Chapter 22
IT’S A STRETCH
HENRY YANKS OPEN the gym’s glass door two miles into my run. I look away, embarrassment crawling up my spine. I can’t unsee it now. I can’t brush off the shame of how desperately I’ve been clinging to him, to the idea of us becoming something more than friends.
I’ve been injecting this frantic, needy energy into our friendship, and he’s been patient enough, kind enough, to sidestep it without hurting me. To be there for me as a coach and as a friend. Because I’m positive I’ve made my feelings obvious, even if I thought I was playing it cool.
It stops now.
Henry stands beside me and taps my headphones. I pull them off, letting them hang around my neck.
“Hey, Bells,” he says with a smile.
My brows pull in.
“Hey.” I jerk my chin at him and refocus on the treadmill’s monitor.
“Happy birthday.”
“Thanks.”
“I thought you might be here since you weren’t answering your door or your texts,” he says, bracing his forearms on the treadmill’s side handle. “I know you don’t usually sleep in. You’re an early riser like me.”
Silence.
“I don’t think it’s necessary for you to run more than three miles today.” His voice shifts, firmer now, like he’s trying to draw me in. “You should let your body recover for tomorrow. You’ve trained hard these past months. No need to push yourself. You’re already in great shape.”
I keep my gaze on the numbers flashing on the screen.
He’s right. But that doesn’t mean I’m going to stop.
Having Henry’s full attention on me makes me want to slam the emergency button and throw myself into his arms. To come clean about the chaos in my head. To let him help me make sense of it all. To tell him how sad and frustrated I feel.
But I can’t.
I won’t let myself go there. Not again. I need space. To breathe. To think. And maybe he does too and hasn’t realized it yet. I’m done throwing myself at someone who doesn’t want me. From now on, I’m all business.
And this is the moment my body chooses to betray me …
My toe stiffens.
I should’ve stretched before stepping on the treadmill today, but I didn’t.
The stiffness creeps through the sole of my left foot, arching it in an excruciating way and making me jump off on one foot.
“Henry!” I hiss, panic flooding my mind as pain contorts my face.
He yanks the emergency string, bringing the treadmill to an abrupt halt. I wobble, struggling to balance on my right foot, gripping the side handles while Henry assesses the situation.
“Muscle. Cramp,” I grit out with a hiss, lowering myself to the floor. “Left foot.”
I rip off my sunglasses and toss them aside.
The gym is mostly empty, with a couple of tennis players working out, too absorbed in their routines to notice. Thank God. The last thing I need is people whispering about an injury I don’t have.
Henry tugs off my tennis shoe and sock as I lower myself back on the floor. My foot curls tighter, cramping further as he works to stretch it out, his hands firm but careful, coaxing the muscles to relax.
Finally, the tension gives. The pain fades, and my muscles loosen.
Henry keeps hold of my foot, his hands still wrapped around it, keeping it stretched and warm.
“Fuck,” I mutter, exhaling hard as I swipe away the sweat from my forehead with the back of my hand, my chest heaving.
“Better?” Henry asks, lowering my foot slowly back to the floor.
I barely have time to nod before my heel jerks upward and my calf locks up.
“Henry!” I grind my teeth, pointing at my calf.
“Shit.” Henry grabs my foot again, his grip firm as he flexes it, pushing back against the muscle’s tightening. A fresh wave of pain shoots through me, and I whimper. This is not good. My body can’t afford to rebel against me at the Australian Open.
After a few endless, agonizing seconds, the cramp releases.
“Stay put. I’m calling Greg.”
“I’m fine.” I wasn’t planning on moving, anyway.
Greg, my sports physical therapist, is one of the best in the game. He works with plenty of top players and travels with the tour, but his schedule is insane, so I doubt he’ll be available. Everyone fights for his time.
Henry pulls his phone from his pocket and dials, pacing as he presses it to his ear. He drags a rough hand through his hair, exhaling sharply.
“He’s not picking up,” he mutters after a few seconds. He dials again. “Did you sleep or eat last night? I wouldn’t put it past you to run on an empty stomach. You can’t neglect yourself during a tournament like this—”
“I said I’m fine,” I cut in.
He gives me a stern look. “If we were back home, I’d let this slide, but I can’t risk you cramping up tomorrow on the court.”
He’s right, again, but all I want is a hot shower and to wait for Gemma to get here.
I’m about to argue my case when Henry lifts a finger, silently asking me to hold that thought. He steps slightly away, phone to his ear, his voice low but clear.
“Greg? … Yeah, it’s Henry Mitchell. Are you available?
