Chapter 19
AUSTRALIAN OPEN
“YOU CRUSHED IT!” Dad shouts with a grin as I step off the court. “Congratulations!” He pulls me in for a tight hug.
Henry is standing right behind him, a proud look on his face. I grin, offering him a quick nod. I know I’ll hug him as soon as my dad lets go.
I want that hug.
“We need to talk,” Dad says, holding my shoulders at arm’s length. His excitement is contagious, and he can’t stop smiling.
“Of course,” I reply, brushing the sweat off my face with a towel.
I won the third-round match 6-4, 6-3 against Jules Peeters, a tough Belgian player, advancing to the fourth round.
I’ve been feeling great with my game in Australia, and I have Henry to thank for that. He’s been so committed to my training. It’s like we both locked in after that night almost three months ago when we finally laid everything out and chose to focus on my training.
“Bells!” Henry slides my duffle bag’s strap off my shoulder, drops it on the floor, and wraps his arms around me. “You were fantastic.” He presses a gentle kiss on the top of my head as we sway from side to side, and I sink into his warmth.
All the hard work has paid off. After ending things with Liam, I’ve felt more focused. More like myself. And as much as I hate to admit it, I know I let myself get caught up in him. He was never the problem. I was. I made Liam my escape when I should have been focused on my tennis career.
I’d be lying if I said I don’t miss him though.
Because I do. We were close. He mattered.
But processing the end of our relationship has been easier than I thought it’d be.
Maybe it’s because we haven’t talked or seen each other since the breakup, or maybe it’s that, deep down, I knew we were heading here.
Ojos que no ven, corazón que no siente. Out of sight, out of mind.
However, I know Liam never misses the Australian Open. He and his brothers come every year. It’s their ritual. He spends the holidays at home in Sydney with his family, then they fly to Melbourne for the event.
The thought of seeing him makes me anxious, no matter how much I’ve tried to push it away. As if I didn’t already have enough conflicting thoughts swirling in my head.
Lately, I can’t stop worrying about my mom’s drinking.
She’s an alcoholic.
I’m still trying to make peace with calling it that.
Henry says it’s important to call it what it is.
That it starts with people excusing their loved ones and pretending it’s not a problem.
So yeah, I’m worried. I keep wondering what’s at the root of it.
A part of me thinks she’s trying to escape something; her life or her regrets, one gin and tonic at a time.
But I’m part of that life. Does that make me part of what she’s trying to escape?
Henry insists that’s not it. We talk about it more often than I should admit. He gets it, his dad went through worse. But that doesn’t make it easier. If anything, it means he knows how much it hurts. And he’s the only person I can truly talk to about this.
I haven’t said much to Gemma. She’s not clueless, but I haven’t found the courage to open up about it.
It could be shame. No one understands the feeling better than Henry or Robbie, but let’s be honest …
Robbie’s mind is usually elsewhere. School, girls, gym, partying.
I tried bringing it up to him once, but he brushed it off. He’s clearly in denial.
I’m grateful to have my best friend back.
That leads to another set of swirling thoughts.
Henry.
Dealing with my feelings for him has been … a lot.
I’ve done my best to focus on tennis and push those confusing thoughts aside. For now. Training with him every day makes me beyond happy. It fills me with a sense of peace I’d forgotten I was missing.
It’s evident he’s enjoying the time we spend together, too. I still can’t believe we’re freaking roommates and get to spend most of the day together.
I’ve caught him staring at me numerous times. When he thinks I’m distracted, when he’s waiting for me to tie my shoelaces before we leave, when I take my time resetting my racket’s strings, when I redo my ponytail, or when he holds the door for me to step into the SUV.
It’s always in casual, unguarded moments like those. But I always pretend to be beneath his notice. I’m afraid to see what happens if I meet his gaze and let him know I know he’s looking at me. Will he look away? Will he stop altogether?
I’m scared to look into his eyes and realize it’s nothing more than a fleeting glance from a guy who sees me as just a friend. Someone he’s simply grown used to having around.
When it comes to Henry, it’s easier to play dumb. I’ve forced myself to act clueless, ignoring my instincts, because despite my fears, I can feel the electricity between us. It’s undeniable. But I also see the way he keeps shying away from it.
I’m sick of him being lukewarm, mellow, and … polite. So damn polite. Like he’s scared of setting off a bomb we both know is already ticking.
I wish I could rattle him, but I’m too chicken-shit to actually try. It feels like gambling with our friendship, and that’s a risk I’m not willing to take. We’ve reconnected on a deeper level, and I refuse to jeopardize that.
Our interactions are either fun or meaningful, at least when he’s not busy being the ruthless coach he loves to be.
It’s better to let things be.
I keep catching myself daydreaming about that kiss. I remember the way he kissed me back, the passion in it, raw and real. It confuses me. It makes me wonder if he ever thinks about it, too. If he considers the possibility of us being something more than friends.
“Why don’t we head back to the hotel once you’re done with the press?” Dad suggests. “I’ve got some exciting news to share with you both.”
“Of course.” I smile, feeling the nerves creeping in.
I can tell Henry’s anxious, too. His jaw tightens, and he gives me that tight-lipped smile he pulls out when he’s trying to act unbothered. But his shoulders are too stiff, and his eyes flick away long enough to betray him.
He grabs my bag, and I become aware of the crowd shouting my name, congratulating me as we head toward the press tent. I smile and wave effusively, soaking it all in. The support feels incredible, and I pray to God I never take it for granted.
Gemma: We’re in LA boarding our plane for Melbourne! See you real soon, ok?
I’m so excited you were able to make it!
Gemma: I promised I wouldn’t miss it this year. It’s going to be so much fun! I wish I could stay with you in your ridiculously huge suite. You’re so spoiled.
