Chapter 9
There are journalists who, when they have a good story, simply publish it because that's the job, and there are others who know they have one and still choose not to.
Candela Valle has been in the second group for a couple of years now and still can't figure out whether that makes her better or worse at what she does.
What she does know is that today it's unusually warm for London, and that on court number three a match just ended that she couldn't care less about, even though she took notes with the same professional interest she brings to any other.
In any sport or profession, you cover the event itself because that's what most spectators want, but you also cover everything that has nothing to do with the tournament and focuses more on the players, because everyone knows that sooner or later someone lets their guard down and you end up with material far more interesting than the fact that they won.
It's a fact. Every professional athlete slips up at some point—a tantrum, a gesture that doesn't belong and ends up on every front page, a poorly chosen word that turns into ammunition.
They all do it; that's what comes with a sport that produces so much pressure.
All of them except Leire Cobos. That woman has spent years being the exception: always attentive, courteous, warm, friendly, and careful with her words when she answers.
She's nothing like Kate Brogan—more impulsive, fun, and a little loose-lipped, which everyone forgives her for because the girl is effortlessly likable.
Kate used to be that way, until she started to dim, until the restraint and the fear of saying or doing something she shouldn't made her more guarded and less accessible to journalists. Candela thinks she knows why.
She found out more than two years ago, when coincidence had her spending the night in the same hotel—and on the same floor—as both tennis players.
She'd arrived with an executive who had nothing to do with tennis, a man in the city for a conference whom she'd met at the hotel bar that night.
She went up to his room with him—one of the most interesting and satisfying nights of casual sex Candela can remember—but the jackpot came when she slipped out around five in the morning because she didn't want to deal with the awkward next-morning conversation.
She stopped in the carpeted hallway, heels in one hand and phone in the other.
She stood still for several seconds beside a large potted plant, one of the many decorating the hotel, while reading a text from her sister.
Then she heard a door open on the other side of the hall.
At first she didn't pay attention, but a quiet laugh and the soft sound of kissing caught her ear.
The light at that hour was very dim—warm-toned bulbs, low wattage, spaced far apart—which left the area with just enough illumination to make it to the elevator landing without tripping, but not so low that, when she focused, she couldn't make out Kate Brogan, and a second later Leire Cobos, who caught her in the doorway and devoured her mouth before letting her go.
Candela, already holding her phone and perfectly hidden behind the large plant, opened the camera and took several photos while her heart nearly leapt out of her chest.
She knew the photos would be terrible quality, if any of them were even salvageable, but she had visual confirmation that Leire Cobos and Kate Brogan were hooking up.
What she had no way of knowing was that this was one of the first times the two players had been together—that they were in that giddy, carefree phase where they only saw each other to fuck like mad.
There were no feelings involved, no emotional bond between them, and they were enjoying those encounters so much that Leire dared to kiss her after a quick glance down the hall that, with her pupils blown wide with desire, wasn't exactly reliable.
She waited for Kate to go back to her room after saying goodbye to Leire, then ran to the elevator and rode down to the lobby, where she dropped into one of the leather armchairs near the entrance to go through the images.
As she'd suspected, they were useless; there was only one where the two women were visible with any clarity, but the only person identifiable in it was Leire.
Brogan had her back to the camera and came out so dark it was impossible to make out the reddish tone of her hair—but what was undeniable, what left absolutely no room for doubt, was that Leire Cobos was kissing a woman.
Thrilled by what she'd discovered and at the same time too relaxed from the good sex she'd just had, Candela gave in to a rush of immediacy and texted her editor to say she'd caught the two players in an intimate moment, but that all she had was a blurry image in which only Leire Cobos was identifiable.
It was too early to expect a reply, so she went back to her hotel, took a shower, and fell asleep.
When she woke up, she had three missed calls from her boss and a message saying to write the article and run the story.
"It doesn't matter that you can't make out Brogan. The news will be that Cobos is a lesbian."
Candela sat still on her bed, brow furrowed, an uncomfortable feeling settled in her stomach that brought back a day she'd filed away as one of the bitterest of her life.
It was the day her sister Inés, during a family lunch, came out as a lesbian.
It wasn't learning about her sexuality that pierced Candela's heart and split it in two—it was discovering, while her sister spoke with a lump of grief in her throat, that Inés had known for eleven years, and that it wasn't until now, at thirty-three, that she'd finally found the courage to say it out loud.
Eleven years of Christmases spent making excuses for girlfriends she never brought home, and increasingly elaborate stories whenever anyone asked if there was someone special.
When she finally said it—her voice flat, her eyes glassy, as if she were a criminal confessing to some terrible crime—Candela understood that something must have gone very wrong at home for her sister to have never felt free enough to say it sooner.
That day robbed her of sleep for months, because she couldn't stop putting herself in Inés's shoes, and it seemed deeply unfair that her sister had spent years trapped in a lie because she hadn't felt safe enough to express something she should never have had to confess to anyone.
The memory of that day is what has kept the photo of the two tennis players safely locked on her phone. She told her editor she'd accidentally deleted it, and ever since he hasn't stopped assigning her to watch them and push them with questions to see if one of them slips up and gives herself away.
She usually tells him she doesn't think that's going to happen, that it was a casual encounter she's sure won't be repeated—but Candela knows that isn't true.
She did do her job, and there have been multiple times she's made her way into the players' hotels, watched, and seen Brogan leaving Cobos's room on at least seven separate occasions over all this time.
She's certain they're together in some way—that a purely physical relationship can't be what causes that tension in Leire every time someone mentions Kate's name, or that slight tightening in the redhead's jaw that she covers with a brilliant smile and a clever comment whenever someone asks about her rivalry with the Spanish woman.
She decided she wasn't going to be the one to expose Cobos like that, that this wasn't the story she wanted to break, that she didn't want to be responsible for publicly destroying a woman just to earn a bonus.
So now she's sitting next to Sergio, her cameraman, staring at her phone screen, dazed, while he gets to his feet.
"Should we head to the press room?" Sergio asks. "McKay's probably about to start."
"Go ahead, I'll be right there," she murmurs without looking up from the image in front of her.
It came through from an unknown number: a sharp, clear photograph showing both tennis players unmistakably in the locker room.
It's from two days ago, when Leire made it through the third round—she knows by what the player was wearing, and by what Brogan had on that morning: dark shorts and a white hoodie that stood out against the reddish tone of her ponytail.
Both women are recognizable without question, both in profile, Brogan's hand at Leire's neck and her lips against her mouth while the Spanish woman has one hand on her waist and the other flat against the center of her chest.
Candela exhales and looks at the number.
She doesn't recognize it, but she knows exactly what it means when material arrives like this, with no ask attached: someone in the orbit of one of the two players wants that photograph to come out.
She could suspect either of them, but given that Leire has always claimed to be interested in men and is also sponsored by a very conservative brand, she rules her out entirely.
She can't say the same about Kate: the tennis player is openly lesbian, the obvious candidate to be the one behind the message—except for how broken she's seemed lately.
Candela's no mind reader, but something tells her it isn't her, that if this image goes public the most likely outcome is that the scandal ends the relationship, and she doesn't believe the redhead is looking for that.
She stands and tucks her phone into her bag as she heads down the bleachers, turning the question over in her mind.
If she doesn't use the image, she knows this person will eventually find another journalist with fewer principles.
She exhales in frustration and walks into the press room, deciding she won't do anything—and wondering whether she should reach out to the players to warn them about what might be coming their way.