Chapter 2
"Hey, sweetheart," Diane Park—Kate's coach—says as she leans down and kisses the top of her head.
Kate looks up and watches her until she settles into the seat across from her.
"Hi, Diane."
"Want another one?" the coach asks, noticing the sparkling water Kate ordered is almost empty.
"No, I'm good."
"Are you going?" It sounds like a question, but it really isn't. Diane knows perfectly well that Kate is just killing time until Leire gives her the signal.
"Maybe."
Diane makes a face and Kate drops her gaze to her glass of water.
"How are you feeling?" she continues, shifting the subject to keep the player from getting uncomfortable—though this one isn't much easier.
Kate tightens the elastic on her ponytail, then drags a finger along her left eyebrow, tracing the scar that cuts through it.
It's an unconscious habit she falls back on whenever she's nervous, uncomfortable, or riding too high on adrenaline, and Diane has been by her side long enough to know that right now it's the second one.
"Fine, it doesn't hurt," Kate says.
She isn't lying, but every time she thinks about it her throat tightens.
She'd been having a good tournament, had made it to the semifinals, and everyone was pointing to her—along with Leire—as the two most likely finalists.
But she'd stretched for a ball after an almost impossible sprint, planted her front foot to stop herself, and it slid forward—nothing that hadn't happened before—except this time a sharp pain shot through her back, knocked the breath out of her, and took with it any chance of playing at full capacity.
So despite a comfortable lead, she ended up losing, and with that, she was out of the tournament.
"We're not going to Berlin for the WTA 500. We're going home so Dr. Faruk can take another look at you, and if he clears you, we'll go to Wimbledon," Diane decides.
Kate snaps her head up.
"I'll let Germany go, but I'm not missing a Grand Slam over this," she protests.
"And I'm not arguing about it right now. We'll see Faruk and talk after. The MRI showed a slight displacement in one of your vertebrae—"
"A ridiculous displacement," Kate says, frowning. "And the pain isn't bad enough for it to be something more serious."
"I don't care what the scan showed back then.
He said to come back if the pain returned despite the physical therapy and the injection, so that's what we're doing.
" Diane closes the topic, and Kate smiles at her with all the warmth she feels for this woman, because this fifty-eight-year-old is like a second mother to her.
She's had Diane as her coach since she first started competing professionally.
They've always understood each other well—Diane doesn't tend to smother her, and Kate isn't a player with impossible demands—so they work together effortlessly.
But what Kate admires most is how good she is at keeping a secret.
Two secrets, in Kate's case: Diane is the only person who knows how serious the injury might actually be, and the only one who knows what's going on between her and Leire.
"She just came out," Diane says, as the door to the private dining room at the back swings open and Leire walks through, scanning the main floor with a quick sweep until she spots them.
She gives the coach a small nod of acknowledgment and keeps walking toward the side exit to catch the elevator up to her floor.
Kate's pulse jumps at the announcement. She can't help it, any more than she can help the smile spreading across her face.
"All right, let's go," Diane says.
The two women stand, leave through a different door, and take the elevators from the lobby, though the result is the same—they both get off on the fifth floor.
Diane steps out ahead of Kate, as she has before, to make sure the hallway is clear and no one sees the player walking into the room of the woman who is, on paper, her biggest rival.
Diane gives her a nod, and Kate hurries to the door and knocks four times, softly.
Leire opens it immediately, because she was waiting for this moment with just as much anticipation.
"Hi," Kate smiles as Leire pins her against the wall after closing the door behind them.
"I've missed you," the Spanish player says, running her fingers along Kate's sides as she brings her mouth close to kiss her.
Kate slides a hand to the back of her neck and lets the kiss unfold slowly, with the ease that comes from knowing every corner of that mouth—from knowing that they both like kisses that take their time, because it's been a long while since urgency drove them.
Now it's this: unhurried kisses that drift from lips to throat, her smile against your ear, warm hands moving over a body learned inch by inch.
"You must be exhausted," Kate says when they pull apart, Leire taking her hand and leading her toward the bed.
"Exhausted doesn't quite cover it."
Leire drops onto the mattress with her arms spread wide and a loud, satisfied groan. Kate laughs and lies down beside her, propping herself up on one elbow to look at her.
"We don't have to do anything. We can just sleep," she murmurs, brushing the back of her hand across Leire's cheek.
"You don't mind?" Leire asks.
Kate shakes her head. All she cares about is being here, spending time with her—because when you're in love, any moment beside that person is enough, with no need for anything but the warmth of their presence. Her gaze drops for a moment as she remembers what Leire said at the press conference.
"Outside of it, we don't really know each other."
"I'm sorry," Leire murmurs, as if she's reading her mind.
She doesn't have that ability, but she does have a talent for reading Kate's expressions—because it's been three years of this, seeing each other in hotel rooms during tournaments, sneaking in and slipping out the same way.
Three years of missing each other when one is in Australia and the other is in Spain, and in all that limited time, Leire has learned to know this woman better than Kate knows herself.
"I'm sorry for what I said. I felt cornered and I said the first thing that came into my head."
Kate glances at her, then looks down at her own hands.
She feels a quiet pressure in her chest—something that always settles in during moments like this, lodging itself in her body and refusing to leave, because she can't seem to digest the fact that Leire's apologies have been feeling insufficient for a while now.
Sometimes she feels like an object, Leire's favorite toy—something the tennis player enjoys in private and keeps hidden, all for herself.
"Hey, baby…" Leire turns toward her and runs a hand along the side of her neck.
