Chapter 12
CHINA
Tony is driving Dad, Henry, and me back from the airport, and I’ve practically worn my headphones the entire time since I boarded the plane in Beijing. It’s the nicest way for me to let everyone around me know I’m not open to chatting or discussing the events of the past few days.
I hate losing, yes, but this time, I really sucked.
We had a solid game plan, which I disregarded because I was distracted.
I should’ve put my phone away, but I didn’t.
That’s on me. It was my choice to stay up late texting Liam every damn night, and I should’ve known better.
That’s what pisses me off, but there’s no one to blame but me.
Losing out of pure carelessness and distraction is unacceptable. It hits differently than losing after giving it your all.
I cannot afford to lose focus. Not when I need to win the US Open next year more than I need oxygen in my lungs.
I wouldn’t want to fall into a bad rut. But, at least, I lost with dignity.
I didn’t have it in me to make a hissy fit about losing.
It was that embarrassing. So I attended my press conference, smiled for the cameras, and brooded in the privacy of my hotel room.
Thankfully, I didn’t get to play against Zoya. She was there, but I couldn’t stand looking at her. She’s a living, breathing reminder of the thoughts I wish didn’t haunt me in my sleep every night.
When I see her, I see myself losing control and banging that racket against the court along with the rest of my inappropriate behavior that dreaded day.
I see how I lost the opportunity to win the US Open, to get it done once and for all.
She’s a constant reminder that I only have one more shot next year to accomplish my secret, petty goals.
So yeah, let’s say I’m doing it for the Rolex ambassadorship, which is partly true.
It would’ve been mortifying to have played against Zoya this time around.
I can’t allow her to notice my weaknesses.
And I know it’s no one’s fault but mine, but I still hate when people call me out on my shit because I am aware of the mistakes I made in China.
And I don’t need Henry and my dad repeating any of those things to me.
And they did … more than a few times. That’s why I ended up throwing my noise-canceling headphones over my ears, and it worked like a charm. They both got off my back.
Henry’s sitting next to me in silence in the back of the SUV while Dad rides in the front with Tony. And since it’s Friday, we’re going straight to Montclair for the weekend. But how I wish I could go to my apartment, bury myself in bed, and watch my tapes until my eyes bleed.
Henry nudges my shoulder with his and jerks his chin at my dad, who I notice is trying to grab my attention. I pull off my headphones and let them hang around my neck.
“Sorry,” I say. “I couldn’t hear you.”
“I was asking if you’ll be staying in tonight since your mom and I are attending an event in the city,” he repeats himself. “I want to make sure you don’t need Tony.”
“I’m staying in,” I tell him, my tone dry enough to pass for annoyed. I’m impressed my dad has the energy to attend an event after the long-ass trip back home. “Thanks.”
Dad replies with a nod and returns to his conversation with Tony. I grab my headphones to put them back on when Henry says, “Do you want me to watch your tapes with you? I could help you figure out what went wrong.”
“No thanks. I’m good, Coach.” As if he hadn’t already told me in his own words how I messed up my game. Besides, I’m planning to watch those tapes alone. I don’t need the extra humiliation of having someone witness me cringe at my mistakes every other minute.
“Bells,” he whispers, “look at me.” His pale blue eyes look sleepy from the flight, but they’re hypnotic and manage to seize my gaze.
Henry coming to China with me as my coach was bittersweet.
We dreamed about going on tour together for years.
We had it all mapped out and speculated on the places we would go, and how amazing it would be to experience it together.
We shared the same dream and were so sure we would get to live it.
It was all we knew and the reason we busted our asses off for years.
Only he’s not playing tennis, and after that awkward encounter with Liam at my apartment the other day, things are still weird between us. So our childhood plans aren’t looking quite like we expected they would.
Henry’s wearing light blue jeans, black and white Air Jordans, and a black hoodie.
His dark locks are sticking out, and he looks cute, which annoys me beyond measure because I’m not in the mood to react to his face.
I’ve already been doing that every single day since he returned from Chicago.
I thought I was doing an okay job shoving those reactions aside, but I was wrong.
He’s so painfully handsome to the point of it being unfair.
