10
“Kieran Alexander Attends Charleston Open After Being Seen with Luna Aldridge Week Before”
—The Celebrity Source
“HAS NARI BEEN sending you these?” Franny asked from the passenger seat, turning his phone to me.
I switched my gaze to his phone, but the text was too small. “Just read it to me,” I said, reverting my focus to the road.
One two-hour flight from JFK to CHS with my brother—“Assistant!” he corrected—Nari, and a security detail, and a fifteen-minute drive in a rental car separate from everyone else to the Charleston Open, just to see Luna Aldridge.
This was not my idea, and I could’ve sworn it wasn’t in the calendar.
“Don’t act like you planned on reading the calendar,” Nari had said yesterday. I closed my mouth.
I was supposed to have another three days until I had to see Aldridge again. Looked like I’d have to speed up my voodoo doll rituals.
“It’s smart to have you at a match to support her now that she’s playing again. If she wins this, she’ll win the whole tournament. It will make the two of you seem like friends,” Nari explained.
I exhaled. This was my last weekend before the press tour.
Then Aldridge and interviews would consume my schedule for four months.
And now I had to hop on a flight to sit in the sun for two hours, only to return to New York the next day.
This relationship was single-handedly going to kill the planet.
But I wasn’t going to be the first to throw a fit, so I got on the plane.
Franny cleared his throat, and then opened his mouth, imitating a journalist. “‘Has Actor Kieran Alexander Finally Met His Match?’ ‘Has Saving September’s Kieran Alexander Found Love in His Personal—’”
“Francisco—”
“Wait, you didn’t let me read my favorite one: ‘Who’s Kieran Alexander’s Fourth Girlfriend of the Year?’”
Air filled my lungs, and an unexpected laugh fell out. According to a billion tabloids earlier this year, my last “girlfriend” was my sister. One photograph of us at the airport together, and I was wed. Mila had gagged.
“I think Mila was more horrified that people thought she was straight.” I laughed.
I hadn’t seen her for a few months since filming kept me in Ontario.
I had offered to fly her out to New York, along with the rest of our family, but it was becoming more and more risky for Abuela to travel.
I was fortunate enough to have Franny with me.
“Never mind, back to business,” Franny said, despite also laughing.
“The Charleston Open is the largest women’s-only tennis tournament in North America.
It spans over nine days, showcasing doubles and singles.
The champion is awarded—whoa, one hundred thousand dollars!
You’re finally dating a girl that doesn’t need your money—oof. ”
I pulled my arm away from his chest and gripped the wheel again.
“According to , Luna Aldridge’s highest ranking was number six in women’s tennis two years ago, out of twenty-five hundred women.
She’s won eleven singles titles… and she’s currently ranked number seventy-four…
It looks like she took a small break… Her last match was last year.
That’s odd, isn’t it?” He quirked his head to the side.
“Franny,” I said pointedly. I had no desire to talk about this woman.
He paused, thinking. Then he cleared his throat. “Have you talked to Dad at all?”
I rolled the windows up as we approached the stadium’s entrance.
“I spoke with him yesterday about Abuela. He said she’s been eating regularly and going on walks in the morning, and she even began tending to her tomatoes again.
I’m thinking of maybe moving to a larger place so that if she or Mila or Mom ever want to visit, there’d be room. ”
“Kieran, no. I meant about the press tour, and your new girlfriend,” he replied.
“No, I haven’t. Dad wouldn’t care to know anyway.”
“As your assistant, I think they need to know. The last thing we want is Mila liking one wrong post about Luna Aldridge and every person online thinking the family hates her because Mila had no idea that the two of you are supposed to be in a relationship. This entire plan will blow up,” he rushed, his sentence sounding like one long word.
“I’ll tell Mila, and Abuela and Mom. But not Dad. It’s not up for discussion,” I finished.
As we followed the security vehicle in front of us, the stadium loomed above us like an ominous cloud prepared to suck us in and swallow us up. But if that meant I didn’t have to have this conversation any longer, then I could appreciate a storm.
When I was a kid, my abuela used to put on WWE and wake the neighbors with her enthusiasm.
She’d clap her hands when her favorite wrestler entered the arena and holler when they stepped into the ring.
She’d jump from her cushioned seat and shout at the TV with repugnance or exhilaration—it depended on the outcome—and her face would bleed color and glisten with sweat.
She’d flash me a quick smile to reassure me she wasn’t crazy.
Women’s tennis was like a classy version of WWE. People were gasping and falling forward and hopping out of their seats in surprise. People wore bright, white hats, and freshly steamed linens, and held drinks that probably did anything but hydrate.
I was just one of what looked like ten thousand people that swallowed up the court below.
The sun beat down on the back of my neck as I tried my best to ignore the phones pointed in my direction.
There were more people here than I was expecting.
