Chapter 5
five
Shots Fired
Austin
Nic, if it helps, I’ve taken it upon myself to send you a list of players whose performance coach you could poach
Hey! That rhymes!
Delilah
She’s obviously not going to do that
Harper
Austin, what?? This is insane.
Sahar laughed at “Nic I’ve taken it upon myself to send you a list of players whose performance coach you could poach”
Noah
I’m with Austin. Poach a coach! Poach a coach!
Matteo
I do not recommend this.
You removed yourself from the chat.
Austin added you to the chat.
The next day, while warming up on a practice court in Miami Gardens with Delilah, the very person I’ve been trying to push out of my head appears, cones in hand.
His hair is messy, and though I’m across the court, the blue of his eyes shines the way it always seems to.
His muscles flex as he opens the gate, his biceps straining against his ridiculously tight shirt.
When I drag my eyes from him, I find Anya’s second performance coach, both her parents, and the woman herself, a smug smile on her face—still riding the high of being crowned the champion of Indian Wells, I’m sure. My blood simmers.
I told myself not to, but I looked through the draws and realized if we both keep moving on, we’ll play again in the semifinals.
My bye first round gave me lots of time with a physiotherapist, and it also means I have one less match I need to win on the way to being the Miami Open champion.
If I can keep up my level of play through tomorrow’s second-round match and over the next week and a half, I can win the same number of points here as I should have in California last week.
Watching Anya walk onto the court with her head held high, her light brown ponytail swinging, and a smirk as sinister as a predator’s on her lips reminds me of California and all the other times I haven’t been able to best her.
It reminds me that, if I do have to play her in the semifinals, I’m not so positive I’ll come out the other side a winner.
“Nic!” Karolína calls from where she sits on the bench beside Delilah’s coach. “Down the lines,” she urges, pointing to Delilah, who stands in the middle of the ad side of the court.
I nod. Ignoring Anya’s presence, or at least trying to, I slap a ball down the line, then another and another until Delilah and I are both breathing heavily.
Unfortunately, the anger that lives deep inside me has gone nowhere despite how much it usually helps to take it out on a tennis ball.
It’s not as fun as it should be, as it used to be, and that frustrates me more.
“I’m going to take a breather!” Delilah calls, walking to the bench to grab her water. Maybe I should join her, but as stupid as it sounds, it feels like showing weakness. Instead, I bounce a ball against the court four times, then toss it and slam it into the deuce side service box.
Out of nowhere, Aleksandr sidles up beside me, a grin lifting his lips. It’s such a fixed presence, like he’s forever holding back a joke. Or he just enjoys tormenting me. “You seem angry.”
My eyes narrow. I pick up another ball, but this time instead of serving it, I maintain eye contact and slap a forehand as hard as I can. It slams into the metal fence with a loud thwack. “No.”
He laughs.
“What are you doing here?” I ask when that’s not enough to scare him away.
“Anya’s training on this court,” he replies, hooking a thumb over his shoulder at the court beside mine. It takes concerted effort for my eyes not to drop to the flash of his abs the motion uncovers, but I manage.
“Shouldn’t you be training her in the gym, Mr. I Can’t See Past My Muscles?” What? What kind of insult was that?
Another laugh, and I school my features so he remains unaware that it was a slip of the tongue.
“I hadn’t realized they were so large, but I guess if they’re impressive enough for even you to notice…
” At my rolled eyes, he continues, “Plus, after the few group sessions we had together last November and December, you know I like to do lots of court work.” He says it like there’s an underlying meaning.
Like the few times I joined his sessions while Nora cared for her mother bonded us enough that we have some semblance of a relationship now.
“I hardly remember them. Must not have been very difficult or effective.”
“I’m happy to give it another go,” he answers.
The words burn like an iron on my cheeks and in my stomach. I wish for a bucket of ice dumped swiftly over my head. “I’d be happy to never talk to you again.”
“Such sharp words from someone who couldn’t take her eyes off me when I walked through the gate.”
Leveling a glare at him, I answer, “Keep dreaming. I was more focused on the fact that your sister requires four people for her conditioning.”
Aleksandr adjusts his silver chain, tucking it under his shirt collar, his grin faltering. “Yes, well, nobody can claim my parents are inattentive.” He glances back, eyeing the way his father waves at the court behind him, speaking in Russian to Anya. His mother’s hands are on her hips.
I don’t know how to answer. Instead, I slap another ball, ignoring the questioning gazes of Delilah, Karolína, and Delilah’s coach, Francesca. “There are three free courts farther away from me,” I say, changing the subject.
“You’re right, I could move us to practice court five,” he allows with a contemplative nod. “But how fun could it be to watch you try to break your strings with a ball from that far away? Nah, I’d rather see your power up close and personal.”
“A kink of yours?”
“Absolutely.”
Taking care not to grind my teeth, I grab one final ball and slap it across the court.
“Whatever. I’ll be sure to put blinders on so I don’t glean anything from your training.
” I nod to where Anya sits on the bench, glaring at us.
When his eyes follow mine, she gestures at him before crossing her arms. Not only does she need multiple performance coaches and her parents, but apparently, she needs their attention on her at all times.
Such a brat. “Don’t keep the world number two waiting over there,” I finish, and it comes out far more bitterly than I’d like.
His smile drops again, eyes drifting over my features.
I hate that it feels like my head is nothing but a piece of glass, the inner workings of my brain laid bare for him to read, when I try so hard to hide it from the world.
“Oh, Nic. I’d tell you all about my training if you’d just ask,” he murmurs. “I’d be happy to train you.”
