Chapter 15
15
‘Do you want to talk about it?’ I ask carefully, sinking down onto a chair opposite Kieran at the kitchen table.
He taps his fingers on the side of his coffee mug. I was wide awake when he left the flat this morning to go for his jog and by the time he got back, I’d showered and dressed, and made him one of his fruit smoothies to greet him with at the door. I’ve watched him make them enough times now to know all the ingredients. Flushed and out of breath, he’d taken it gratefully and retreated to the bedroom. Now, freshly showered, he’s come to find me in the kitchen, taking his place at the table silently while I made coffee.
‘I’m sorry about last night,’ he says eventually, his eyes fixed to the table surface. ‘I needed some time alone.’
‘I understand. If you want to be on your own now, that’s okay, too. I want to make sure you’re all right, that’s all.’
‘I’m fine. In a bit of shock, but fine.’
He lifts his eyes to meet mine. They’re filled with pain and uncertainty, and it makes me want to throw the table between us over on its side and rush to wrap him in my arms and hold him tight. Instead, I clasp my coffee mug and take a sip.
‘You’ve seen the news by now,’ he states, no need to make it a question.
The reveal of Brian O’Sullivan’s book has hit the press, but the bigger story is Kieran’s reaction to it. Since he was told about it at a press conference, there were several cameras on him at the time. All of them captured the colour drain from his face before he snaps that the conference is over and storms out the room, his chair tipping backwards from the force of his abrupt exit. You can tell that he didn’t knock his chair on purpose, but many of the tabloids have gone with the juicy Kieran-O’Sullivan-throws-his-chair-in-fury angle.
‘I’m so sorry, Kieran,’ I say, my fingers itching to reach out to his hand resting on the table. ‘You must feel so hurt.’
‘I can’t believe he would do this,’ he says, his eyebrows knitting together in earnest bewilderment. ‘Does he want to destroy me? And, worse, Aidan’s memory?’
‘Nothing could destroy Aidan’s memory,’ I assure him. ‘You knew your brother, you loved him, that’s all that matters.’
He sighs, closing his eyes for a moment. ‘My reaction yesterday won’t have helped matters,’ he says bitterly. ‘The publishers can be sure of good sales now. Everyone will want to hear about a fractured relationship so fucked up that I threw my chair across a room.’
‘You know those headlines are ridiculous. Loads of people on social media are calling the tabloids out on that and saying it’s clickbait. People are on your side,’ I tell him, leaning forwards. ‘People are also saying that they’d like your memoir, not your dad’s. It’s your story they’re interested in.’
He snorts. ‘They’ll never be getting that. And while that’s all very well, it doesn’t mean his book won’t sell. It will.’
I take a deep breath. ‘Kieran, do you think… maybe you should talk to him?’
‘Who? My dad?’
‘Yeah.’
‘No way,’ he states, shaking his head. ‘He didn’t even have the respect to tell me he was writing the fucking thing, let alone that it was going to be published. I have nothing to say to that man.’
‘Maybe if he knew how upset it was making you—’
‘He knows,’ he snaps, dismissing my suggestion with a wave of his hand. ‘He doesn’t care. You know he messaged me yesterday before the match? He texted me to say that I was going to win and that he’d be watching. Getting that message—’ he inhales deeply, his voice cracking with emotion ‘—it made me want to win for him. Even after all this fucking time, after everything we’ve been through, I’m still trying to make my dad proud. It’s pathetic.’
‘It’s not pathetic,’ I say, hot tears pricking at my eyes, threatening to spill over. ‘We all want our parents to be proud of us, it’s natural.’
‘I don’t want anything to do with him,’ he says forcefully, as though trying to convince himself. ‘I didn’t need this, not now.’
‘You’re right,’ I say, unable to keep my distance any longer.
He glances up on hearing the legs of my chair scrape back across the floor as I get to my feet. I walk over to the chair next to him and sit down, taking his hands in mine and looking him in the eye.
‘You don’t need this now. Because you’re here to win Wimbledon. You have to find a way to shut out the noise. All of it. The only thing that matters to you right now is the next point, got it?’
