Page 29

Friday, May 19

MY ALARM IS loud and thumping, a new sound I don’t remember programming. Normally, it’s a high-pitched bird chirp, but this morning it’s a steady beat, like thunder, and I swat at my phone to turn it off.

Except it keeps going, persistent and irritating. I drag a hand through my hair, which is damp with sleep sweat, and grab for my phone again, the screen painfully bright. The time reads 5:45, almost an hour before my alarm normally goes off.

That’s when it hits me. It’s not my alarm that I’m hearing at all. It’s the door to the racquet club downstairs, and someone is banging on it. Loudly.

The few people who have the front door code know it’s not set to unlock for them until 6:00 a.m., and I leap out of my bed like it’s on fire, hands flailing to my chest, then my thighs, to make sure I have pajamas on. My mouth feels like a stack of newspapers, dry and stale, and there’s a low thrum of a headache pulsing at the nape of my neck. It’s a light hangover, which in my experience, is one of the worst kinds—barely there but bad enough to ruin your day.

The incessant knocking is only making it worse.

I stumble my way downstairs, and even though it’s still dark outside, the figure in the glass is lit up from the security lights that loom brightly over the entrance. Niko is there, palm pressed against the door like he’s being chased by zombies and is desperate to get inside. Something seems very, very wrong.

He pushes through the door the second the lock clicks open, and I’ve never seen him this unraveled. He’s disheveled, like he drove here still half-asleep, and my mouth falls open a bit in surprise when I notice that he’s in a gray T-shirt and navy shorts. But he hasn’t totally lost his mind, I realize, looking down at his feet. He’s still in ice-white socks and those pristine sneakers.

“What the hell is going on, Niko?” I ask, suddenly worried. “Is Loretta okay?”

He shakes his head. “It’s not her,” he says quickly, and I immediately feel reassured. But then my stomach sinks. He passes me his phone, and before I glance at the screen, I catch a glimpse of his face. He looks sickly, a ghostly, greenish pale, and even though I’ve seen this man almost daily for a month and a half, I have never once seen him like this.

“I’m so sorry for dragging you into this,” he rasps.

I look back down and read the email on the screen.

Hello Niko and Bex,

Due to some new information we received, we’re going to publish the profile online today at 10 a.m. and in print tomorrow, earlier than planned. I wanted to give you both the opportunity to comment on the following:

Your romantic relationship is fabricated. The two of you have been pretending to date to generate publicity.

“Holy shit.” My voice quakes with unbridled panic. I don’t need to keep reading to know what the rest of the email says. Freddie’s told her everything, and it’s all about to be in print. “Did you respond?”

Niko nods. “I did.”

“And?” I ask, even though there’s no answer he can give me that will fix this.

He reaches for my hand. “What else could I say? I told the truth. That’d we’d been faking, for the sake of trying to boost my career and help the club.”

My body freezes, but the absolute panic that courses through me is red-hot. “I’m going to throw up,” I say, dropping his phone on the counter and racing toward the bathroom.

“Bex”—Niko chases after me—“let me stay with you.”

“Leave me alone, please,” I croak as the bile in my throat rises. I barely make it to the toilet before I am sick. My sweat is clammy, and I’m blinking back tears as I crumble on the floor.

Luckily, I don’t heave up last night’s dinner—or cocktails. My stomach settles into something hard, and tears begin their steady stream down my face as I back up to sit, cupping my head in my hands. The motion-sensor light shuts off, and I hug my knees in the darkness, flushed with a sadness so deep I don’t know my way out of it. I don’t need to read the rest of the email to see the writing on the wall. We’ve been found out, exposed, and humiliated, our plan foiled before we even had a chance to finish it. I was foolish to think that I could save a business by pulling off some sort of concocted juvenile scheme.

No, I was foolish to think that I could save a business, period, much less run it.

I don’t know how much times passes before I hear the door creak open. “Can I come in?”

“Okay,” I mumble, as the overhead light flickers back on. Niko slides down onto the floor and sits across from me. He reaches for my hands and gives them a squeeze, and I look up at him through eyes that already feel swollen from the onslaught of tears.

“We can figure this out,” he insists. “Tweak our plan.”

“No,” I say hoarsely, my body dried out and exhausted. “No more plans.”

“I’m so sorry I got you into this mess,” he says. “Seriously, Bex. I didn’t mean for it to blow up like this.”

“It’s my fault,” I start, the guilt overwhelming. “I was trying to explain to Freddie the lengths I’d go to save this place, why he should invest in the club. I fucking said ‘cone of silence’ and everything.”

I watch as he processes this information, anticipating the worst. But he just shakes his head while stroking his thumb softly over the curve of my wrist.

“Well, you know the first rule of saying ‘cone of silence’ is that nobody ever actually follows it.” His voice is kind and soothing, and he gives me a sympathetic smile. “Especially Freddie. He used to always send in terrible things about me to all these tennis websites, trying to get them to print ridiculous stories about me. It was his form of psychological warfare, how he’d try to win matches off the court. Clearly his ego can’t handle playing either of us in this exhibition match.”

“Are you serious?” My eyes widen in horror. “So you didn’t tell people you lost a match because of bad socks?”

Niko chortles at this. “Bex, I complain about a lot of shit, but have you ever heard me say a word about my socks ?”

I shake my head before letting it drop back into my hands.

“Why are you being nice to me?” I grumble. “I fucked this whole thing up.”