The need for that bucket of ice grows dire.
“That won’t be necessary.” I glance away, searching for another ball to smack the hell out of.
“No? Nora changed her mind and will be continuing with you this season?”
I whip around to face him. “How do you know about that?”
“She emailed my parents to get her access at the facility changed. They informed me in case you needed a training plan.”
“How kind of them, but like I said, that won’t be necessary.”
“You don’t even want to give it a shot?” His voice changes, his spine straightening. “I’m really good at what I do.” Is that pride?
“That’s okay. I wouldn’t want to drag your average down with my poor fitness. You know, with how out of shape I am.” The words taste sour on my tongue, and I wouldn’t be surprised if it shows on my face.
A groove digs itself between his brows. “Huh?”
Rolling my eyes again, I take a step back.
I need space from him and this conversation, so I ignore the stupid voice that told me drinking water during a break showed weakness and join Delilah.
By the far fence, Francesca and Karolína are pretending to pick up tennis balls, heads bent close together. Gossiping, no doubt.
“Good talk?” Delilah asks, giggling.
“What’s funny?”
“Nothing,” she reassures me, though her smile hasn’t gone anywhere. “I’m just proud that the couple of times his T-shirt rode up while you talked, you didn’t look.”
“I hate you,” I grumble.
She hums. “I love you too.”
That afternoon, after Delilah left to spend time with Matteo, Karolína walked me to my hotel room with a not-so-gentle urging of “Rest your ass before your match tomorrow.”
I’m, of course, not resting.
The Miami Open players’ gym is crawling with players from both the men’s and women’s tour and their teams, machines overrun.
With limited room for me to train, I find a quiet corner in the rollout area and pull out a balance board and tennis ball, wincing at the hint of muscle fatigue in my left quad.
It’s not like I’m setting up at a rack or running on a treadmill. A little core work after a hitting session never killed anyone. I’ll be in and out, my core stronger.
Body facing the clock on the wall, I plant my right foot on the highlighter-yellow board, right knee bent and left foot in the air behind me.
I manage my breathing the way Nora taught me, but the clock slows as I close in on thirty seconds.
I lose my balance right before I hit twenty-five, grit my teeth, and begin again.
I finish the first of four sets, nearly toppling off when I breathe a sigh of relief at the thirty second mark.
Right as I’m switching to my other leg, a familiar (and very annoying) body slips from the masses.
Aleksandr’s younger sister, Natasha, walks in the other direction from him like they just finished talking and went their separate ways.
Aleksandr has a weird look on his face, a knuckle rubbing against his sternum.
His expression changes as he stops in front of me, his eyes taking in my area, from my tennis bag to the ball beside the balance board under my foot, then to me.
“Stop looking at me like that. It’s unsettling.” My focus shifts, my core disengaging, and I lose my balance. Crossing my arms, I glare at him.
“I get the feeling not much unsettles you,” Aleksandr says.
“You’re wrong.” I step back onto the board, glancing away from him. “Can you stop bothering me when I’m trying to work out? Or all the time.”
“I thought Karolína told you to rest.”
“You talk to my coach without me now? Or are you stalking me again?”
He smiles and steps closer, his hand a foot from my waist. “She might have asked me a question or two and mentioned it. Indulge me for a second, will you?”
“I will not.” I step off the board, away from him.
I know Karolína was affiliated with his family’s facility before I started working with her, so it’s not crazy that they might have a professional relationship, I just hate the idea of him talking to my coach about my training at all, but especially without consulting me.
Aleksandr heaves a beleaguered sigh. “I understand if you hate me because of who I’m related to and what you perceive that means, but what I care about most is ensuring talented athletes like you don’t get injured.”
I nearly make another comment that his name and filial affiliation aren’t the worst things about him but think better of it.
He’s clearly not going to stop, and if I’m truly doing something that might flare up my back injury or lead to a new injury, I should listen.
I step back onto the board and nod for him to continue.
“Okay if I touch you?” he asks softly, and the question is so startling I teeter. No one ever asks that. Even Nora took a few months to realize I dislike being touched without warning or when I’m overwhelmed. There’s no way he’s noticed my aversion, and yet…
I nod again, and one of his warm palms lands on my stomach, searing through the material of my tank top. The other settles on my back until I’m warmed on a cellular level. I have to look away.
His gaze blazing a hole in my face, he asks, “You had a back injury, right?”
I swallow over a dumb question, like how did you know? because said injury had me off and on the tour for a year at twenty-one, my rank dropping like a stone in water. “Yes.”
“I’ve noticed that sometimes you overcompensate for it. Straighten your spine and take a deep breath.”
Reluctantly, I listen.
“Good. Really good, Nic.” He pulls his hands back an inch but doesn’t step away entirely. “If you won’t heed my advice about overtraining, let’s at least make sure you’re preventing injuries.”
My eyes meet his finally, and they’re so sincere, the words tinged with something I can’t figure out. They bang around in my head, mixing with the expression he wore as he approached me, until I come up with a word: guilt.
But that can’t be right. I shake my head, noting my thirty seconds are over and stepping off.
“How many sets are you doing?” he asks after he registers our proximity and takes his own step back.
“Four total.”
“Then hand-eye coordination work with the ball?”
“Yeah,” I murmur.
He claps once. “Alright, let’s get to work. I want you out of here in under thirty.”
“Or what?”
His grin is back, boyish and absurdly infuriating. “Or I’ll annoy you relentlessly until your only option is to leave.”