Tiny creases form around his eyes as he offers me a small smile, a pool of warmth filling my belly as I gaze at him, wondering how anyone could ever hurt someone with eyes this searing and so blatantly vulnerable.
Damn it, Brian O’Sullivan, you really are a fuckhead.
‘You trying to coach me, Flossie?’ Kieran asks softly.
‘Sure.’ I shrug. ‘If it helps you to stop listening to all the other crap. I watched your match yesterday. You were brilliant.’
‘I very almost lost.’
‘You won.’ I squeeze his hands. ‘And you’ll win again. And again and again and again until you’re holding up that trophy and thanking me in your speech.’
He lets out a small laugh. ‘I wouldn’t get too ahead of yourself.’
‘You know, if you could have heard me through the TV screen yesterday, that’s precisely what you would have heard me saying to you.’
‘Not to get ahead of myself?’ He furrows his brow. ‘In what way?’
‘You know my friend Iris?’
He offers a weak smile. ‘The sports journo who thinks I still have some fight left.’
‘The very one. She said something to me yesterday that seemed confusing at the time but the more I think about it, I get what she means. She was talking about how when you – and I mean, people generally, not you specifically here – when you get closer to winning, you start thinking about winning. What it will mean to win, to you, to your family, to your fans, to your country. Fucking hell, Kieran, it must make your heart race a million miles per hour when you let yourself think about that!’
‘A bit.’
‘That pressure. It’s hell!’
He’s watching me carefully.
‘Easier to not have those expectations, right?’ I continue. ‘If no one expects you to win, including yourself, the pressure ebbs away.’
He hesitates, tilting his head. ‘What are you getting at?’
‘There were moments yesterday when I think you got in your own head. You got ahead of yourself, thought about winning the match, and then maybe the doubts set in. Maybe you listened to that voice telling you that you couldn’t do it. But then that first point of the third game in the fifth set – it was magical. You really fought for it.’
‘Okay. But that was just one point.’
‘That point changed everything,’ I inform him as though I know what I’m talking about, letting go of his hands to sit back in my chair and fold my arms. ‘You weren’t trying to win, you were just playing tennis. That’s what you should do.’
The corners of his lips twitch as he suppresses a laugh. ‘That’s your advice, coach? I should… play tennis?’
‘My advice to you as an expert tennis player who really knows her shit—’ I press my hand against my chest as he sniggers ‘—is that you should play for each shot. Forget what everyone else thinks, drown out the voices in your head, mostly yours, and focus on winning the next shot. Done.’ I shrug. ‘Then come home and eat cake.’
He arches a brow. ‘There’s cake here?’
‘I went with Victoria sponge. Was that a good choice?’
‘Perfect. I’m not mad about all the fancy flavour cakes out there nowadays; I like the old favourites.’
‘Okay, Grandpa, I’ll keep that in mind.’
‘And thanks, by the way, for the banner.’
‘You may not have noticed, but it was originally a Happy Birthday banner.’
‘No, really?’ he says in mock surprise. ‘But the way you’d altered it with a black marker pen was so subtle!’
‘I am seriously considering producing banners for any occasion as a side hustle to my non-existent art career.’
He smiles, mirroring my position and sitting back. ‘Unbelievable.’
‘That I would consider myself a serious banner creator?’
‘That you’ve… I don’t know.’ He sighs, his eyes searching mine. ‘I feel lighter.’
The doorbell rings and he stiffens.
‘That will be Neil,’ he mutters without moving from his chair.
‘I’ll get it,’ I offer, standing up. Halfway out the room, I pause. ‘Kieran, I don’t want to overstep the mark and it really is none of my business, I don’t know much about your relationship, but – Neil is your coach. He wants you to win. I think he really was trying to protect you from this.’
‘He should have told me the truth. He knows what’s gone down between me and Dad. They used to be friends.’
‘That’s kind of my point,’ I say carefully. ‘He knows you, Kieran. Maybe he didn’t want you struggling with this when you already had the looming pressure of Wimbledon. Judging from how upset he was yesterday, at a guess I’d say he really cares about you.’
