Chapter 37 Trophy Room
TROPHY ROOM
I kick my foot against the door because my hands are full and I can’t fetch my keys. I hear footsteps, hoping they’re Henry’s, and the door swings open.
“Happy birthday,” I say, hugging my two trophies. “I promised you one, but I brought a little extra shine for good measure.”
I shoot him a cocky grin and kiss my Roland Garros cup before stepping inside to settle the trophies on the table.
All my trophies go in the trophy room at my parents’ place in Montclair, alongside my mom’s cups, my dad’s rings, and every other piece of family sports paraphernalia.
I’m just here to pick up Henry and Dora.
Mom’s hosting a dinner to welcome us back, send Dora off since she’s leaving tomorrow, and celebrate Henry’s birthday.
“Greedy little necia,” he murmurs, his eyes dragging over the trophies before landing on me again. He tugs me in by the waist with his left hand, pulling me closer. His right arm just came out of the sling, and he still needs to be careful with his movements.
“Is the texting ban lifted yet?”
“God, yes.” He presses a kiss to my neck and another behind my ear, sending goosebumps down my spine. “But I’m kidnapping you for a few days. No texts. No Tim. Just me. I’m not sharing you this week.”
I throw my head back and laugh. He doesn’t miss the opportunity to kiss the hollow of my neck.
Henry was strict about our no-texting rule. While I was away, we had a scheduled call every day, and we clung to every minute. He said it would make the distance easier and help me focus. It did.
As much as I complained at first, he was right. It turned out to be exactly what I needed: convenient and grounding. Knowing we had a set time to talk every night helped me forget about my phone altogether. It became the perfect nightcap before bed.
I stand on tiptoe and run my fingers through the sides of his hair, careful not to mess it up too much. We have a dinner to attend.
He digs his fingers into my waist and kisses me. I get lost in it for a moment before pulling back.
“Your mom,” I whisper. “She’ll see us.”
“She’s been at the country club all day with your mom,” he mutters, low and needy, making my brain short-circuit. “We’re alone.”
“Oh.” I pretend to gasp. “And they left us unsupervised here like this?”
“Reckless, really,” he counters, sliding his hand around my neck. He takes my mouth and walks backward toward my room, where he’s been staying while I’ve been gone. I can feel his erection pressing against my front, and an aching heat ignites low in my belly.
I grab the door handle and push it open.
“Your shoulder,” I say between soft, breathless pants.
My eyes flick around the room. It’s tidier than I’ve ever seen, but it’s all Henry. His books on my desk. A hoodie tossed over a chair. His favorite mug on my nightstand. His aftershave still hanging in the air.
I’m definitely keeping him.
“I need you,” he breathes in my ear, grinding his hips into mine and pulling on the waistband of my sweatpants. “I’ll be careful.”
The back of my knees hit the bed, and I spin him around, undoing the buttons of his shirt. I carefully slip it off his shoulders and toss it onto the desk.
I kiss him. It’s desperate and starved. He kisses me back, matching each stroke of my tongue with his own. His jeans are next. I tug them down, letting them pool on the floor. He steps out of them, unwilling to break the kiss.
But I do.
“Lay down,” I tell him. “And don’t be necio.”
He raises an amused eyebrow but stays seated at the edge of the bed, defiance dripping from his eyes.
Henry likes moving me around at his will, and I deeply enjoy yielding myself to him. It’s liberating not having to think and just letting myself feel.
But not today.
Not for a while. Not until he’s healed.
I can’t risk it when there’s so much on the line. He needs to heal properly, and one wrong move could set his recovery back. Or worse, ruin everything he’s just now letting himself hope for.
He blinks slowly and takes a deep breath like he’s been counting down the days until he’s free to move again.
“Take off your clothes,” he rasps out. “It’s my birthday. Do as I tell you.”
I snort but peel off my sweatshirt anyway and toss it to the floor. My sweatpants follow. He’s sitting on the bed, staring at me. Impatient and ready.
I’m down to my underwear and sports bra.
He drinks me in with his gaze and hooks a finger on my underwear.
“These too.”
I let my panties slip to the floor and pull my sports bra over my head before he asks me to.
“Let your hair down.” His voice is low and hoarse, making my breath catch.
I pull on my hair tie and release my ponytail, letting my long, dark hair flow down my shoulders.
“Beautiful.” He grabs my hand and kisses his way up to my forearm. He licks two fingers and slips them between my legs, moving in slow, torturous circles over my sensitive center.