Sponsors went all in for my birthday. I’m sure I can sneak you in for a sleepover ;)
Gemma: Um, no thanks. Grand Slam Tío Joe is no fun and legit scares the shit out of me.
I laugh out loud in the car. Henry and Dad both give me a look. Dad’s super strict about me keeping to my sleeping schedule at tournaments, especially on Grand Slams like the Australian Open.
“It’s Gemma,” I say, looking at my screen and typing a reply.
My dad can be a real pain in the ass. Good thing Robbie and my mom are coming too. They’ll keep you company while I’m busy. Vlad too LOL.
Gemma: Your mom didn’t make it, B. It’s just Robbie, Vlad, and me. I’m sorry. I thought you knew.
My stomach lurches, and I can feel my breath catching in my chest. I don’t need this right now.
My mom promised to be here, and I believed her this time. She seemed excited and sober when we talked about it. I don’t care if she attends my matches. I wanted her to be here for my birthday, and I stupidly got excited about her coming.
Fuck this.
I didn’t. Did she say why she couldn’t make it?
Gemma: I asked Robbie, but he wouldn’t tell me why.
Thanks for letting me know. My dad doesn’t seem to care enough to tell me.
Gemma: I’m sorry. I’m sure he’s planning on doing so. Maybe he didn’t want to stress you before your match today.
It’s not your fault.
Gemma: Congrats on your win today!
Thanks!
Gemma: I need to turn off my phone, but I’ll see you very, very soon! Love you!
Safe flight. Love you too!
I toss my phone into my backpack as the car parks in the motor lobby of the hotel where most of the players are staying. A handful of paparazzi wait outside, ready to snap photos of anyone coming and going.
Dad instinctively puts an arm around me and guides me inside.
As we walk through the lobby, a female voice calls out in the distance.
“Henry Mitchell!”
We turn to see a petite girl with light brown hair pulled back in a messy ponytail. She’s clearly a tennis player and looks familiar, though we’ve never met. There are so many new athletes this year that it’s hard to keep track of all the names and faces.
“Evan?” Henry grins and rushes toward her.
“I figured I’d run into you here,” she says, pulling him in for a hug. He hugs her back.
I clear my throat, watching, waiting for her to peel her face off Henry’s chest. But I’m not going anywhere until I figure out who this cute little thing wrapped around his waist is.
“Evan, this is—”
“Belén Freeman,” she cuts in with a chuckle, finally pulling away but keeping a tight distance between them. “And my opponent for the fourth-round match on Sunday.”
Of course.
“Evan King?” my dad asks, holding out his hand. She takes it with a smile and nods.
I knew her name sounded familiar. I know who she is on paper, but I didn’t know what she looked like until now.
“Nice to meet you.” She offers me her hand, and I shake it firmly.
“You were great out there today,” Evan says. “Jules is tough. She destroyed me at the Luxembourg Open last October.” She laughs. Sweetly. She’s adorable, and judging by the way Henry smiles at her with squinty eyes, he must agree.
“Jules plays some very proactive tennis,” I say, like I’m quoting a press release.
I don’t enjoy mingling too much with opponents before a match. I’d rather ignore them if possible. It’s hard enough to make friends in a sport as competitive as tennis, only to have to face off against them later. But Evan seems likable. Impossible to dislike, even.
Still, I intend to keep this encounter short and sweet. For technical reasons.
“You bet,” she replies, turning back to Henry. “Will you guys be at the Coop Craft Brewery cocktail party tomorrow?”
“We will,” Henry answers quickly. “Neel Ultex is co-sponsoring the event, and Belén has to make an appearance. It’s also her birthday, so she deserves the night off.” He meets my gaze, his lip curling into a smile.
“Oh, fun!” She brushes Henry’s arm, and I swear I feel my left eye twitch and the vein in my forehead start pulsing.
“As long as Belén’s back at the hotel by nine sharp,” Dad adds.
I roll my eyes. Of course he had to say that.
“Well, I guess I’ll see you there?” Evan says, eyes locked on Henry. “There’s so much we need to catch up on. We miss you back in Chicago.”
The plot thickens.
“Yeah, I miss you guys, too,” Henry says, sounding oddly uncomfortable. I wish I knew why. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“I’ll text you,” Evan adds with the kind of confidence that makes it sound like a daily habit. “Do you still have the same number?”
Man, she moves fast …
At least that means they haven’t been in touch.
“I do,” he replies, a little too fast for my liking. Not that it’s any of my business who Henry talks to, or doesn’t, even if my blood pressure disagrees.
“It was nice meeting you,” she says to Dad and me with a warm, genuine smile.
I want to hate her, but I can’t. Evan seems like a genuinely lovely girl, and I’m just jealous. She’s probably nothing but a friend from Chicago.
“Nice to meet you, too,” Dad replies.
“I’ll see you on Sunday,” I say, but the words come out sharper than I intended. Like a threat.
Evan’s eyes widen slightly before she nods. She mentioned she’s attending the party tomorrow, so I’ll see her there first anyway.
Evan walks away, tossing a cutesy wave over her shoulder.
I’m going to eat her alive next Sunday, and she won’t see it coming.
We head toward the elevators and ride up to my suite, where Dad is finally ready to share his exciting news.
“Alright,” Dad says, settling into the massive armchair in my suite’s living room. Henry and I sit on the green velvet sofa across from him.
“I found the perfect coach for you,” he announces with a grin, rubbing his hands excitedly. “You’re going to meet him tomorrow.”
Aaaand we’re fucked.
“Who is it?” Henry asks, his voice deep and his brow furrowed.
“Tim McEnroe.”