… Belén’s left foot and calf cramped up on the treadmill …
No, she’s fine now, but I’d like for you to take a look at her.
She’s playing tomorrow … Okay, I understand …
Sure, but … Fine. Send me the photos and any other instructions …
5:00 p.m. sounds good … I’ll text you her room number and let the guys downstairs know you’re coming up …
Thanks, man. I appreciate it … See you later. ”
He hangs up with a heavy exhale, slipping his phone into his pocket while a crease settles between his brows.
“Greg is tied up with an infiltration,” he says. “He can be here at five to make sure you’re good to go for tomorrow.”
Henry kneels beside me with his eyes fixed on his phone screen. “He sent over some stretching exercises for you to do now.” He scrolls through the conversation, clearing his throat. “I’ll help you through them.”
Finally, he glances at me from the corner of his eye, his piercing blue gaze flickering with something unreadable. “Sound good?”
“Is it really necessary?” I prop myself up on my elbows, hoping to negotiate. I know it’s necessary. Whatever Greg says goes. But the last thing I need is Henry hovering over me, guiding me through these stretches.
He rises to his full height, towering over me, and brings over a yoga mat from a nearby rack.
“On your back, Freeman,” he orders, jerking his chin toward the mat while his lips curl into a knowing smile.
Mercy …
I squash the urge to roll my eyes and do as I’m told.
“Okay,” he says, his eyes flicking over Greg’s instructions again. “It’s pretty standard.”
Henry kneels beside me, repeating the same motions as before, stretching my foot at different angles. His grip is firm but careful, and he moves with the precision of someone who knows exactly what he’s doing.
He works his way up, his hands skimming my calf, guiding me as he instructs, “Cross your left ankle over your right quad.”
I follow his cue, and the moment I do, he leans in, his weight pressing the stretch deeper. A sharp but satisfying burn spreads through my left hamstring and glute.
I shut my eyes, exhaling through the tension.
“Why didn’t you answer my text this morning?” he asks, his tone serious.
When I open my eyes, his face is so close that I instinctively widen them for a heartbeat. There’s nowhere to go. His weight keeps me pinned against the mat under the guise of necessity.
It is necessary. I remind myself of that.
“Are you still angry at me?”
“Very much.” I’m not in the mood to lie or sugarcoat things for him like I have done countless times before. “But I got your gift,” I mutter. “Unfortunately, I loved it. Which only pisses me off more.”
Henry snorts.
“Switch.” He pulls back, giving me room to change position so he can mirror the stretch on my other leg. His hands stay clinical, and his focus remains locked on the movement.
I take a deep breath, feeling my muscles relaxing even further.
“I couldn’t sleep last night,” he mutters.
Good.
“Why?” I ask as he presses my leg closer to my chest, his face drawing near mine again. I’m the one who slept like shit because of him, so he doesn’t get to make me feel bad about his self-inflicted insomnia.
The fire in his eyes reminds me of how he scanned me from head to toe yesterday when I undressed to get him to leave.
It stirs something deep inside me. But then I think about why I’m pissed off, about all the lies and omissions, and realize the warmth spreading in my belly feels eerily similar.
Anger and desire. Two sides of the same coin.
Henry drinks in the look on my face and pulls back, not bothering to tell me what’s next on the stretching to-do list. Instead, he guides my leg across my body, slow and precise, keeping my shoulder pinned.
The stretch hits deep, but it’s not the only thing making it hard to breathe.
There’s something about the way he adjusts me, steady and focused, that sends a strange thrill through me.
He leans down again, his lips brushing my ear, and whispers, “I couldn’t get the image of Theo and you out of my head. That’s why.”
I’ve never seen Henry like this. There’s a raw edge in his voice. He’s jealous. And I love it. It’s invigorating. He’s shown me his weakness for once, and I’ll make him regret that he ever did because I need him to figure out his feelings. Even if it’s the hard way.
Even if I shouldn’t.
He shifts to my other leg, lowering his face until it’s once again inches from mine.
I smile. He doesn’t.
“It amuses you?” he mutters. “Seeing me like this?”
“It does, Coach.”
His brows knit together at the mention of his job title. I know it messes with his head. Probably reminds him of the line he swore not to cross. The unspoken promise he made to my dad. Because he’s just Henry.
“Theo’s playboy reputation precedes him,” Henry continues. “Are the rumors true?”
“Maybe.” I tease him with a coy smile.
“Bells.”
“Henry.” I tilt my head, narrowing my eyes at him.
What does he expect me to say?