Page 5 of The Rebel (Covington Prep: The Girls We Love #7)

I was about to send him a sharp rejection, but their hopeful expressions made me hesitate.

If the boys had another run, it would give me a few minutes alone with Valencia.

I smiled and hoped I was about to earn a Brother of the Year title.

“Sure. But be careful,” I said. “And don’t ram into anybody.

” I turned to Valencia, who slipped her phone back into her pocket. “Let’s go.”

She nodded, her gaze darting back to her friend group as she waved and reached out to take her sled from Oliver.

“I’ll take it,” I said, taking control.

“I can,” she said.

“Here, you take this,” I said, swapping her for the first aid kit and her glove. “Everything okay?” I asked.

She looked like she was about to say something, but only nodded. I lightly bumped her elbow, guiding her in the direction of my car,

“Mom went to visit your mom,” she said.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. She was feeding Volley while we were away.”

“Yeah, Mom said. You guys went to Florida, right?” I already knew that.

“To see Paris,” she said with a heavy sigh.

“What?” I was surprised by her reaction. “You didn’t have a good time?”

“Well, sitting in the heat watching Paris hit tennis balls all day,” she paused and grumbled, “it’s not my idea of a good time. Especially for Christmas.”

I made the mistake of laughing, receiving a deep scowl in return. “I haven’t seen Paris in ages. Is he based in Florida now?”

“Yeah, mostly. Since the US Open.”

“He had an amazing tournament. Making the big bucks, I hear.” Mom had told me that the prize money for a second round loss in a Grand Slam was over $100k.

Pretty good for a couple of days work. There was huge money to be made in the sport—if you were good enough.

And being good enough meant putting in the hard work.

Paris definitely had that drive, his focus becoming single minded as he’d climbed in the junior rankings.

“Hmphh,” Valencia shrugged like she wasn’t impressed. Or proud.

“What? He didn’t treat you with his winnings?”

“Doubt it,” she scoffed. “He’s cheap. He wouldn’t buy me anything.”

“What?” I bantered back. “Surely he got you something?”

“Oh yeah.” Her eyes widened, but her reply was pure sarcasm. “I got a US Open towel, one he got for free from the locker room.”

“Hey, at least he was thinking of you.”

“It still had his sweat all over it,” she sneered, her pitch rising sharply. “Like, he literally gave it to me straight after the match. All wet and smelly.”

She had me laughing. “You should’ve put it up on e-bay. Could’ve made some money. Paris Reid’s sweaty tennis towel.”

Valencia huffed and mumbled in disgust. “Yeah. There are actually people who’d be dumb enough to buy it.”

I’d been following Paris’s progress not only on the tennis court, but online.

He was growing a fanatical fanbase of young girls, most who probably didn’t know a thing about tennis.

But his success at the US Open had changed everything for him.

And with his poster boy good looks, sponsors were clamoring for him.

I nudged Valencia toward my truck. Amelia and Katie thought it was hilarious when I’d told them what I drove. They thought I must be a farm boy from the country.

I opened the tailgate with my remote and lifted Valencia’s sled onto the cargo bed.

“Why weren’t you sledding today?” she asked.

I scrunched my nose up, shook my head and said with a laugh, “I leave that to Ollie and his mates. Hey, do you want a hot chocolate?”

She frowned, but lowered her head like she’d suddenly become shy. “No, it’s all right.”

“No, come on,” I said, signaling to the coffee cart across the parking lot. “You deserve one after what Ollie did to you. Let’s warm you up. So, tell me about Florida.”

“Paris got invited to Juan Duran’s academy, so he was training with some top players. Do you know Stefan Stolz? Fernando Torres? Shyla Tatum? They were there.”

“Wow,” I said, the names vaguely familiar because I tried to keep up with Paris’s progress. “Paris is mixing with the top guns.”

“Uh huh.”

“So, what’d you do?” I asked.

“Me?”

“Yeah. Did you play?”

“No, I don’t play,” she said quite tersely.

“You used to,” I said. “You used to be good.”

“No, not me. I was never good.”

I chuckled, sure she was being modest. “You won those trophies with Paris back in the day. Gee, how long ago was that?”

“In the under 10s,” she said, almost angrily. “Sooooo long ago.”

“And you and me played a few times.”

“We did?” Her tone changed to one of surprise.

“Yeah, remember Coach Lisa’s group?”

Valencia frowned. “You were in her group too?”

It was kind of a let down that she had no memory of it, but I tried some humor. “Yeah, but my tennis was unmemorable. Just as well I quit and took up soccer.”

She shoved her hands in her pockets and walked with her eyes down, like she wasn’t interested.

“Why did you quit tennis?” I asked, now genuinely curious.

Valencia and Paris had already been playing tennis for years when I joined the Country Club tennis group.

They were coached privately, but Valencia moved into my group for a while.

I eventually stopped playing, my talent average at best, and I much preferred soccer.

Valencia shrugged and mumbled. “I told you, I was no good.”

She looked up, her lower lip pouting, her dark eyes narrowing and swirling with anger like she was annoyed. But I wasn’t sure if it was my questions or the after effects of the nosebleed.

“Uh, let’s see,” I said, reading the menu board. “Do you want whipped cream? And holiday sprinkles?”

Valencia pulled out her phone and stared at her screen for several seconds before putting it back into her pocket. “Yeah, whatever,” she said, but her mouth twitched and her eyes were welling up again.

And I had a feeling it had nothing to do with the bump to her nose and the blood streaming down her face after smashing into my brother and his sled.