Page 9 of Drop Shot (On the Court #2)

ELIAS

I might’ve had to meet Whimsy’s family for the first time, but she’s already met mine numerous times. This is different, though. She’s never met them as my girlfriend.

I didn’t expect to feel so sick over lying to her family and mine—it’s not like it’s a big lie, anyway. It doesn’t hurt anyone. But man does it feel wrong.

My body aches from a brutal training session. After a rough start to the ATP Tour year, I’m desperate to come out on top. Especially on my home turf. Losing in Miami would be a heartbreak I don’t want to deal with.

I unlock my car and hop in. I need to pick up Whimsy before we meet my parents and sister for an early dinner, but I also need coffee if I’m going to be able to make it through the rest of the day.

Putting in a mobile order for my favorite place, I get a coffee for Whimsy too.

Knowing her, she’s needing it just as bad as I am.

Once I have the coffees in hand, I text Whimsy that I’ll be getting her in a few minutes.

Nerves ratchet up my spine. I’ve never introduced my parents to a girlfriend before. I’ve never dated anyone seriously before, and I can’t help but feel like the worst son ever that the first time I’m doing it, it’s not even real.

Groaning, I rub a hand over my jaw.

I can’t dwell on this.

I signed the contract.

Whimsy signed the contract.

We’re locked in.

When I pull up outside Whimsy’s building she’s already waiting on the curb and fuck she looks cute. Blond hair pulled back in a high ponytail secured with a white ribbon and wearing some sort of short flowy tutu-looking skirt in yellow with a matching-colored top.

I slow to a stop and get out to help her in. I’m going to have to get running boards if I’m going to be picking her up more.

“You don’t actually have to help me. I’ll be fine,” she says, adjusting her handbag on her shoulder.

“I’m trying to be your prince charming,” I quip, offering her my hand for balance.

When she wobbles, my other hand immediately goes to her waist to steady her.

“Sorry.” Her cheeks flash pink when she glances back at me.

“Not your fault.” I make a mental note to make an appointment ASAP to install the running boards on not just mine but her vehicle too.

Once she’s safely seated inside, I close her door and jog around to the driver’s side.

“You got me coffee,” she says almost accusingly.

“Yeah, I was picking some up for myself so I figured you might could use some as well.”

She grabs the waiting straw, undoing the paper and shoving it through the lid. “This is weird.”

“Me getting you coffee?” Confusion laces my question. What’s weird about coffee?

“You never get me coffee,” she says, taking a sip. “You let me charge mine to your card, but I’m always the one getting our coffee. I mean, I know it’s been my job so please don’t think I’m complaining. I’m not. It’s just weird is all.”

“Oh.” I frown. “Makes sense.”

I wonder if now, while she’s baffled over the coffee situation, is a good time to tell her I haven’t told my family. Probably not, but here goes nothing.

“I thought we could tell my parents and Ebba together about this thing.”

She chokes on her coffee, so perhaps I should have waited. “What do you mean?”

“I haven’t told them yet.”

“You … Elias!” She swats my arm. “Are you kidding me? I told my family before we went to see them.”

“I’m sorry.” I shrug my shoulders practically up to my ears. “I know, fuck, I know I should’ve, but you know I’m not good at this kind of thing.”

“You’re ridiculous.” She sets her cup in the holder and crosses her arms over her chest.

“See, this is why I had you as my assistant, though,” I reason.

She rolls her eyes. “You’re an adult, Elias, and this relationship isn’t even real. You should be capable of having a conversation with your family about this, but whatever. We’ll handle it when we get there.”

“Thank you.”

I know feeling anxious about telling my family is silly, but I can’t help it. I know they’re going to have over the top reactions. It’s in their nature. Even my dad.

“Do you want me to interview new assistants for you?” Whimsy asks after a few minutes of companionable silence.

The idea of working with someone new doesn’t sound appealing. I know that Whimsy can’t assist me anymore, but I don’t want anyone else.

“Nah,” I reply.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see the quizzical look she sends my way. “Are you sure?”

I might need the help to keep my life straight, but that doesn’t mean I want it.

“Yeah,” I sigh. The idea of anyone but Whimsy helping me just doesn’t sit right.

“Well, if you change your mind let me know.”

“Will do.” I tap my thumbs against the wheel.

Miami traffic is brutal. We’re late by the time we make it to the restaurant. A text from my sister says to meet them on the patio out back.

