Chapter 16 The Wrist
L ena learned three things the morning after the kiss.
One, the internet had no mercy.
Two, Maya Bennett should never be given access to caffeine and a viral romance thread at the same time.
Three, Nico Reyes was very good at pretending pain was a scheduling inconvenience.
The first thing was obvious.
By eight in the morning, the video had been clipped, slowed down, zoomed in, captioned, edited to music, debated, defended, mocked, and analyzed by people who suddenly believed themselves experts in romantic body language and athletic department crisis strategy.
There were comments about her hands on his chest.
Comments about his hand at her waist.
Comments about the way Nico had looked down at her afterward like he had forgotten where he was.
Lena did not read those comments twice.
That would have been unhealthy.
She read them once, screenshotted nothing, and then threw her phone facedown onto her bed like it had personally betrayed her.
Maya, unfortunately, arrived twenty minutes later with coffee, a bagel, and absolutely no respect for emotional boundaries.
“You kissed Nico Reyes in front of God, donors, and the student athlete advisory board,” Maya said, dropping onto Lena’s desk chair. “I feel like you owe me details.”
Lena stood in front of her closet wearing one sock, a Westbridge tennis sweatshirt, and the haunted expression of a woman whose mouth had made choices her brain had not approved.
“It was strategic.”
Maya took a slow sip of coffee.
“Sure.”
“It was.”
“Lena.”
“What?”
“His soul briefly left his body.”
Lena closed her eyes. “Please stop.”
“And yours followed it.”
“Maya.”
“I’m not judging. I support women in crisis.”
“I am not in crisis.”
“You are wearing one sock and holding a skirt like it personally offended you.”
Lena looked down.
She was, in fact, gripping a pleated white skirt.
She put it back.
Maya softened, just a little. “Was it fake?”
The question landed harder than all the teasing.
Lena turned back to the closet.
“No,” she said.
The word came out so quietly she almost pretended she had not said it.
Maya did not let her.
“Oh, honey.”
“Don’t.”
“I wasn’t going to.”
“You were about to make a face.”
“I did make a face. You just couldn’t see it.”
Despite everything, Lena laughed.
It hurt.
Not because laughter was painful.
Because it loosened things.
Because once something softened inside her, all the other feelings tried to come through too.
The kiss.
Nico stepping back.
The wall returning.
The anonymous message.
This time, they’ll blame the girl.
By noon, she had successfully convinced herself she was fine.
By three, she was at practice content filming, which proved the universe enjoyed irony.
The sun was brutal over the Westbridge courts, bright enough to turn the white lines sharp and unforgiving. Players moved through drills in crisp bursts. The pop of tennis balls hit the air again and again, rhythmic, controlled, almost soothing.
Almost.
Lena stood near Court One with her phone mounted on the stabilizer, pretending she was recording practice footage and not watching Nico’s right wrist like it might confess under pressure.
He had tape wrapped around it.
More than yesterday.
Not much more.
Enough.
He wore a black sleeveless training top and dark shorts, his hair damp at the temples, his expression set in that familiar hard focus that made people think he was unreachable.
Lena knew better now.
That was the problem.
She knew there was fear beneath it.
She knew there were bills and family calls and anonymous threats. She knew there was a boy who laughed quietly under floodlights and touched her face like asking permission mattered more than wanting.
She knew enough to worry.
Not enough to help.
Nico hit a forehand cross-court.
Clean.
Fast.
Then another.
Then a backhand.
His jaw tightened.
Lena saw it.
His wrist did not give out. He did not wince dramatically. Nico Reyes would probably pass out before he offered the world something that obvious.
But after the shot, his fingers opened and closed around the racket handle.
Once.
Twice.
Then he switched the racket briefly to his left hand and rolled his right wrist behind his thigh, where he thought no one could see.
Lena lowered her phone.
Jace, who was sitting on the bench beside her tying his shoe, followed her gaze.
“Don’t,” he said.
She looked down at him. “Don’t what?”
“Make that face.”
“What face?”
“The one that says you’re about to mother-hen a man with the emotional accessibility of a locked equipment shed.”
“I am not mother-henning.”
“You absolutely are.”
“I am campaign-monitoring.”
“Is that what we call staring at Nico’s wrist like it texted you something dirty?”
Lena nearly choked. “Jace.”
He grinned.
Then his smile faded as Nico hit another backhand and shook his wrist out again.
“Yeah,” Jace said quietly. “I know.”
