Chapter 3
three
Less than half an hour into my stretching and band work, Anya comes to the players’ gym to roll out with Aleksandr, her voice loud and obnoxious as she, no doubt, prepares for a night of partying after her win.
It becomes so irksome, I have to turn my music up to a near painful decibel to drown her out, and even then, her laughter pulls me ever closer to ripping out an earbud and yelling at her.
Aleksandr, on the other hand, has remained quiet, glancing over at me with pinched brows, his lips tilted down, which is rare for him. Not that I pay attention.
When the urge to strangle her becomes too strong, I pull out my earphones and put my more heavy-duty over-the-ear headphones around my neck, shoving my resistance bands into my tennis bag.
Sleek floors gleam under bright lights, and treadmills line the far wall, with windows that look over the darkened park, their digital displays blinking.
Behind them stand rows of bikes and erg machines that gradually give way to a sprawling equipment area—cable stations, benches, racks, medicine balls, anything an athlete might need.
As I walk toward the treadmills, Anya heads to the door. She turns over her shoulder and calls, “Sasha, are you coming?” She and her parents are the only ones I’ve heard call him that, a family nickname I assume. Her grinning eyes slip to mine, brightening when she notices I’m watching her.
“I’ll meet you in the hotel lobby before dinner,” Aleksandr responds. I can’t see him now that I’ve reached a treadmill, the roll out area cut off from my view.
Oh well. None of my business. Headphones on, music cranked up, I begin a cooldown walk that’ll hopefully earn me a couple of hours of sleep tonight.
The match replays in my head as I move, missed forehands flashing behind my eyes when I blink, double faults when I breathe in, failed return shots when I breathe out.
My muscles ache with fatigue from the last two weeks, and yet no pain can match the defeat settling between my shoulder blades.
There’s movement in my periphery. My eyes snap to it, finding Aleksandr standing beside my treadmill.
His hair has grown out since he shaved it in November, light brown at the roots and blond near the top, locks curling softly over one another.
His face is tan from his time on court, and his blue eyes sparkle despite those pinched brows hanging over them.
Well-muscled shoulders stretch his stupid slutty workout shirt taut against his chest and biceps and ending just below the waistband of his sweatpants so that when he lifts his hand to wave at me, a flash of his abs is exposed.
Clearly it’s been a while since I hooked up with someone.
I look away like I’ve been burned, zoning back in on the music pumping through my blood. I refuse to glance back; we have nothing to say to each other, no reason to speak. Plus, in about an hour, he’ll be toasting to his sister’s victory over me. That’s enough to continue fueling my blank stare.
His large hand covers the speed controls, dropping my pace until I rip down my headphones and glare at him.
“Can I help you?”
“Why are you training right now? You should be resting.” His lips are still turned down.
“And you should be worrying about your sister, not me.”
His lips twitch. “As a strength and conditioning coach, I feel I am obligated to make sure you’re not overtraining and hurting yourself for the future.”
I roll my eyes, slapping his hand away from the controls and increasing the speed. I add an extra couple of taps to get it faster than before, for good measure. Aleksandr doesn’t walk away like I want him to though.
The infuriating eldest Morozov played on the men’s ATP tour for years, winning a few majors before he retired, surprisingly, on a high note as the world number three.
He got his credentials to become a performance coach and joined Anya’s team last year, traveling with her all season.
When one of the head strength coaches left the Morozov Tennis Academy—his parents’ training facility in Orlando where Delilah, Sahar, Harper, and I all train during the offseason—in October, he took over offseason strength and conditioning sessions.
Unfortunately, Nora was at home taking care of a sick family member in November, so I had no option but to join a couple of times a week. Since then he has, it seems, made it his mission to annoy me despite the few words I’ve spoken to him and how quickly I dismiss him.
“Is there a reason you’re bothering me?” I ask when, two minutes later, he’s still here.
This time, he grins softly. “Aren’t I always bothering you?”
“Okay,” I concede. “Is there a reason you’re bothering me more than usual?”
“How about I leave you alone when you stop overworking yourself after two weeks of ridiculously high-level play and practice and a competitive finals match?”
“How about you leave me alone and I won’t throw a dumbbell at your head?”
Aleksandr chuckles deeply, the sound a rumble as his head dips. “Now that I’d like to see.”
I don’t know why I allow him to burrow under my skin like this, but I genuinely contemplate hopping off the belt and grabbing something to chuck at his head. Pen would be none too pleased.
“You’re seriously thinking about it, aren’t you?” he asks around another laugh.
“Are you going to wait around and find out?” My eyes lock on his, hopefully a clear message that I’m refusing to back down.
“I think I am.”
When he doesn’t budge after another minute, a groan rips from my chest. I slam my hand onto the off button and jump from the treadmill, hurrying toward my bag.
Throwing it over my shoulder, I trudge to the main door.
My lower back twinges, an old injury that enjoys rearing its head here and there, but if Aleksandr notices my knuckle pressing into the muscle, he doesn’t say.
“Wipe the treadmill for me since you’re so intent on my leaving,” I say over my shoulder.