I gasp and let out a moan.
He smiles, proud and needy, satisfaction written all over his features.
“Lay down,” I try again, breathless and bossy, even though we both know he only takes orders from me outside the bedroom.
But he pulls me onto the bed with him instead, kissing me deep and slow as his hands roam carefully, memorizing me all over again.
I feel the hunger in his touch, the restraint in every movement, the heat between us coiling tighter until neither of us can contain it any longer.
And then we stop talking because there’s nothing left to say.
Henry, Dad, Dora, and I are in the trophy room.
They’re helping me find the perfect spot for my two new additions.
They pass the phone around, snapping pictures of me with the trophies, and then with each of them in front of my display.
I’m still amazed to see my wall coming together, even if it’s a fraction of what Mom and Dad have.
I glance at Mom’s US Open silver cups and instantly hate myself for the flicker of misplaced jealousy that sparks in my chest. My career’s just starting, and with how things are going, I shouldn’t be comparing myself to her.
But what if I don’t win this year? Or the next?
She’ll always shove it in my face. How she won the US Open title at nineteen and will always act like that makes her better than me.
It won’t matter if it’s not true, even if I eventually become the better player.
She’ll dangle that win over my head, making me feel like I’ll never measure up to her greatness.
Henry notices I spaced out and tells me to stand next to my trophies so he can snap some fun photos. I play along to get out of my head and change the vibe. It’s his birthday, and I won’t let myself spiral about Mom or the backlogged shit that always surfaces to bite me in the ass.
Dora laughs at my silly faces and poses while Dad shakes his head, smiling.
“Good evening,” Mom purrs, drink in hand and leaning against the doorframe, taking in the scene.
My smile vanishes.
She’s wearing a silky ivory blouse tucked into high-waisted tailored black trousers that fit like a glove.
Her signature red lipstick is flawless and untouched despite her drinking habits.
The two Cartier Love bracelets glint around her wrist each time she lifts her glass.
But her eyes… They’re red-rimmed and glassy.
I can’t tell if she’s been crying or if she’s just drunk again.
“Well, damn, I didn’t realize there’d be a red carpet,” Dora quips. She’s in jeans, flats, and a white linen shirt she’s probably been wearing all day. The rest of us are dressed like it’s a Tuesday, not the Met Gala.
“That’s hysterical,” Mom deadpans, offering Dora a kind, warm smile that looks pretty genuine from where I’m standing. “It was only fitting to say goodbye to my good friend and celebrate Henry’s birthday.”
“And Belén’s outstanding clay season,” Dad adds, gripping my shoulders with that quiet, protective pride. “And the two trophies she brought home.”
Huh. He’s defending me.
“Of course.” She waves a hand like it’s silly of her to have forgotten.
Even Dad doesn’t buy it this time, and he always tries.
“It’s your turn to take a photo with Belén,” Dora says, waving her over with a bright smile, clearly trying to lighten the mood. “Come!”
Mom considers Dora’s statement in silence, then says, “Dinner’s ready.” She smiles, but her face looks weary underneath it. I can see the effort it takes her to summon it. “Maybe later.”
Half of me exhales. The other half caves in.
A photo with Mom? Just her and me. I can’t remember the last time we did that. Let alone with one of my trophies.
“I’m starving,” Henry says, once again saving the day like it’s his part-time job.
“Very well, then.” Mom turns and ambles away.
Henry grabs my hand and leads me out. Dad and Dora follow.
Robbie walks in as we sit down. He looks … different. Tired. Dimmed. That golden aura he usually carries and that lights up every room has dulled. It’s hazy around the edges now.
He blames the internship, but I know better. He misses Gemma. I can see it. He almost admitted it once. I can’t ignore the quiet way he’s coming apart due to her absence.
I stand to greet him, and he hugs me tightly as if wanting to ground himself.
“I missed you whining around the house all day,” he says, breaking the embrace. “Glad to have you back.” He gives me a tight smile and brightens a little. “Show me your trophies after dinner?”
“Of course.”
“Let’s eat before our food gets cold,” Mom says with a bite, adding two more ice cubes to her watered-down drink.
“I’m excited for Wimbledon,” Robbie says, cutting himself a slice of cake right after we finish singing Happy Birthday to Henry. Of course he is. He knows Gemma’s going to be there. “Come on, Dad. Just comp me that plane ticket already.”
“We’ll see,” Dad says, grabbing the knife and cutting himself a slice. “You can’t be careless with your internship.”