Whimsy follows me through the restaurant, grabbing my arm before we step onto the patio.

I slow my steps to a stop and look down at her. “Should we hold hands or something?” she asks, lips scrunching. “I mean, a couple that’s newly dating would hold hands, right? And that should kind of give it away right from the get go without us having to explain?”

“Good thinking, Whim. You’re a genius.”

I take her hand, entwining our fingers together.

She gives me a nervous smile in response. It’s hard, lying to people you care about, even if you know it’s for the best. I love my twin, but God knows she’d let it slip this is fake by accident.

We step onto the patio and head to our left where the majority of the tables are. My parents and sister are facing us, so it only takes seconds for them to notice our joined hands.

Ebba’s jaw drops and I see her mouth move to make the words, “Oh my God.” While my mom’s lips form the shape of the word, “Finally.” My dad just laughs.

“Hey, guys. Sorry we’re late. Traffic was a bitch,” I explain, pulling out a chair for Whimsy before I settle into a seat myself.

The three of them blink across the table at us and I think this might be the first time in my entire life they’ve all been silent.

My sister is the first one to speak. “Why were you guys holding hands?”

I glance at Whimsy and back at them. “Because we’re dating.”

Ebba’s eyes nearly bug out of her head as her gaze swings between the two of us. “Are you serious? How long has this been going on? Why haven’t you told me?”

The last question is directed accusingly at Whimsy.

“Hey, leave her out of this,” I say, pulling my sister’s attention back to me. “I asked her to keep this to ourselves while it was new but now, we feel comfortable in sharing.”

“This is wonderful,” my mom says, clapping her hands together. “Whimsy, we love you so much. Haven’t we been hoping for this?” She turns to my dad.

“We have,” he agrees, reaching for his glass of beer.

“Hold on.” I look at my parents. “Have you guys been conspiring against me?”

“I wouldn’t call it conspiring,” my mom says, manicured fingers tapping against the tabletop.

“If we were conspiring, we would’ve been actively trying to get you two together.

We just hoped something would happen.” She fixes me with her wide-eyed, please don’t be mad at your mom signature look.

“We just want you to be happy, Elly. That’s all. ”

Ebba couldn’t say Elias when she was little and called me Elly. Unfortunately for me, the nickname stuck where my parents are concerned even if Ebba has since moved on to calling me by my actual name.

“I am happy.” I sound too defensive to my own ears, so I quickly cover by reaching for Whimsy’s hand where it rests on the table and lying mine on top of hers. “Whimsy makes me happy.”

“Well, that’s great,” my mom says, smile never dimming. “Whimsy already feels like part of the family.”

Ebba sighs, reaching for her glass of white wine. “It’s good to see you getting serious about something other than tennis.”

I bite down on my tongue. Lying to my family is a lot fucking harder than I anticipated. And even though I know they don’t mean it as a dig, it feels like one.

So what, if I’ve prioritized tennis over just about everything else in my life? My parents were more than happy to pay for my lessons and helped me secure the best coaches we could find. They encouraged to me to go pro. They travel to most of my matches. So why does it feel like they’re judging me?

“We’ve been worried about you,” my dad says. “You’ve had more meltdowns on the court than usual lately.”

Ah, that’s what this is about.

I groan, rubbing my free hand against my jaw. “I haven’t been playing my best and I’m frustrated.”

It’s the truth, too. I think any player that’s been at this for any time will admit to getting into ruts where it’s like no matter what you do—how much you practice, run, lift weights, you name it—you’re just on a losing streak.

Tennis is as much mental as it is physical and I know for me, personally, when I begin to lose a lot, it gets into my head, and it becomes even more likely that I will fail.

Whimsy flips her hand beneath mine, entwining our fingers, and I send her a grateful smile. She’s been around me long enough to read me easily so it’s no surprise she’s picked up on how uncomfortable this topic of conversation has made me.

My mom smiles at our joined hands and sends a look my dad’s way.

I know this is what she’s wanted for a while—not specifically Whimsy and me—but to see both my sister and I find a love like she has with our dad.

They’ve been in love since they first met at nineteen.

Love at first sight they’ve always told us.

One look and they knew each other was the one.

I can’t imagine what that must feel like.

To look at a stranger and just know they belong to you.

I look over at Whimsy and she gives me a soft smile.

This might be fake, but I do know she has my back, and that counts for something.