Rivals and Liars

Chapter 1

Leire Cobos arrives just in time and hits a crosscourt backhand her Russian opponent barely sees coming. The ball bounces right on the line, and for a fraction of a second she holds her breath — but the chair umpire immediately calls it in, which means Leire has just won Roland Garros.

The stadium erupts as if every single person in it had been holding their breath for the past two hours.

She stays at the back of the court, arm still raised, until she finally lets out a sharp exhale and breaks into a grin, catching her breath.

She straightens up and looks at her opponent, who is walking toward the net.

Leire does the same to greet her, but as she walks, her gaze drifts for just a moment toward the players' box.

There's only one face she wants to find among all the women seated there, but they're all on their feet, clapping and talking to each other, and Leire doesn't have time to look any longer.

She reaches the net, shakes her opponent's hand, and walks to the side of the court, where she opens her bag and — before drinking any water — pulls off her wristbands and steals another glance at the box before letting her coach wrap her in a hug.

A minute later, she stands holding the trophy, eyes wide, pulse still racing.

It's bigger than she remembered. She lifts it toward the crowd, and this time she lets herself pause on the players' box — she doesn't have to search long, because Kate Brogan's green eyes are already fixed on her.

Her heart lurches and her stomach tightens with a sharp little squeeze that cuts off every thought.

It's an automatic reaction, something she can't control, and sometimes it makes her way too nervous.

Leire bites her lip at the intensity of Kate's stare.

If they were anywhere else, she's sure Kate would wink at her — but there's no telling where the cameras are pointing, and they both know they need to be careful.

The rivalry between them is well-known enough that reporters bring it up at every tournament they both play, and one careless moment could set off a scandal Leire isn't ready for.

"I want to thank my team, my dad… and the crowd here in Paris," she says when the microphone is put in front of her, the trophy pressed against her chest.

This time, she can't bring herself to look at the players' box, because she knows the green eyes that were shining a moment ago have probably gone still.

Minutes later, she finally makes it to the locker room to shower, change, and get some rest after a match that's left her completely drained.

A few players who stayed in Paris to watch the final come in to congratulate her, but the only one Leire cares about is the last one to walk through the door, just as everyone else is leaving — the red-haired Australian standing by the entrance.

Kate steps inside and leaves the door ajar, knowing that Leire will get anxious if she closes it all the way. She stays there, holding back a smile as she watches Leire walk toward her.

Leire positions herself just behind the door, at an angle where anyone passing through the hallway can't see a thing, and stops in front of her teammate and rival.

"Congratulations," Kate murmurs, and the corner of her mouth lifts, carving two faint lines on either side — the first thing that ever caught Leire's attention.

The second was Kate's easy, open smile, and the third was that particular way she has of looking at her that always makes Leire feel like the most important person in Kate Brogan's world.

"Thank you. You played well too…"

Kate glances to either side, scanning the locker room, then steps in close, cups Leire's face in one hand, and presses a quick kiss to her lips.

It's not how she'd want to do this. She'd have wanted to run down to the court the moment Leire won, to hold her and say it right there — whispering how much she loves her, how proud she is — but things are what they are between them, and she has no choice but to settle for this.

"I got knocked out in the semis. Don't undersell yourself," Leire says, her attention drifting to the freckles scattered across Kate's nose and cheeks — another thing she'd added to the long list of details she loves about the redheaded tennis player.

Kate steps back without losing her grin, putting space between them and pulling the door open a little wider so that anyone walking by can see it's just two players talking.

Leire feels a knot of anxiety pressing against her chest, because at thirty-one she still hasn't found the courage or the strength to tell the world that she likes women — and especially that she's in love with this one in particular.

"See you around, Leire," Kate says, and this time she does wink at her before stepping out.

Leire's lips curve as she lets out a long, slow breath, as if Kate's leaving had hollowed something out inside her.

It's a feeling she knows well, one she can't control either, but she doesn't usually let herself sit with it for long — because if she does, she'll feel even more miserable than she already does whenever she watches that woman walk away.

All Leire really wants is for Kate to stay, but fear won't let her have that.

She exhales, closes the door, and finally strips down so she can get in the shower — wash off the sweat, and hopefully cool down whatever that ridiculously brief kiss lit up inside her.

Leire keeps a smile fixed through the press conference. Congratulations come from all sides and she takes a moment to acknowledge each one before answering every question.