Robbie launches into his pitch.
Henry leans toward me.
“Speaking of Wimbledon.” He shifts in his seat and pulls a folded paper from his back pocket.
“What’s this?” I ask, unfolding the paper.
Robbie trails off mid-sentence. All eyes swing in our direction.
“Read it.”
“No freaking way.”
I stare at the booking reservation. One-way. London. Henry Mitchell.
“You’re coming?” I gasp. “You’re really coming?”
He nods, flashing one of those trademark Henry smirks.
“Dr. Rivera cleared me to fly. I’m coming to Wimbledon with you,” he says, beaming. “As long as I continue physical therapy on schedule and don’t do anything stupid while I’m there.”
I squeal and throw my arms around his neck, pressing a quick kiss to his cheek.
We weren’t sure if Dr. Rivera would greenlight the trip.
Henry will have completed nearly eight full weeks of recovery by the time Wimbledon starts, but they’re still being extra cautious.
Henry’s been signed with two major sponsors who are covering his physical therapy and other expenses, betting on a comeback as soon as Dr. Rivera and his shoulder allow it.
One of those sponsors is none other than Neel Ultex.
Rumors about Henry and me started swirling after Mexico. We weren’t exactly discreet after my win. A few photos, one too many smiles, and suddenly everyone was speculating. Some thought Tim replacing Henry as my coach was confirmation that we were dating.
False, but let them think whatever they want to think.
That’s when Drew had his brilliant idea: make the relationship official and use it as leverage. He pitched Neel Ultex on the possibility of a future campaign featuring both of us.
They ate it up.
According to Drew, we were irresistible marketing fuel. A rising star, a fallen athlete, real chemistry, real stakes. He spun Henry’s injury and unlikely comeback into a brandable narrative the public would root for.
Since there’s so much on the line, I wasn’t sure Dr. Rivera would authorize the trip. But he did, and I couldn’t be more excited and hopeful. Henry’s presence makes me feel like I can take over the world. Like I’m strong enough to win this time.
Dora watches us with a soft smile and crinkled eyes. Dad’s smiling, too, though one eyebrow is lifted in that classic overprotective way. It’s like his body, brain, and heart are all having different reactions to me and Henry being a thing.
“It’s your birthday, and I’m getting gifts?” I shake my head, feigning disappointment.
“You’ve spoiled me enough already.” He shrugs. “I’m just treating myself right.”
He’s not wrong. I gave him two trophies, a shoulder surgery (according to him), and a signed, special boxed set of Waking Legion, his favorite military sci-fi series. Right before surgery, he told me it counted as a birthday gift and that I was off the hook for life.
Not happening.
Mom’s staring at us, jaw tight, fingers clenched around her glass. She’s quiet, but the silence hums with judgment.
“Ah! To be young and free.” Mom’s voice cuts through the table. “At your age, Henry, I was pregnant, vomiting, and watching everything I worked for disappear.”
The table goes still.
“Addison,” Dad says quietly, but there’s steel in it.
Robbie stares at Mom, quiet disgust and disbelief all over his face, like he’s finally seeing it.
Dora rests a hand on my knee under the table and gives it a gentle squeeze. Henry slips a protective arm around my shoulders and pulls me closer because he can now.
I glance at him. “I’m sorry,” I mutter.
I know it’s your birthday. I know I should let it go. But I can’t—
“You’re allowed to be proud of me, you know,” I say, cool and even, but the words sting. “Stop making my success feel like your loss.”
I’m done pushing back chairs, slamming her fancy napkins on the table, and letting cortisol hijack my body every time I yell just to fill the air. Like some hormonal, deranged teenager she can roll her eyes at. I won’t this time. But I can’t keep quiet.
Not anymore.
“I am proud,” she says, her voice turning small and brittle. I can see the emotional chaos swirling behind her eyes. I can see how she’s battling it. “I say it all the time.”
“Not to me.”
Mom lifts her chin and perks up in her seat.
“Then I’ll just have to show you,” she says with manufactured confidence. “I’ll come see you at Wimbledon.”
She tosses that in like she didn’t just nuke my chest. Like she hasn’t broken her promise to come see me at a Grand Slam before.
But I don’t respond.
Mom stands up and approaches Dora. Hugs her. Wishes her safe travels. Kisses her cheek. She congratulates Henry again, grabs her drink, and walks away with wet eyes and a graceful stride.
This time, Dad doesn’t go after her.