Kate feels a shiver run through her skin from her nape all the way down to her feet, and she hates herself for not being able to end this even though it hurts, because the thought of a life without Leire in it is something she doesn't seem ready for.
"We've been together three years, Leire," she whispers without looking at her.
"I know. But I'm not ready, and you know I've never asked anything of you—I haven't clipped your wings or demanded exclusivity."
Kate gives a sad smile and shakes her head. Of course she hasn't asked for it. Kate is the one who simply can't. How could she sleep with other women when she's in love with her?
"Maybe I'd want you to. Maybe I'd want it to matter to you—what I might do with someone else," Kate says, getting up from the bed and wincing as she straightens.
"Of course it matters to me, Kate. It would kill me with jealousy if you did, and with sadness—but I can't be that selfish. I can't ask you to hold back when I still can't give you everything you're asking for."
Leire gets up too and moves closer to where Kate has leaned against the dresser.
"I know I always say the same thing." She rubs her hands together, restless. "But it's complicated, and you know that. I'm at the best point of my career—"
"It doesn't matter, Leire. Let's drop it," Kate cuts her off, not wanting to hear the end of a sentence that only makes one thing clear: that Leire's career matters more to her than what she feels.
"How's your back? Is it still hurting?" Leire asks.
"Barely. In a couple of days I'll be good as new." Kate decides not to sabotage this time together. She'd rather enjoy the little they have and let herself fall apart when she's alone.
"I'm glad." Leire takes her hand and leads her back to the bed. "Because I'm not so tired anymore."
The curve of Kate's smile deepens and those small lines appear at the corners of her mouth—the ones that are Leire's undoing.
"I love these little lines," she whispers, pressing her lips to the right corner of Kate's mouth.
Kate turns her face, searching for her lips, and sinks onto the edge of the bed as Leire eases her back with a gentle push on her shoulders. Her skin prickles, her stomach tightens, and something warm sparks low in her belly as Leire drops to her knees and slides Kate's pants down to her ankles.
"I've been thinking about you all day," Leire admits, pulling her underwear down too.
Kate tries to hold back a gasp of pure need, but it's impossible—because when Leire touches her, her body gives out and her mind goes quiet.
No intrusive thoughts crowd in; in moments like this, she can only hold onto the good parts, which is everything she feels with this woman—a deep connection that, at twenty-nine, she's never had with anyone else, and that she's certain she'll never feel again under any skin but Leire Cobos's.
Leire lifts her legs onto her shoulders, grips her thighs, and Kate falls back, her body trembling and her breath coming in ragged bursts as Leire's lips and tongue take their time with every inch of her, driving her out of her mind with pleasure.
"Just like that, baby," Kate whimpers, then bites her lip and breathes hard against her fist.
Leire doesn't stop. She knows exactly where Kate is, knows what she needs when she's right on the edge—so she pushes inside her, buries her fingers deep and holds them there, filling her, and all it takes is the press of her tongue against her clit for Kate's body to shudder apart, breaking into wave after wave of pleasure that Leire feels against her lips.
"In Germany we could try to clear a day and stay in an Airbnb," Leire starts, once they're both under the sheets—tangled together, naked and satisfied. "Just the two of us, meals together, everything. Something normal between us. I know it's not much, but—"
"I'm not going to Germany," Kate interrupts. For a moment she considers demanding that Diane stick to the schedule they'd originally planned.
She's spent months dreaming about a whole day with Leire. In the beginning, these encounters were enough for her too—exciting, even thrilling, and they'd both laugh when they finished making love and caught each other's eyes.
"Rivals and liars," Leire had murmured once. "We've let everyone think we're rivals when it isn't true."
Kate had agreed back then, but once she started falling for Leire, everything changed.
That description didn't fit her anymore—it only applied to the two tennis players who, one night three years ago, had ended up in one of their hotel rooms without quite knowing how it had happened, and had such a good time that they kept repeating it whenever their paths crossed.
"Why not?" Leire props herself up on her arm and looks at her.
There's something uncomfortable pressing just behind her sternum. She hasn't felt it before, and she tells herself it's just a twinge of exhaustion catching up with her.
"I'm going back to Australia. If I don't want the other day to get worse, I need to rest."
Kate has spent weeks asking herself why she doesn't tell Leire the truth—why she can't bring herself to say that the injury is far more serious than anyone thinks, that she can't play most of her matches without an injection beforehand.
The only answer she finds is that she doesn't dare, because her whole identity is built around this sport; she doesn't exist without it, and that terrifies her in a way she can't face out loud.
She doesn't want anything that could become an obstacle between them, because Kate always wonders what would happen if she had to stop for a few months the way Diane keeps insisting she should.
Would Leire still be there? Would the daily messages keep coming?
Would she suggest seeing each other somewhere outside of all this?
"But I'll be at Wimbledon."
Leire nods. She wants to say that Wimbledon is still a long way off—even if it's only a couple of weeks—that she'd been looking forward to seeing her every day, and that the news has just hollowed out something inside her she can't quite name.
But does she have the right to say any of that?
It would only make Kate feel worse, and Kate already puts up with so much on her side while getting so little in return.
"Okay." Leire cups her cheek and presses a soft kiss to her lips. "Rest up so that pain goes away for good. I'm going to miss you so much."
She pulls her close, and both of them close their eyes, knowing that when Leire wakes up, Kate won't be in the room anymore. Because that's always how it is between them: chance encounters, stolen moments, and a quiet exit before dawn.