Even if he’s changed so much, he’s shown me glimpses of the Henry I used to know, so I know he’s still in there, even if I know he’s in pain.
He’s dealt with a lot from what he’s told me.
I’m surprised by his resilience and emotional stability despite everything.
Something tells me the things he has shared with me are just the tip of the iceberg.
I admire him, and I’m sure my face betrays me, especially when we’re training. Henry seems so much in his element on a tennis court, like he deserves to be standing there more than I do.
To say my thoughts and my feelings have been in constant turmoil since he arrived is an understatement.
I’m still pissed at him, but I also understand what he went through, and a part of me thinks he’s either lying or hiding something, but I can’t accuse him of that.
I have too much on my mind. No wonder I got my ass handed to me in China by a mediocre tennis player.
Henry wets his lips and says, “I know you’re disappointed about your performance, but we can turn it around. Don’t be too hard on yourself. You keep beating yourself up, and you need to stop doing that.”
That’s another reason Henry’s presence has been getting on my nerves.
He knows me too well and doesn’t hesitate to call it like it is.
He keeps throwing truths at my face. Truths that hurt my pride and my ego.
He doesn’t tiptoe around me. Henry knows how much I care about him, even if my responses might make people think otherwise.
He knows talking back and openly arguing with someone is practically my love language.
He still knows me.
Tony pulls over in our driveway and jumps out of the car to help with our bags. Dad follows him.
“Listen …” I clear my throat, which feels scratchy and dry after hours of recycled airplane air conditioning.
“I know I’m the idiot who has a ‘distracting boyfriend’ and can’t manage to play decent tennis because of it,” I tell him.
“So yeah, I’ll watch the tape, but all I’ll be thinking about is how I should’ve turned off my phone at seven and gone to bed by eight every night.
So if you have a magic formula to cure stupidity, I’m all ears, Coach. ”
This is a clear example of the type of reply I shoot back at people when deep down I know they’re trying to be supportive. I’m unable to recognize it because my mind registers everything as an attack, as if I weren’t attacking myself enough as it is.
Exhibit A: I’ve been obsessing over the following statement on the awake portions of our flight back home: My shit game in China is not Liam’s fault.
That’s my current mantra. And I’ll repeat that until I’m out of breath because a part of me can’t help but be irritated at him when I should have drawn a line.
When I should have explained to him how crucial it was for me to get in the zone when I’m at a tournament.
I should learn to communicate better while I’m at it. But I got carried away.
The nonstop texting door was left open by no one else but me.
But that’s not how we used to operate. Before, I would leave for a tournament and wouldn’t talk to Liam until I returned.
This stems from me trying to be more thoughtful, but this whole being-a-good-girlfriend thing is not working in my favor.
How can I complain when I asked him to be my boyfriend?
I chose this against my dad’s and Henry’s advice, but at what cost?
This first tournament went to shit because of it, and I’m low-key hating on Liam right now, even when I know I shouldn’t.
I haven’t replied to his texts since before I boarded the plane to New York. I’m just … overwhelmed.
“It’s useless trying to talk to you when you get like this,” Henry replies with an annoyed tone, lifting one of his thick, dark brows at me.
He steps out of the car, shutting the door before I can say anything. Not that I knew how to respond to that. I know I’m being difficult. I can’t even stand myself, so I get it. I get where he’s coming from.
It’s easier to ignore him than to acknowledge my behavior, so I absentmindedly run my tongue over my teeth and grab my backpack to follow everyone out.
When I walk inside the house, I spot a gorgeous, massive flower arrangement of purple and magenta blooms.
For some reason, I thought that after telling Liam how I sucked in China, he wouldn’t send me anything.
It only makes me feel worse because I didn’t do a thing to deserve them, and I know all he wants is to cheer me up.
But what kind of shit person am I if I can’t stand my boyfriend sending me flowers to cheer me up?
Liam’s the best, and I suck at being his girlfriend.
Trying to get a hold of myself, I take one of the flowers between my fingers and bring my nose closer to smell it. It’s sweet yet crisp. I regard it for a second in silence but walk away.
“Welcome back!” Mom chirps in the distance, the over-enthusiasm in her tone unnecessary and out of place.
