Chapter 8 Not Part of the Plan #2
The old Lena would have soothed this. Smoothed it. Made herself easy. Said something gentle enough to lower his defenses and keep the night pretty.
But Nico did not need pretty from her.
Maybe he never had.
“You’re right,” she said.
He looked back at her.
“At first, that was the point,” she said. “Making you look better standing next to me.”
His face went still.
Pain moved behind his eyes so fast she almost missed it.
Almost.
Lena forced herself to continue. “And I hate that. I hate that I looked at you and saw a campaign before I saw a person. But I am seeing you now.”
His throat moved.
Around them, the garden noise faded into a dull hum.
“Nico,” she said softly, “Savannah is not trying to expose the truth. She is trying to replace it with something uglier. Let me answer that.”
His voice came rougher. “Why?”
The question was simple.
It was not simple at all.
Because it was good strategy.
Because it was her job.
Because she needed a win.
Because he stood between her and cameras.
Because he helped freshmen and gave away strings and looked at her like he hated that she could make him feel anything.
Because she was tired of everyone deciding who he was from the worst angle.
Lena said the safest true thing.
“Because I’m tired of people deciding who you are from ten seconds of video.”
Nico stared at her.
The silence between them changed.
Not softer.
Deeper.
Then he looked down at her phone, still half-visible inside her purse. “What do you need?”
Her breath caught.
That should not have felt like trust.
It did.
“Nothing dramatic,” she said. “The youth clinic clip.”
His brow furrowed. “What youth clinic clip?”
“The one from last month. You fixed that little boy’s serve and then pretended you hadn’t smiled when he got it in.”
“I did not smile.”
“You absolutely smiled.”
“I was squinting.”
“You were emotionally squinting.”
His mouth twitched despite himself.
There.
That tiny break in the storm.
Lena felt it like sunlight.
“I’ll post that with a caption about consistency,” she said. “No romance. No defending. Just a reminder that headlines are not whole people.”
Nico watched her for a long second.
“You already wrote it in your head,” he said.
“Yes.”
“Of course you did.”
“Do you trust me?”
The question came out before she could take it back.
Nico went still.
So did she.
Too much.
Too soon.
Wrong question.
Dangerous question.
His eyes held hers, dark and guarded and impossible.
“No,” he said.
It should not have hurt.
It did anyway.
Then he added, quieter, “But I’m trying to.”
Lena’s chest tightened.
She nodded once because she did not trust her voice.
Then she pulled out her phone.
Her fingers moved quickly, finding the archived footage from the previous month’s youth clinic.
It was imperfect, filmed from a distance, with kids laughing and sunlight bouncing off the court.
Nico knelt beside a little boy no older than eight, guiding his grip with surprising patience.
When the boy hit the ball over the net, he turned around beaming.
And Nico—
Nico smiled.
Not much.
But enough.
Enough to ruin anyone paying attention.
Lena wrote the caption carefully.
One clip never tells the whole story. Neither does one mistake. Westbridge Tennis is built on discipline, accountability, and the quiet work no one always sees.
She hesitated.
Then added:
Some people show up best when no one is supposed to be watching.
She looked at Nico. “Okay?”
He read it.
His expression did something she could not name.
Then he gave one short nod.
Lena posted it.
For thirty seconds, nothing happened.
Then the comments started.
Wait this is actually sweet.
Nico with kids??
Okay but why did this make me emotional.
He smiled??? Someone check on me.
This is a better look.
Then Maya texted.
That caption was a knife in a silk glove. Proud of you. Also Nico smiled?? I need medical attention.
Lena almost smiled.
Almost.
Then the gossip account reposted the clip.
The caption changed the temperature of the night.
Maybe there’s more to Nico Reyes than the meltdown.
Lena exhaled slowly.
Beside her, Nico looked at the screen without speaking.
“You didn’t have to do that,” he said.
His voice was quiet enough that the garden nearly swallowed it.
Lena looked up at him.
The safe answer was yes, I did. Campaign strategy. Damage control. This is the deal.
She did not choose it.
“I know,” she said.
His gaze lifted from the phone to her face.
“That’s not an explanation,” he said.
Lena’s mouth curved, small and tired. “Maybe I wanted to.”
Something shifted in his expression.
Something unguarded enough to scare them both.
Before either of them could move, another notification lit her screen.
A new comment beneath the repost.
No profile photo.
No name.
Just a blank gray circle and words that made the air leave Lena’s lungs.
Cute. Ask him what really happened after the Vale match.
Nico saw it.
His face went cold.
Not angry.
Cold.
The kind of cold that came after fear froze solid.
Lena looked at him. “Nico?”
But he had already stepped back.
All the softness from a moment ago disappeared like it had never existed.
“I told you,” he said.
His voice was low.
Flat.
A warning and a wound in one.
“People who stand too close to me usually get hit by whatever’s coming.”
Then he turned and walked away, leaving Lena under the garden lights with her phone in her hand, Savannah’s perfume in the air, and the sudden sick certainty that the worst part of Nico’s story had not even reached them yet.