8
“Is Luna Aldridge in a New Relationship Already, and Is It with Actor Kieran Alexander?”
—LA Reporter
ELEVEN SINGLES TITLES and a career-high ranking of number six. But that headline was what people wanted to talk about.
Relationship scandals—this was what my life had come to?
The next morning, Deidra forwarded me every headline that came her way before it was published. LA Reporter, Tennis Times, RBY, The Column, Celebrity Today, Enigma, Pop Weekly, Gossip Corner. Everyone had something to say.
I read the first headline that sat at the top of the email, then stopped.
The ones that only mentioned Kieran’s name, though? Well, those were equivalent to a cheat meal, so I indulged on my way to practice.
“Kieran Alexander Finds Another New Fling”
“Everything to Know About Kieran Alexander’s Newest Girlfriend”
“Has Actor Kieran Alexander Finally Met His Match?”
“Has Saving September’s Kieran Alexander Found Love in His Personal Life?”
(I still couldn’t believe they cast him as Theo Bennett; it completely ruined the adaptation.)
“Kieran Alexander’s Fourth Girlfriend This Year”
Fourth girlfriend? How did he even get three girlfriends to begin with? He probably rolled his eyes reading these and then returned to chewing gum with his mouth open—or whatever infuriating men did.
The photos cut my laughter short, though.
It was difficult to make out my identity in many of them since they were focused on Kieran at the opposite side of the court.
Most didn’t catch my face. I was just an accessory in his stories.
Kieran’s hand gripped my chin, and his head dipped to make up for our height difference.
From the angle taken behind me, you could see his face.
He was smiling, a crease buried into his cheek from the shape of his lips.
We looked like a couple. It gave me whiplash; I was reliving my relationship with Jeremiah.
“Slow down, Luna!” Felix shouted from across the court.
“I’m fine!” I yelled, finishing my sprinted steps over the agility ladder.
This was the one place where everything slowed down.
My thoughts didn’t volley across the court like the ball, and they didn’t suffocate me with a hand around my throat.
The sweat on my skin and the ache in my legs were familiar friends.
Exhaustion as a result of physical effort rather than debilitating stress—the reason I showed up an hour before Felix.
He wasn’t exactly fond of that idea, hence the shouting.
“You’re going to hurt yourself!” The vein in his forehead was popping out now.
“I’m fine, Coach!” I repeated, a breathy laugh slipping out.
He loved to worry. He had had so many of his own injuries in his fifteen-year career that his stress was never alleviated, especially during drills. Injuries were a risk you took when you wanted to be one of the best players in the world, though.
Strength training, boxing, running, tennis warmups and drills—they were all part of the routine.
A needed distraction these last few months.
Up at five, in bed by eight, accompanied by scheduled high-protein meals, one hundred thirty ounces of water a day, and six hours of training before you did it all over again.
To play tennis and be ranked within the top ten in the world, you needed to train for more than just tennis.
You needed your legs to be the equivalent of a figure skater’s, your lungs as strong as a swimmer’s, and your cardiovascular health tough enough to get you through a three-hour run.
Soon, my schedule would be moved around to fit in public appearances.
While summer was only weeks away, the morning air still had a cool bite to it that was refreshing during practice. I had to soak up every minute of it before the hot weather got comfortable sticking around.
When I was a kid, I used to wish I had taken up a sport like swimming or surfing just to keep my skin cool. Any excuse to be continuously drenched in cold water.
The summers in New England were so brutal I’d end up with heat rashes or even pass out during practices at times.
When Walt left his windows open in the morning, it would get so hot during the day that his discarded snacks would melt into his carpet, leaving dark, circular stains.
My mother was convinced those stains weren’t from snacks.
My father and I fell over with laughter any time she brought it up.
Once I finished my drills, I had to slow my breath to calm my heart rate. Felix wiped sweat from his forehead. “You’re going to tire yourself out before we’ve even begun,” he said, exasperated.
“It’s good practice.” I smiled, pushing excess sweat into my hair.
He shook his head, throwing a look at me that said, You’re going to give me a heart attack. “Is there anything you want to talk about?” he asked skeptically, walking to the other side of the court.
He didn’t have to give me any direction; we ran through the same routine every Monday. I picked up my racket and jogged to the other side. Bouncing from one foot to the next, my heart finally slowed as he served the ball.