Lena’s stomach tightened. “How long has he been doing that?”
Jace looked away.
Which was answer enough.
“Jace.”
“Don’t put me in the middle.”
“You are already sitting there.”
“I mean emotionally.”
“How long?”
He sighed. “Couple weeks. Maybe more. He says it’s manageable.”
“Of course he does.”
“To be fair, Nico would call a missing limb manageable if the match schedule looked tight.”
Lena stared at Nico.
Across the court, Coach Hart called for another drill. Nico stepped into position without hesitation.
Of course he did.
She hated him a little for it.
She hated that the hatred felt like fear.
Lena picked up her phone again, but her hand was not steady enough to film. The stabilizer corrected the movement. Her chest did not.
Nico served.
Hard.
Too hard.
The ball landed wide.
He caught the next one and served again.
This one slammed into the box.
Coach Hart nodded.
Nico’s face did not change.
His wrist did.
A tiny jerk after contact.
Almost nothing.
Enough.
Lena set the stabilizer down.
Jace muttered, “Oh boy.”
She ignored him and walked toward the court gate.
Nico saw her coming.
Because Nico always saw her coming.
His expression hardened before she even reached the fence.
“No,” he called.
Lena stopped at the gate. “You don’t know what I’m going to say.”
“Yes, I do.”
“Great. Saves time.”
“I’m practicing.”
“You’re hurting.”
The words were not loud.
They did not need to be.
Nico’s eyes flicked toward Coach Hart, then back to her.
The warning was clear.
Not here.
Not now.
Lena understood.
She also did not care.
“Nico,” she said, softer. “You need the trainer.”
“I saw the trainer.”
“You need an honest conversation with the trainer.”
His jaw flexed. “Move.”
“No.”
A few players had started to look over.
Wonderful.
Fantastic.
Exactly what she had wanted. A public argument with her fake boyfriend about his secretly damaged wrist under her father’s supervision.
Coach Hart’s voice cut across the court. “Problem?”
Nico did not look away from Lena. “No.”
“Yes,” Lena said.
Nico’s eyes flashed.
Coach Hart came closer, whistle hanging from his neck, expression already tightening. “Lena.”
She hated the warning in his voice.
Hated that it still worked.
But she looked at him and said, “His wrist is worse.”
The court went quiet.
Nico’s face closed completely.
“Are you serious?” he asked.
The question was low.
Dangerous.
Hurt.
Lena felt it hit.
She still did not take it back.
Coach Hart turned to Nico. “Training room. Now.”
“I’m fine.”
“That was not a suggestion.”
Nico’s gaze stayed on Lena for one more second.
She wanted anger.
Anger would have been easier.
Instead, what she saw was betrayal.
Then he walked off the court.
Lena followed at a distance because she was apparently determined to keep making bad choices with excellent posture.
The training room smelled like antiseptic, athletic tape, and cold packs. Nico sat on the padded table with his right hand resting on his thigh while the trainer, Mel, examined his wrist with professional gentleness and zero tolerance for masculine nonsense.
“Pain level?” Mel asked.
“Two.”
Lena, standing by the door, made a sound.
Nico glared at her.
Mel looked between them. “Actual pain level?”
Nico said nothing.
Mel pressed gently near the joint.
Nico’s jaw locked.
Mel sighed. “That is not a two.”
“It’s manageable.”
Lena closed her eyes.
Mel wrapped his wrist again, tighter this time, and gave instructions about rest, ice, reduced load, and no unnecessary extra hitting.
Nico listened with the expression of a man accepting terms he had no intention of following.
When Mel stepped out to get a brace, Lena remained by the door.
Nico stared at the floor.
The silence was ugly.
Finally, he said, “Satisfied?”
Lena flinched.
“No.”
“You got what you wanted.”
“What I wanted?” She laughed once, sharp and disbelieving. “You think I wanted to embarrass you?”
“You did it anyway.”
“You were hurting yourself.”
“It’s my wrist.”
“It’s your future.”
His eyes snapped to hers. “Exactly.”
The word cracked through the room.
Lena went still.
Nico slid off the table, ignoring the fact that his wrist was half-wrapped and Mel had explicitly told him not to move around.
“I don’t get to fall apart right now,” he said. “Not before the championship. Not with scouts watching. Not with my scholarship already hanging by a thread because of that clip. So yes, it hurts. And yes, I’m managing it. Because that is what I have.”
