Chapter 3
"Hey, Dad," Leire says when a driver drops her off at the entrance of her home in Madrid, in La Moraleja.
She flew in from Paris early that afternoon with Isaac on a private jet paid for by Costel, her main sponsor.
They hug — not cold, but not as warm as she'd like, either, because her relationship with her father has always been a little distant.
Not because anything happened between them, but because her mother was the one who held the family together, and when she died, they didn't know how to reach each other.
They never built the kind of closeness Leire always wished they'd had.
"How are you, Isaac?" Bruno Cobos asks, extending his hand toward his daughter's agent as she steps aside.
"Always happy after a big win," the man replies, puffed up as if he'd been the one on the court.
Leire, her bag still on the ground, watches them walk into the house and sometimes feels like the only intruder here is her.
Her father usually stays while she's traveling, taking care of the place, and he's so at home that he sometimes acts like it's his and not hers.
Isaac is the kind of person who treats every room like he owns it, so now they're both settled into armchairs in the living room while her father pours a glass of cognac.
"Ready to get started?" Isaac asks after glancing at his Rolex and crossing one leg over the other.
Bruno takes another armchair, and they both look at her.
Leire is standing in the doorway. She'd love to come home and be alone — shower, crash on the couch until dinner — but ever since she turned pro, she's barely controlled her own schedule, and if her agent calls a meeting the moment they land, it just happens.
She chooses the couch and sits in the middle, waiting for it all to be over so she can rest and message Kate, even though Kate is still on her flight back to Australia and won't reply until tomorrow.
"I have the new proposals from Costel," Isaac announces. "After all the meetings, I finally got them to improve on the previous contract."
Leire looks back and forth between them, watching her agent's barely concealed delight and her father's satisfied smile.
"They're offering fourteen million over another five years."
Bruno Cobos lets out a low whistle, and Leire isn't surprised — she's caught off guard herself.
She's thirty-one, an age when many players start thinking about retiring.
Few stay on the circuit past thirty-five, and if Costel is offering a five-year deal, it's because they're betting she'll be one of them.
"I still need to nail down a few clauses, but if everything goes smoothly, it's a done deal. We should be able to sign within a few days."
"What clauses?" the player asks.
"For now they're the same as before. Clean public image, no behavior that could damage the brand, that kind of thing — but I want to read everything carefully to make sure they haven't added anything that could hurt you down the line.
Breaching any of them could end the partnership, and that's not something we want. "
"Of course," her father agrees, but Leire says nothing, feeling something tighten in her throat.
She thinks of Kate — it's the first thing that comes to mind after hearing those clauses, the same ones she's always used to excuse her own cowardice to herself. She decides not to wait and pulls out her phone to type a message.
You're flying right now and I hope you're asleep. I just got back to Madrid and they've already got me trapped in a meeting. Last night was really good and I'm going to miss you. Two weeks until Wimbledon is going to feel like forever. Write me when you land.
For a moment she thinks about adding a heart emoji or a little kiss face, but in the end she sends the text without any of that.
She never does — even though she's always tempted — because it's her way of reminding herself that this is just a fling that's lasted longer than expected, and that it'll end eventually.
That's how she lies to herself about her feelings, because it's the only way she knows how to keep from hating herself for being such a coward.
They talk for a while longer about the contract until Isaac finally leaves and it's just her and her father.
"Why did you pull out of the Germany tournament?" Bruno asks, with no warm-up. "You know it's good for keeping your rhythm."
She looks at him and bites her lip. She wants to tell him she doesn't want to be there if Kate isn't, that the only reason she signed up was to spend time with her, and that without the redhead there she'd rather be home.
She'd also like to ask him why he never wonders if she's tired, or why he hasn't congratulated her for winning Roland Garros — but like she always does with everything that matters to her, she holds it in and can't bring herself to say any of it out loud.
"I don't want to push too hard before Wimbledon.
The tournament left me exhausted and I have my own court here to practice on.
Salva's coming in the mornings" — Salva is Leire's personal trainer, with whom she's already worked out a schedule for while she's home — "every morning, and in the afternoons Marta, Sara, and Joel are coming over so we can hit around. "
"Your friends aren't at your level, Leire. Playing with them is like taking a walk out there — it won't help you."
"It keeps me moving, and that's enough. I don't need to train at a hundred percent twenty-four hours a day."
It comes out sharper than she intended. She knows her father has never been particularly fond of her friends — the ones she's been close to since school — mostly because Joel is gay, and Marta, on top of being her best friend, is also the ex through whom her father figured out she was into women.
That was years ago; a silly high school thing when they were both figuring themselves out.
It lasted barely a few months before they realized it wasn't working — mostly because Marta didn't want to hide, and Leire wasn't ready to come out, and still isn't. They broke up and stayed friends, and that friendship only got stronger, but before it was over, her father had seen them in the garden one evening as they said goodbye before Leire went inside.
He didn't make a scene; his look alone was enough for Leire to shrink and understand she'd been right not to let other people in on what she really felt.
"Besides," she adds, leaning forward because she suddenly feels uncomfortable in her own home, "Isaac agreed when I brought it up."
"Speaking of Isaac," her father cuts in, "the Costel renewal is important for your career and you already know what the clauses say.
You should think about being seen with someone.
A woman who's been single this long starts to raise questions.
Marlon Archer — the tennis player — just retired, as I'm sure you know, and he's moved to Madrid. He'd be perfect for—"
"I'm not going out with him, Dad," she says flatly, wondering why she let him get that far.
"Are you still seeing her?" he snaps, and Leire swallows.
Again, she wants to push back — to tell him that she has a name, that her name is Kate Brogan, and that all it takes is seeing her smile for her whole world to light up — but like always, she doesn't say what she's thinking, and lets it all keep festering inside her.
"I'm tired, Dad. Can we leave it for today?"
He presses his lips together and runs a bony hand through his silver hair.
Bruno Cobos is tall and too thin, but he's a fairly attractive man at only fifty-two — they had her young — though his looks don't do him much good, because Bruno is still in love with his late wife and can't seem to move on.
"I stocked the fridge for the next few days," he says as he stands, "and I ordered your favorite burger for tonight. The delivery guy will come around nine, but if you want it earlier I can call and—"
"Nine is perfect, Dad, thank you." Leire steps over and kisses his cheek.
Bruno has his flaws, but he also has the kind of goodness that makes his daughter love him fiercely despite the emotional distance between them.
"Don't tell Isaac or he'll accuse me of sabotaging your diet," he says as she walks him to the door.