“This has nothing to do with you,” he says firmly. “I get why you told him. It wasn’t a bad idea. He’s just a scumbag. There’s no reason we can’t still play this match tomorrow. Or in the tournament.”

I appreciate that he doesn’t even hint at an I told you so about Freddie.

“I don’t think I can,” I mumble, still sniffling. “This is so fucking humiliating.”

“Bex, I think I know you pretty well by now,” he says, “and I know you don’t give up this easily. We can still win the prize money, try to save this place. I know we’d kick his ass, especially if he’s playing with someone who bought the spot to play with him.”

Niko’s a good person. He didn’t need a write-up in the LA Times or some pretend pickleball career to prove that. Niko isn’t perfect, and I wouldn’t want him to be. He’s human. Insecure and arrogant, sure. But kind, loyal, and determined. Someone I would want by my side on a regular basis.

“I can’t show my face there, Niko,” I say flatly. “Everyone will have read Angela’s story. I’ll be a joke. The club will be a joke. I’m going to take today to review the offer Wilson sent over to buy the club. I think that’s the only way out of this mess.”

“Bex.” He winces, his face pained. “I don’t care if my image is fucked or if I’m irredeemable after this stupid article. That’s not why I’m doing this anymore.” He reaches a hand up to my chin, tilting my gaze until our eyes line up. “You get that, right?”

“I do,” I tell him. “And I love that about you. But this is something I need to do on my own.”

He’s quiet for a moment, thinking. “You know there are so many people who want to help you,” he says finally. “Me, most of all.”

“Well, you of all people should know what it’s like to not want to rely on anyone else, Mr. Never Played Doubles before,” I reply. Despite my tears, there’s a saucy edge to my voice, and he lets out a quiet chuckle.

“That’s fair, I guess.” Even in moments of despair, I love when he admits that I’m right. He brings my hands up to his lips, kissing them softly. “But where does that leave us?”

“I was never pretending,” I admit. “Even when I said I was, I knew all along that everything I did, everything I felt, was real. I know you didn’t get the profile you wanted, but if it’s any consolation, you definitely changed one person’s opinion about you.”

Niko sighs, and it hits me in that spot where all his sounds do, in the funny bone of my heart. “I don’t care what Angela prints in that story. That’s all that matters to me.”

“I don’t know what this is, between us, when we started it on a lie just to get things we wanted.” I pull away from him and wrap my arms around my legs, leaning my head against the wall. “That doesn’t seem like a relationship. I just want something honest.”

Niko stills and then clears his throat. “Then I have one more thing to tell you.”

I stare back at him, and his face is stricken with sorrow. He looks unsure of himself, and I’m overcome with the urge to pull him into my lap and hold him close.

“What is it?” I am drained of every bit of energy I once had, and I’m not sure I can take more revelations today.

“I know I told you I signed up for the Paddle Battle for the article and to beat Freddie. But it was also about proving to myself that I could still get out there and play something . I was terrified of showing up at the qualifier and finding out that even after all this time and all this work, my body and brain are still broken.”

His words chip off pieces of my heart, bit by bit. “That must feel so awful.”

“I’m still scared.” Even though his voice is low, this confession echoes off the walls of the bathroom. “I don’t want to find out what happens if I can’t play tennis.”

I know nothing I say will reassure him, but I still try. “I played against you enough to know that whatever happens with you and tennis, you sure as hell can play pickleball.”

“But also,” he interjects, “it wasn’t just about that. I think it was about proving something to you.”

“Me?” For the first time all morning, I smile. “No way.”

“It didn’t hit me until the other night, standing next to you at the museum,” he says softly. “That all of this—the game, and pickleball, and trying to win—has just been to show you how much I like you.”

“Oh, Niko.” I drop my head into my hands with a groan. I don’t know if hearing this makes me feel better or worse. “That is a really fucked-up way to try to go about doing it.”

“I know,” he admits, his face sheepish, guilty. “I realized that the other night, too. At least let me make it up to you, if you just play—”

But I shake my head. I don’t want to get sucked into another scheme. I just want to be done.

“It was silly of me to put both of us in this position,” I tell him. “I have a solution, and it’s the one that hurts the most. But I think sometimes you have to let go of the things you love so they can go on to thrive on their own.”

The words actually hurt to say out loud, causing an ache so deep in my chest that I’m not sure it will ever completely go away.

He nods, and I know he understands what I mean, even if I’m not quite saying it.

I’m letting the club go. But I need to let him go, too.

“I do need you to do one thing for me,” I say finally.

“Of course,” he agrees, leaning closer.

“Could you put a sign in the door telling people the club is closed until Monday?” I ask, smoothing out my hair, trying to collect myself. “I’ll send an email out to members now.”

If he hates this idea, he doesn’t let on. Instead he just gets up to stand as I stay put on the bathroom floor. “Anything else?” he asks, reaching a hand down toward me.

I grab hold of him one last time, and he pulls me up off the floor with ease, like supporting me is second nature to him.

“Yeah.” I straighten out the collar of his T-shirt and try to swallow back the lump tightening in my throat. “Go have that comeback. Win your qualifier. You’ve earned it. Show everyone how great you are. And don’t worry about proving it to me. I already know.”

He laughs at this, but it’s hollow and so deeply, deeply sad. He runs the back of his hand gently across my jaw and then leans forward like he’s about to kiss me before pulling away. “If anyone asks,” he says, “I’ll say I owe it all to my pickleball coach.”