She’s walking over to us with a smile that makes her eyes wrinkle in a deceivingly charming way. She’s wearing a navy-blue cocktail dress that accentuates her slim figure, and her beige-blonde hair is pulled into a loose chignon. She looks so painfully beautiful.
“How was China?” She dips her chin as she waits for a response.
Mom’s playing dumb. She knows how it went because I overheard Dad talking to her at the airport in Beijing. She wants to rub the loss in my face. It’s not hard to detect the excitement of seeing me fail, of reassuring herself how much better she must think she was at my age.
“You know how it is, Addison,” Henry tells her. “Sometimes you’re off your game, but it’s nothing to worry about. We’ll bounce back from this.”
“Hmm …” Mom hums with obvious disbelief before kissing our cheeks. “Glad to hear that at least Henry’s got the right attitude.”
I bite my tongue, ignoring the dig, and take a slow breath to steady myself.
“I’ve no doubt Belén will do great in Australia,” Henry adds.
My dad walks in next, and they greet each other with a big, warm hug—a hug she didn’t offer me.
Welcome to the family dynamic whenever Henry’s around: my mom expertly delivers backhanded comments my way, and Henry is kind enough to deflect them for me. It’s a ritual at this point. All that’s missing is the popcorn.
My mom smiles at Henry, a warm, honey-drenched smile, and shifts her attention away from me.
Henry has always protected me since we were kids because my mom loves him, and he knows it. I’m still unsure if he’s picking up where he left off out of the kindness of his heart or if it’s an automatic response after doing it for years.
Family dynamics never change. And he’s always played a critical role in mine.
Henry doesn’t want to look at me, but I’m thankful he’s following the usual script.
His five-year absence created more damage than I thought it would.
It left the gate open for my mom to step right in and walk all over me every chance she got, which went from every single day to just weekends after I moved to Manhattan.
Dad tries to soften things up when he can, but he can’t help but want to make everyone happy.
And by everyone I mean her. It’s easy to see how pleasing the love of his life is more of a priority for him.
The way he looks at Mom and worships the ground she walks on amazes me every day. He’s putty in her presence.
“We’ll have dinner in thirty minutes,” Mom says, resting a hand on Henry’s shoulder and squeezing it. I observe the gesture with disdain. She never touches me like that, or ever. “I’d love for you to fill me in on all the China details before Joe and I leave for this event.”
Of course, she’d love that. She’ll chug my dignity down her throat with a gin and tonic as an aperitif.
Sighing, I roll my suitcase down the hall. Henry pulls it out of my grasp and starts climbing the stairs. I wordlessly follow because I know I can’t win the: I’ll carry my suitcase up the stairs battle against him. I’m too exhausted for that right now, so I let him do it.
Henry sets our luggage on the floor once we reach the top and sucks in a breath through his teeth, his fingers pressing into his shoulder like it’s betrayed him.
“What’s wrong?” I ask, frowning with genuine concern. “Did you pull a muscle?”
“I’m fine,” he says dryly, dropping his hand from his shoulder. His nostrils are slightly flared, so I know he’s in pain but trying to hide it from me.
“You don’t seem fine,” I insist. “Do you want me to bring an ice pack or some—”
“I said I’m fine,” he rasps out.
I glare at him with a raised brow because what the heck? He can call me on my shit all day, but I can’t ask if he’s okay and offer a freaking ice pack?
His facial features soften fairly quickly as he rummages for his words but manages to say nothing.
“Did I hurt you when you stopped me from falling in the kitchen the other day?” I say. “Just tell me.” He complained about the same shoulder that day, so I’m worried he got injured and is refusing to let me know.
“No, of course not. I must’ve slept funny on my shoulder the entire flight back.”
We flew first class, so I doubt he was uncomfortable on the flatbed. He’s probably tired from the trip and carried too much weight up the stairs. I know my suitcase is heavy.
“Okay.” I let it go because I’m making a big deal out of nothing and turn around to roll my suitcase down the hall to my room. “See you downstairs for dinner?”
I wait for his reply because I desperately need him to sit beside me at the table and act as a human shield against my mom.
“I’ll see you in a bit.”
Can this eternal day be over yet?