Kieran presses his lips together, refusing to say anything further. I go to get the door, standing aside to let Neil and the assistant coach in.
‘He’s in the kitchen,’ I inform them, following them down the hallway and then diverting into the living room to locate my art supplies. Flicking through to a fresh page of my sketch pad, I overhear their conversation.
‘Are you ready?’ Neil asks him tentatively.
I hear movement and assume that Kieran has got up and is gathering his things.
‘Kieran,’ Neil continues, ‘about yesterday—’
‘It’s fine, we’re good,’ Kieran cuts in. ‘Let’s just focus on how to win Wimbledon.’
‘Right. Fine by me!’ There’s a note of pleasant surprise in Neil’s voice. ‘How to win Wimbledon. Let’s do this.’
*
Before Kieran leaves for his match the next day, I catch him heading out the door and hand him a folded piece of paper.
‘Are we passing secret notes in class, Flossie?’ he whispers conspiratorially, as Neil stands waiting by the car, pointedly checking his watch.
Last night his team came back with him again and we didn’t get any time alone. By the time they left, it was late and I made my intentions clear, getting under my duvet on the sofa before anything could happen. I can’t trust myself around him. His kisses have become burned on my brain, replaying over and over, torturing me slowly. But these are not just any tennis matches he’s playing, it’s fucking Wimbledon. He has to focus on his game; he can’t let me become any kind of distraction.
So last night when I couldn’t sleep, while my mind drifted to him being on the other side of the bedroom door and my body burned at the thought of the way he’s kissed me, I tried my best to convince myself that I was doing the right thing and did a sketch to give to him today. Now that I’ve started sketching again, I feel like I can’t stop. Last night, creating this drawing helped me to understand how I was feeling and what I wanted to say – by giving it to him, I’m hoping it might help him in some way, too.
‘Sort of,’ I admit. ‘Don’t open it now, but maybe have a look before the match.’
‘Okay, I’ll try to find the time around blowing the bubbles.’
‘Don’t mock it. Maybe you won the first round thanks to bubbles.’
‘Oh, don’t you worry, I’m being serious,’ he assures me, holding up his hands. ‘It is fully integrated into my pre-match routine. Can’t mess with whatever worked last time.’
‘Good.’ I smile smugly as he gazes down at the piece of paper, his eyes full of intrigue. ‘It’s nothing special; a little something to help get you in the zone. I drew it last night after you’d gone to bed. It’s not for the book or anything, it’s just… for you.’
‘A Flossie Hendrix original.’ He brings his eyes up to meet mine. ‘I’m honoured.’
‘Kieran, let’s go,’ Neil calls out.
Kieran ignores him, looking up at me hopefully. ‘See you later?’
‘See you later.’
‘I just have to go play tennis. I’ll play each point and then come back to eat cake,’ he says robotically as though he’s memorised it from a textbook. ‘That’s my plan today.’
I give him a thumbs up. ‘You’re playing for you. No one else.’
‘Are you sure you don’t want to be my coach—’
‘Kieran!’ Neil cries impatiently.
‘—because there may be an opening soon,’ he finishes drily.
I chuckle. ‘I’ll think about it. You should go.’
‘Okay.’ He holds up the piece of paper. ‘Thanks for this.’
‘I hope it helps.’
Nodding, his eyes flicker down to my lips. He swallows. My breath catches as his body sways ever so slightly towards me.
‘Kieran!’
He winces at the sharpness in his coach’s tone and draws back, making his way down the steps to the car. He turns to give me a wave before sliding into the back seat. I shut the front door and lean against the wall in the hallway for a moment to gather myself. That brief intense moment, whatever it was, has made me giddy and I have no idea how I’m going to concentrate on anything else today but him. My hands have become clammy and I shake them out. I really hope he likes the drawing.
It’s another sketch of the back of someone, but this time it’s of a man in tennis gear, walking out from the tunnel towards Centre Court of Wimbledon, surrounded by all the tiny blank faces of the stadium spectators. With his tennis bag slung over his shoulder and his other hand in his pocket, his head is bowed.
The caption below reads: Believe when no one else does.