Chapter 11
Leire jumps off the bed when she hears the knock at the door.
She'd been lying there with her legs crossed and her arms behind her head, staring at the ceiling, running through different ways to open the conversation about renewing with Costel.
Her pulse spikes and she nearly trips over her own sneakers before reaching the handle.
She opens it without hesitating and finds Kate standing there, as beautiful as ever, those freckled cheeks she wants to kiss before she even gets to her lips.
"Come in," she whispers, stepping aside.
Kate has a small bag over one shoulder, which means she's planning on staying again tonight, and that eases something in Leire's chest—because ever since Kate greeted her so professionally after the press conference, like they barely knew each other, like they were just rivals exchanging a polite handshake, the cold look Kate had given her while shaking her hand had left her terrified.
She pushes the door shut until it clicks, then steps closer and cups Kate's face in her hands, pressing a soft kiss to her lips.
"How are you? You don't look great," Leire murmurs, tucking a few strands of hair behind Kate's ear.
"My back hurts a little. Last night was awful—the pain woke me up and for a second I thought I wasn't going to be able to play today."
Kate sits down at the foot of the bed.
"Why didn't you wake me up if you were hurting?" Leire asks, standing in front of her with her hands on her hips.
"What for? You couldn't have done anything."
Leire crouches down and rests her hands on Kate's knees.
"I could've found you something for the pain, or given you a massage, or helped you shift positions so you'd be more comfortable. I could've done things, baby. Don't keep something like that to yourself again."
Kate looks at her and nods, holding back the urge to tell her that she doesn't only need her when her back hurts—she needs her all the time.
She wants her support, wants to know Leire is there, that she can count on her, call her and not have to wait for a callback because Leire was with someone she couldn't tell about her.
She wants to tell her she's sick of being kept hidden, sick of never being the priority.
But she holds it back, because she came here tonight to say something else, and that should be enough to make Leire react.
"Do you want me to get you a warm compress for your back? It might help."
"Thanks, but I'm fine. It's just a little discomfort."
Like Leire, Kate has spent hours rehearsing how to say this—that her career is over—but every version she'd prepared has gone blank, so she goes with the simplest thing, the thing she should have said days ago.
"I need to tell you something important," she starts, and Leire gestures toward the sitting area.
"You want to move over there? You'll be more comfortable on the couch."
Kate's fine with that, so she gets up and follows her, and while Kate sits slightly sideways, Leire tucks one leg under her and turns to face her completely.
"What's going on?" she asks, her pulse thudding in her throat, dreading that Kate might be tired of the whole situation and want to end things.
"When I was in Melbourne I had some tests done, and while I was on a layover in Doha the doctor called with the results."
Relief and dread hit Leire at the same time.
"My vertebral injury has gotten worse. The displacement has progressed, and the bottom line is that if I keep playing at this level, it could become permanent."
Leire doesn't move. She waits, because she doesn't know what to say.
"Nerve compression, chronic pain, all of that—I could end up with limitations in everything, not just tennis."
"And how do you fix it?" Leire's voice comes out so quiet that Kate has to strain to hear her.
A bitter laugh escapes her and she shifts a little, propping her elbow on the back of the couch and resting her head in her hand.
"You fix it by retiring. I can finish the season, but the doctor's recommending I stop. Without that level of exertion, the pain could be managed without surgery."
"But—" Leire almost stumbles over the words. "Isn't it better to have the surgery and keep playing?"
"It's not a simple surgery. The recovery is pretty long—it could stretch to a year, and I'd never get back to the level I'm at now. I'm going to retire, Leire. The US Open will be my last tournament. I've already decided."
The silence that fills the room presses down on both of them.
Kate endures it because she wants Leire to say something, to react, to move closer and wrap her arms around her.
She's desperate for any kind of response—but Leire has none.
She's frozen across from her, staring at her own hands, thinking something she's not saying out loud.
When she finally looks up, Kate doesn't find the understanding she was hoping for, or the embrace she so badly craves.
"Does anyone else know?" Leire asks, and Kate has to blink to focus.
"Just Diane," she says, her voice tight. "And now you."
"And what does Diane say?"
Kate frowns.
"What does it matter what she says?" she asks, hurt. "She supports me, Leire. She agrees with my decision to retire."
"Of course. Sorry."
Leire lowers her bare feet to the floor and leans forward, elbows on her knees, while Kate watches her hold back whatever is running through her mind.
It isn't the reaction she expected, and she should be used to not getting what she wants—but it's never easy, and every time Leire responds like this, it takes something out of her.
It hurts in a way she's starting to struggle to bear.
"Hey," she says, and the softness in her own voice annoys her.
Leire looks up.
"I'm not asking anything of you, okay? I just wanted you to know."
"Right. Thanks," Leire says.
Kate feels a sharp pain cut through her when she hears that—and it isn't in her back.
That one she can handle. This one is somewhere else, dead center in her chest, like someone drove a fist into her sternum.
The same ache she's been carrying for months, the one that flares up every time Leire takes a step back when what Kate is after is for her to step forward.
"My pleasure." Her sarcasm stings Leire, who still doesn't know what to do with the information she's just received—and she reacts in the worst possible way.
"What do you want me to say, Kate?"
She doesn't mean it cruelly, and Kate knows that.
She can read the confusion all over her face.
She puts herself in Leire's shoes—even though she knows she shouldn't—and tries to imagine how she would've taken news like this.
She's sure her own reaction wouldn't have been this cold.
But Leire lives in a permanent state of fear, and Kate can understand that, even if understanding it doesn't make it hurt any less.
"Nothing. I don't want you to say anything."
Kate stands.
"Where are you going?" Leire's heart climbs into her throat.
"I think it's better if I sleep in my own room tonight. My back hurts and we can't fuck, which seems to be the only thing you and I are actually good at."
Leire shoots to her feet and stops her at the door.
"Wait, baby. Don't go."
"And what do I do if I stay? Watch you stare at me while you try to come up with something to say?"
Leire presses her fingertips to her temples and rubs them.
She needs to say something—anything—to fix the wreck she's made with her silence and her stupid reaction, but nothing comes.
There's nothing she can say that will comfort Kate, and she knows the hug would come too late, that it would feel forced, that Kate would go stiff the moment she reached for her.
"I'm sorry," she whispers, taking a step back.
"What are you sorry for, Leire? For what's happening to me? Or because you're losing the toy that's been keeping you entertained at night for the rest of the tour?"
"That's not fair, you know I—"
She stops herself at the last second, and Kate's anger doubles.
"What, Leire? That you love me? Is that what you were going to say?"
"Yes," she murmurs, meeting her eyes.
"Then show me, goddamn it."
Kate opens the door and doesn't bother checking the hallway before stepping out. She just leaves, letting Leire be the one to close it. Leire stays still, hand on the handle, eyes filling with tears.
Kate walks into her room without turning on the light and lies down on the bed without changing clothes.
She should've told Leire that love isn't enough.
That she's spent months reaching for her warmth and it never comes.
She doesn't know anymore if the problem is Leire or herself—if she's been waiting for something all this time that Leire simply can't give her, not because she doesn't want to, but because she doesn't know how. And Kate is tired of waiting.