I was hoping to spend the match hiding under the visor of my hat, clapping every time Aldridge didn’t miss a ball, and suppressing a laugh every time she did.
But my presence was much more apparent than I was anticipating.
This would definitely make the paper tomorrow.
“Stop scowling so much,” Nari said from the seat behind me.
The phones disappeared as all focus shifted to the court. People rose from their seats.
A woman with tight braids and a neon yellow dress entered below with a backpack over her shoulder. Intense. Her eyes stared straight ahead as she walked toward a bench at the side of the court.
Franny leaned over. “That’s Petra Tunisia, she’s ranked number three in the world.”
Everyone else seemed well aware, because not a seat was empty in the stadium, and arm space was consumed with elbows needing room to clap. Spectators were smiling and wowing, their mouths forming perfectly stunned circles, as the tennis player silently placed her items down.
Then the crowd erupted in another wave of excitement.
Aldridge’s dark hair was tied back and shielded by a black visor as she walked out. Her slim stature was covered head-to-toe in black. Even her bag was black.
She peered up at the eager crowd, letting her gaze wander as she walked. It was as if she were taking a mental snapshot of each face. She gave a small wave, resulting in a group of girls throwing their arms up in the air to wave back. She beamed.
She usually provided the same feigned warmth on red carpets. Something about this was different, though.
Both women stepped onto the court with their rackets, and everyone swallowed their emotions, sitting. A coin toss took place, and they went their separate ways. Aldridge carried a neon ball.
She bounced it against the court with her racket before throwing it high.
The man behind me inhaled. Aldridge jumped, her racket sending the ball across the court so fast I almost missed the opposing player sending it back.
I was caught in a daze following the two lunging for the ball, trading it back and forth. The sound of the ball as it bounced off the court like a hypnotizing clock. The entire stadium released their held breath when Aldridge sent it to the farthest point from Tunisia.
Aldridge’s arms dropped in relief.
The first point of the set.
“Four points to win a game, and six games to win a set, unless her opponent is at five games, then Ms. Aldridge needs an additional game?” Franny questioned. “But she could also win points if Tunisia sends the ball outside the court or if Tunisia is penalized.”
“Why would she be penalized?”
“I have absolutely no clue; this sport is so confusing.” He shook his head. “But if she wins this set, she needs to win another one—it’s best two out of three,” he clarified, but appeared slightly confused still.
Aldridge served again, immediately sending the ball out of reach from Tunisia.
The crowd jolted from the quick point, clapping with competitive spirit.
On the court, Tunisia appeared shaken up, while Aldridge bent her knees and sent the ball straight to her opponent, who sent it right back.
Tunisia ran for the ball, sending it to the opposite corner from Aldridge.
I watched as she ran for it, her foot sliding against the ground as if it were incapable of snapping at such an odd angle.
Everyone seated was silent, watching with such intensity. It was impossible not to tap your foot in anticipation, waiting for someone to miss. The two went back and forth for what felt like hours.
Aldridge sent the ball over the net with so much power, I wasn’t sure how she was still going. But she put her whole body into each swing like the racket was an extension of her arm. She looked like a superhero.
“Estás bien?” Franny asked, gesturing to my knee.
“What?” I halted the tapping. “Claro.”
The set ended with Aldridge winning, 6–4.
Tunisia started the second set off with anger. Everyone inhaled. Aldridge was forced to the other side of the court, sprinting to catch the ball, but it was a footstep out of reach. The crowd cheered for Tunisia. Much of the set continued on like that; Tunisia won, 6–3.
One more set left.
Aldridge centered herself, preparing. She tossed the ball high, and the two players went back and forth until Tunisia sent the ball outside the line.
Aldridge pumped her fist shortly in excitement.
My heart was racing. Forty minutes flew by.
Aldridge led, 5–4. One more game and she’d win.
The stadium felt breathless as the two tennis professionals reached for points.
“Come on, Luna,” Franny urged from my right.
Aldridge walked over to the bench for water and nodded to a man in the audience above. He looked like he was in his sixties. They spoke, her shoulders slumped forward. I looked down at my watch; they’d been playing for almost two hours.
Dios mío, I’ve been sitting here for over two hours watching Luna Aldridge, of all people.
Points were won and lost, and soon, the two were tied at 6–6. Seven points sat between Aldridge and the win.
Both players buzzed with energy.
Three points for Aldridge.
Three for Tunisia.
Two for Aldridge.
Three for Tunisia.
Then the last point happened so quickly. Tunisia hit the ball to the left of Aldridge, and it looked like it was outside the line.
“That was definitely out,” I argued.
But the line judge disagreed, so Tunisia’s ball was confirmed as in. She won the final point she needed.
Aldridge’s shoulders fell, but she kept her chin high as she congratulated her opponent over the net and waved to the crowd. I forgot I was supposed to be standing. I watched as she collected her things and walked back through the tunnel.
Why was I so upset that she lost?