He aimed his serves at both my left and right, forcing me to sprint from one side to the next. My sneakers screeched against the asphalt, testing the strength of my ankles.
“You’re ignoring my question!”
“That’s because you’re going to ask about Kieran!”
He grunted. I knew it. We didn’t talk about anything on this court that didn’t take place on one.
He continued serving like a machine, dodging the ones I hit back. “Deidra called me,” he responded.
“And she’s worried?” I assumed, darting forward to volley.
He stepped out of my line of fire quickly before sending another ball over.
“She wanted to make sure you were okay.”
“Well, how do you think I look?” I shouted.
“Terribly out of shape.”
I turned my focus to his face, only to find him laughing.
I bounced from one foot to the other during our pause. “Very funny!” I called out before I served, leading us into our next drill.
As I aimed the ball at his chest, he focused on fast-paced strokes. Like two dancers moving in a tango, as one person stepped, the other reacted.
“How do you feel about this week’s match?” he asked. We refused to say “first match” aloud; that was simply too nerve-racking. It was easier to treat it like any other.
“Good,” I responded.
“Good. You’re going to do great. You’re in the best condition of your career.
Your footwork is light, your level of endurance is up, your ability to volley has only gotten better,” he replied with confidence, hitting a forehand back, forcing me to dash to the left. “You just need to remain focused.”
“I am focused,” I panted. I could feel the pulse of my heartbeat in my forearms. We must be close to the two-hour mark.
“One of your publicists warned me the actor is coming to the match.” The ball went flying by me.
“You’re kidding,” I scoffed. My skin felt itchy thinking of him. The snide comments, the name-calling, the entitlement to tell me what to do and how to act—the touching. I wanted to rip that hat off his head yesterday and shove it in between his teeth.
“They said if you were surprised, then that meant you didn’t look at the calendar.”
Of course I didn’t look at the calendar. The idea of color-coded appearances and press tours scattered across my practice schedule gave me a headache.
PR responsibilities weren’t part of Felix’s job description, so I understood why he wasn’t giving this conversation much time. Tennis was a sport. A dance between two competitors. It wasn’t supposed to involve celebrity politics. These conversations never bled into our practice, so I moved on.
I walked backward, picking the ball back up to serve. “It’s fine. I’ll be focused. You’ll be the one stuck sitting next to him anyway.” I laughed, realizing. “Wait, this is going to be so great. You have to sit next to him!”
“I can still retire early!” he jabbed, striking the ball with a backhand.
“You love a challenge, and you know it.” I pointed my racket at him.
The ball fell short on his end, just crossing the net. Felix dove for it, but he wasn’t quick enough. “Yes!” I shouted like a kid. For a man in his sixties, he still played like a pro.
He exhaled in defeat, jogging to pick up the ball. “Don’t get cocky!” he argued. His competitiveness was beginning to show—the best part of our first practice of the day. “One more and then off to the weight room for legs,” he instructed.
The tendons in my calves stretched as I ran to the ball that was soaring by my left side. Inside-out forehand, forehand volley, flat backhand, forehand volley, slice backhand.
“Luna!” Cecilia suddenly appeared at the side of the court.
“Yes!” I shouted back. I dove for the ball in front of me, catching it with the racket before it hit the ground.
“You have a phone call!” I imagined her clicking her pen impatiently. She really didn’t enjoy yelling. Something about increasing muscular tension in the neck. “I refuse to have a crooked neck,” she once told me after trying to bellow over a tennis match.
“It can wait!” Backhand.
“I don’t think it can!”
Sweat made its descent down the side of my temple. Felix shook his head. Stay focused.
“Who is it?” I couldn’t help but ask. I stayed with the motions, though. Follow the ball, retain correct footwork.
“It’s your ex-husband.”
My racket fell from my grip. It smacked the court, lying there helpless. My amygdala was working overtime, sending warning signals to every nerve ending in my body.
The air in my nose stung, as if I had inhaled too much murky salt water from the beach.
I was drowning in it. Salt and sand shoved their talons down my throat and crawled through every pipe that supplied me air.
I was suffocating, until I pictured his face.
His horrible, manipulative, conniving, traitorous, beautiful face.
My anxiety was seized and replaced with fury.
“Give me the phone.”
Cecilia walked across the court and stuck out her hand. I hit accept.
“What do you want, Jeremiah?”