The room is enormous, and the Spanish woman can't begin to count all the chairs facing her.

She arrived three minutes late on purpose, knowing that the schedule would cut the Q&A short to wrap up on time.

She's not ungrateful — these events just make her uneasy.

Most questions are about the sport itself, but some are designed to get her to comment on other players' games, and Leire prefers to avoid that.

It's how she and Kate became fodder for the press without ever seeing it coming.

It was Leire who said — six years ago, without any ill intent — that her goal was to beat Kate Brogan, and from that point on, every interview with either of them has included some question about a rivalry that doesn't actually exist.

"Leire, in the last three Grand Slams, your exchanges with Kate Brogan in press conferences have generated more buzz than the matches themselves. How would you describe your relationship off the court?"

There it is — the question that was always going to come — and her mouth goes dry the instant she hears Kate's name.

She takes a few seconds before answering.

First her lips curve into the practiced expression she always pulls out when asked about a fellow player — and the whole room laughs with her.

"Kate is a great competitor. We respect each other on the court," she pauses, reaching for courage she can't quite find, "but off it, we really don't know each other that well."

She looks down, because even though Kate isn't in the room, Leire knows she's watching the press conference from somewhere nearby — and even though Kate never says anything, Leire is very aware of the damage those words do, reducing what they have to nothing.

Finally it's over. She walks to the car that will take her to the hotel, sports bag in one hand, sunglasses shielding her light brown eyes — so light, Kate tells her, that they sometimes look like a warm pour of oil.

She's pulled her dark hair back in a high ponytail and is wearing sweats and a shirt from one of her sponsors.

Her phone rings just as she slides into the back seat, and she picks up.

"Hey, Dad," she says, and the exhaustion in her voice is impossible to miss.

"You handled the second set well," Bruno Cobos says, skipping the greeting entirely. "But you missed the crosscourt backhand three times. I've got it all written down — when I get there we'll go over it. We need to fix that before Wimbledon."

Leire nods, staring at the headrest in front of her, holding back the urge to remind him that he's not her coach — that the only role she needs him to play in her life is that of her father.

"Okay," she answers, leaving it at that.

"Good. Get some rest."

Her dad hangs up and she takes the opportunity, phone already in her hand, to open her messages. She finds Kate's name and taps on the conversation. The last text is from Kate, sent before the match.

"Make it clear who owns this tournament."

Leire runs her thumb over the screen, and something in her expression softens.

A tennis player's life has its downsides, and the one Leire can't stand is the mandatory sponsor dinners — like this one she's had to sit through tonight.

"It's a shame you didn't win the Australian Open. With today's win you'd have two of the four Grand Slams and you'd be a serious contender for the calendar Slam," says Isaac Melero, seated to her right.

Leire sometimes gets the feeling her agent is a little clueless when he makes comments like this.

She already knows exactly what she's in contention for and what she's not, and she's always been irritated by people who dwell on things in the past that can't be changed.

Of course she would have liked to win in Australia — but she didn't, because she faced Kate in the final, and Kate on home soil is unstoppable.

It's as if the energy of her own country takes hold of her and makes her invincible.

The proof is that the redhead has won seven of the nine times she's played the Australian Open.

Leire doesn't answer and attacks her dessert as if she hasn't eaten all day. She's barely touched her dinner — she's more tired than hungry, and all she wants is to go up to her room and lie down — but no matter how little appetite she has, when it comes to something sweet, she can't help herself.

"Tomorrow I'll have my first meeting with Costel. We're going to talk about renewing the sponsorship contract."

Leire sets down her spoon, caught off guard.

"Renewal?"

"Yes, this month marks five years since you signed."

She goes very still, staring at the piece of chocolate cake balanced on her spoon while her mind turns the name of the brand over.

The contract Isaac is talking about brought her ten million euros over those five years — half in cash, the other half reinvested in her: clothing, equipment, private travel, hotels, everything she needed at tournaments.

It was, without question, an incredible deal. But Leire sometimes wishes she'd never signed it — or at least that's what she tells herself to justify her own cowardice.

"Did they make an offer, or did you reach out to them?"

"They came to us. Ten million again — but you're not the same player you were back then. Your numbers are way better now, and that needs to be reflected."

Isaac licks his ice cream, and Leire looks away, faintly disgusted. As far as she's concerned, dinner is over — and so is this exhausting day, though part of her wishes it weren't quite finished yet.