Lena’s throat tightened.
“That is not managing,” she said. “That is gambling.”
His laugh was humorless. “Everything about my life is gambling.”
“Nico—”
“No.” He stepped closer. “You don’t get it. If I sit out, I look weak. If I play badly, I lose ranking. If Coach loses faith in me, I lose my spot. If I lose my spot, I lose the money. If I lose the money, my family—”
He stopped.
Too late.
Not because he had said too much.
Because he had almost said all of it.
Lena’s voice softened. “Your family what?”
His face closed.
There it was.
The wall.
Only this time, she had watched him build it brick by brick.
“Forget it.”
“I can’t protect you if you keep lying to me.”
Something in his expression shifted.
Cold.
Sharp.
“Protect me?”
The words were quiet.
That was worse.
Lena knew immediately she had chosen the wrong word.
“Nico—”
“No. That’s perfect.” His mouth twisted. “That’s the whole arrangement, right? You protect me from myself. Make me softer. Easier to like. Less of a problem.”
“That is not what I meant.”
“But it is what you do.”
Her chest hurt.
He was angry.
He was scared.
He was aiming for anything soft enough to bruise.
She knew that.
It still hurt.
“I care that you’re injured,” she said.
“You care that the campaign survives.”
Her face went still.
Nico saw it.
Regret flashed in his eyes.
Good.
Let him feel it.
Lena lifted her chin. “You know what? Maybe I care about both. Maybe that is allowed. Maybe I can be good at my job and also not want you to permanently damage your wrist because you think suffering quietly is a personality trait.”
His jaw tightened.
“It’s not that simple.”
“No,” she said. “You make sure nothing is.”
Mel returned with the brace and stopped in the doorway, eyes moving between them.
“Should I come back?” she asked.
“No,” Nico said.
“Yes,” Lena said.
They both looked at each other.
Mel wisely stepped back out.
Nico grabbed his towel with his left hand. “I’m done.”
“With the conversation or with ignoring medical advice?”
“With this.” He gestured between them. “You hovering. You deciding. You acting like you know what’s best because you saw a few soft moments and think that means you understand the weight.”
The words hit.
Hard.
Lena’s eyes burned, and she hated herself for it.
“I never said I understood everything.”
“But you keep trying to carry pieces I didn’t hand you.”
The room went quiet.
That one was different.
Not cruel.
True.
Lena breathed in slowly.
He was not wrong.
That was the worst part.
She had reached for his secrets like concern gave her permission. She had pressed. Asked. Watched. Followed him into hallways and midnight courts and now training rooms.
Maybe she did want to help.
Maybe she also wanted to be trusted so badly she had started treating his silence like an insult instead of a wound.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
Nico looked at her.
His anger faltered.
She did not smile.
Did not soften the words to make them prettier.
“I should not have said it like that in front of everyone,” she said. “But I’m not sorry I spoke up.”
His throat moved.
For a moment, she thought he might say something honest.
Then his phone buzzed on the table.
They both looked down.
Unknown number.
Nico reached for it.
Lena did not mean to read the preview.
But it lit up between them.
Still hiding the wrist too? How many lies can one scholarship boy afford?
Nico went very still.
Lena’s skin went cold.
He grabbed the phone and locked it.
Too late.
“Nico,” she whispered.
His face had changed.
Not angry now.
Not even guarded.
Afraid.
A kind of fear so deep it had gone silent.
He stepped back from her.
“Don’t,” he said.
“One of us has to tell someone.”
“No.”
“They know about your wrist.”
“I said no.”
“They’re watching you.”
His eyes flashed. “And whose fault is that?”
The words struck before he could pull them back.
Lena froze.
Nico’s face changed instantly.
Regret.
Horror.
Pain.
“Lena—”
“No.” Her voice was soft. Too soft. “It’s okay.”
“It’s not.”
“You’re scared.”
His jaw clenched.
“That doesn’t make what you said true,” she added.
He looked away.
The distance between them felt suddenly enormous.
Her phone buzzed inside her pocket.
She almost ignored it.
Then it buzzed again.
And again.
She pulled it out with numb fingers.
A message from an anonymous account.
No name.
No photo.
Just words.
Ask your boyfriend why he keeps lying to everyone.
Lena stared at the screen.
Then at Nico.
He looked at the message.
Then away.
And for the first time since this fake relationship began, Lena wondered if the truth they were hiding from the world was nothing compared to the truth Nico was hiding from her.