Grabbing my phone and ignoring the pang of disappointment—but not surprise—at seeing no calls or texts from my parents, I dial the first (and okay, only) person I think of, putting it to my ear as it rings.
To Aleksandr, who has caught up to me in the hallway outside the gym, I respond, “Stop stalking me.”
He shakes his head as I slow to walk behind him. “We’re going to the same hotel.”
After the fifth ring, Delilah’s soft, soothing voice mumbles, “Hello?”
The slight garble in her voice makes me pull away to check the time. “Shit, Del, sorry.” It’s after eleven in Orlando. With all the traveling I do, my internal clock is ruined and I’ve completely forgotten.
A deeper voice grumbles from beside her, and Delilah hushes her boyfriend, Matteo, before the phone is shuffled around. “Nic, hi.” The last dregs of sleep cling to the words.
“Go back to bed. We’ll talk tomorrow.”
“No, no. I’m awake.” A door snicks shut. I picture her leaving her bedroom in our apartment across the street from the academy before shuffling to the couch and settling in beneath the odd mix of art on the wall. “What’s up?”
My eyes flick to Aleksandr, noting he’s still within earshot.
Loudly enough for him to hear, I answer, “I was trying to get Aleksandr to leave me alone. Apparently being on the phone will do the trick.” His chuckle drifts back to me.
Grinding my teeth together, I drop my voice.
“He’s annoying the hell out of me. And the last thing I want is to be around any Morozov. ”
Delilah giggles. “What is he wearing?”
“What a bizarre question for you to ask about a man who is not the man in your bed right now.”
“Oh, please. I’m simply trying to figure out if the reason you’re calling me is because you’re flustered by his ‘slutty little T-shirt.’”
“I’m not flustered,” I mutter.
“No,” she agrees. “Just annoyed.”
The cool evening air wraps around me as I cross out of the Indian Wells Tennis Garden and toward my hotel.
“You doing okay?” Delilah asks me quietly after a minute or so.
Sometimes I wish she didn’t know me so well. It’s been a year and a half since we began growing close, but playing doubles together last season, plus spending the offseason living together, sped the process up significantly.
When I first arrived in Orlando to train at the Morozov Tennis Academy, Maya, Delilah, Sahar, and Harper were incredibly tight.
Sahar and Harper are like sisters, having spent their childhoods playing together.
Maya and Delilah were doubles partners for years and roommates to boot.
I was sure there was no place for me, and when they began including me in outings, I felt like an outsider. A fifth wheel.
I pushed them all away, tried to keep to myself so I could cut those feelings off before they grew, but Delilah didn’t let me.
She took me in like a stray dog in the way only Delilah seems capable of, and for once, the loneliness abated.
I finally felt the belonging I’d been chasing all my life.
My free time was filled with movie and game nights with the girls, along with Delilah’s childhood friend, Austin, and Sahar’s coach, Noah.
And when Maya left the tour due to a career-ending injury, suddenly I was living with Delilah and more entrenched in the group than ever.
“I’m okay.”
“Nic.”
Up ahead, Aleksandr has stopped outside the hotel to talk to a player on the men’s tour. He’s laughing and clapping the guy on his back like he never left the tour, though I can’t hear what they’re saying.
“You can tell me what you’re really feeling, you know,” Delilah murmurs.
I eye the side entrance. “There are so many points I would have played differently. To go from being up a set to losing…And god, don’t even get me started on Anya.”
“You played incredibly. I’ve never seen you like that. It was a tough match.”
I sigh.
“Was Anya really that bad?”
“Delilah, she yelled, ‘Let’s go!’ after I double faulted. And again two points later when she won a point from a net cord. Who does that?”
Laughing, Delilah answers, “She does that to get under your skin. You have to ignore it. She doesn’t do things like that to me because she knows it won’t bother me.”
“No, she doesn’t do that to you because she likes you.”
She makes an acknowledging noise, then yawns.
“I’ll let you go. Crisis averted with the other Morozov, and I’m back at the hotel.”
“Alright,” she answers sleepily. “See you tomorrow?”
“Yeah, see you then.”
As I duck into the hidden private entrance to the hotel, I wonder how different life would be if Delilah and I had continued to play doubles together.
Karolína and I went back and forth for days until we decided it was best I focus my energy on singles, but maybe if we were still playing, we would’ve been here together, hoisting a doubles trophy at Indian Wells.
Getting dinner together. Flying home together.
I’m so incredibly happy that Delilah and Matteo started playing mixed doubles together and then fell into their relationship.
They make sense in that otherworldly soulmate way that few people do—to the point that, in the beginning, even I was able to tell when they needed a moment alone.
But that doesn’t prevent the prick of jealousy I feel at times, the loneliness that Delilah kept at bay creeping back in.
I want, for once, to be someone’s first priority. Their first choice.
But there are pieces of me that are too worn or jagged to fit together with anyone else’s, and I’ve resigned myself to that fact. My minimal social skills and abrasiveness may make relationships off court too difficult, but no one cared about that when I was winning.
All the masses care about is who holds the trophies at the end of the day. And one of these days, it’s going to be me again.