His mother’s voice came from off-screen. “Let me see her.”
“No,” Nico said.
Too late.
Carmen Reyes appeared behind Sofia, wiping her hands on a dish towel. Her hair was pulled back, her eyes tired but kind. When she saw Lena, her face softened in a way that made Nico’s chest ache.
“Hola, mija,” Carmen said.