Chapter 24 – Lena #2
Grand Slam phenom. Doubles champion. Six-time WTA title holder. The woman whose backhand I'd studied frame by frame on YouTube when I was fifteen, rewinding the same clip forty times until I could see exactly where her wrist broke.
She was standing in front of me. On my campus. Smiling at me.
My heart did that stupid flutter thing, which was rude and also very inconvenient, because the last thing I needed right now was another Coulter making me feel things.
Don't. Don't get your hopes up. This isn't about Trace.
"Um, hi," I said, like a person who had definitely not spent four years studying this woman's career.
Brilliant. Really knocked that one out of the park.
Tammy grinned. "You are quick. You're a hard one to catch."
I glanced around the quad, half-expecting a camera crew or Ashton Kutcher or literally any explanation for why tennis royalty was hunting me down outside the student center while I had a yogurt stain on my hoodie that I'd been hoping nobody would notice.
"I'm sorry. I have no idea what's going on here. Is this some kind of prank?"
She laughed and shook her head. "No, it's not a prank. And apparently, my nephew forgot to tell you I was coming."
Oh.
This has to do with Trace.
Of course it does. Because there's no reason a Coulter would be seeking you out otherwise, is there?
My backpack strap was digging into my shoulder and I shifted it, buying myself a second. Because for one brief, stupid moment I'd let myself think someone had come looking for me. Just me. Not Trace Coulter's girlfriend or ex-girlfriend or whatever I was now.
"Oh. I thought it was public knowledge. We're not together."
Bitter. That sounded bitter. Cool.
Her brows lifted. "Did my idiot nephew mess it up?"
Something in my chest clenched, which was infuriating, because I wanted to defend him.
He'd lied to me. He'd known all along that Trevor had no idea about us and let me walk around thinking it was handled.
He'd let his brother call me a whore and then thrown fists about it like that was the same thing as protecting me.
And I still wanted to protect him. Which said more about me than I was comfortable with.
"Something like that."
"Well, good thing I'm not here because of him.
" She said it like she had a lot of practice drawing lines around Coulter family nonsense.
"Max Porter. I believe you met him at a charity event a few weeks ago.
He's one of my scouts for the Ivy Tennis Dreams coaching scholarship.
I guess you got him curious when he met you, so he looked you up.
He mentioned you might be a good candidate for our private coaching program. "
I actually swayed. Like, physically — a small shift in my balance that I covered by adjusting my backpack strap because I refused to be the girl who fainted in front of Tammy Coulter on a Tuesday afternoon.
Wait. What?
This isn't about Trace?
This is about tennis?
Tennis. The thing I'd been good at — really, genuinely good at — before everything went sideways. The thing I still dreamed about sometimes, waking up with my forearm sore from phantom swings. The thing Coach Bergman had told me point-blank at the awards dinner — that Delaney wanted me on the spring roster based on my intramural stats alone, no connections, no favors, just my game—and wouldn’t stop hounding him about it.
"Max Porter?" I said, and my voice came out weird.
The name dragged up that whole night in Chicago — the ballroom, the chandeliers, Trace sliding his arm around my waist and introducing himself as my boyfriend to a man he'd never met, his whole body going tense and territorial while Max made perfectly innocent conversation about tennis.
The possessiveness rolling off him in waves that had made my pulse do things it had no business doing.
A few weeks ago. Felt like a different life.
Tammy grinned. "Yes. Between you and me, I think he was nudged in the right direction by a certain nephew of mine, who showed him the tapes.
Either way, he called me all on his own.
I'm not sure why Trace didn't just call me himself, but I have no idea what goes through the minds of twenty-one-year-olds. It's like I've completely forgotten."
Trace.
My nails dug into the backpack strap until the webbing bit my palm.
Because even now — two weeks of silence, every text ignored, me walking away from him without a backward glance — he was still doing this.
Still looking out for me. Still finding ways to hand me things I'd never have the nerve to ask for.
He hadn't called his aunt directly because he knew I'd refuse anything with his fingerprints on it.
So he'd gone sideways. Nudged Max toward the tapes, let Max make the call, let Tammy show up on campus like this was all organic and not completely orchestrated by a boy who paid more attention than any human being had a right to.
That's not manipulation. That's someone who knows you well enough to work around your bullshit.
That's someone who —
I shoved that thought down so hard I nearly bit my tongue.
"I don't understand." My voice came out smaller than I wanted. My hands were shaking so I curled them into fists inside my hoodie sleeves and pressed them against my thighs.
"From your tapes, I know how talented you are. Providing you didn't stop playing because of injury, if you'd like to get back in — play for college, or hit the pro circuit — I think I can help you."
My throat locked. I pressed my lips together and stared at the ground between my sneakers because I was not going to cry in front of Tammy Coulter.
Not here, not with students walking past, not with that yogurt stain still on my hoodie.
I breathed through my nose — in, out, in — until the burning behind my eyes backed off to something manageable.
Because tennis. My thing. The only place I'd ever felt completely like myself — no noise, no self-doubt, just the ball and the court and my body knowing exactly what to do.
I'd packed that dream away so carefully.
Folded it up, shoved it in a drawer, piled other shit on top so I wouldn't have to look at it.
And now here it was, sitting in front of me wearing cashmere and a patient smile.
"I'm so grateful, and honored that you would think of me for your program, but I don't have the money." I got the words out, barely. "After my parents' divorce, all spare cash went to my mom's treatment. Luckily I got here on scholarship."
And there it is. The thing that stops everything. Every single time.
Money. The reason I'd quit the circuit at sixteen. Library shifts. Tuition. Everything I couldn't afford. Everything I'd learned to stop wanting.
She nodded. "I may not look like it, but I do remember what that's like.
And I'm happy to report, that for you, the program is free of charge.
You are very talented. And I hate to see talent wasted over something like money.
" She pulled a card from her pocket and held it out.
"Look, take some time to think about it.
If you're interested, call me in the next week or so.
If you want to make your college team next year we have to get you back into playing shape and there's some tournaments coming up in the spring and summer. "
I took the card. Stared at it. Ran my thumb over the embossed lettering because my hands needed something to do that wasn't trembling.
My way back.
The way back to my dream, all courtesy of Trace.
I went back to my dorm and pulled the old Wilson from under my bed.
The grip was worn smooth and the strings needed replacing, but the weight of it in my hand did something no amount of therapy or self-help books ever had.
I swung it once. Just once, standing in my tiny room, barely enough space to extend my arm without hitting the desk lamp.
But my body remembered. The rotation, the follow-through, the way my wrist knew exactly where to break.
Seven years and my muscles hadn’t forgotten. Neither had I.
Mama’s voice in my head, clear as Sunday morning, Keep this one, baby.
My phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number.
Unknown: Call me. I need to explain something, and you need to hear it.
Unknown: It’s Trevor.