Rowan looks after her with his eyebrows raised. “I know your sister can be intense, but I’m glad you have her in your corner. I don’t think I’d survive her ire.”
I stand and cross my arms over my chest, taking over the same spot she was pacing a second ago.
“Are you okay?” he asks, stepping close to me and wrapping me in a hug. I resist at first, but then his comforting scent envelops me and I give in. I always do.
“I don’t want this for us,” I mumble against his shoulder and his arms stiffen around me. I swallow and push the words out even though it’s not fair. Even though he didn’t do anything wrong. “I don’t think we should give them any more reason to publish those kinds of articles.”
He pulls back and I shut my eyes tight. I hate this. I don’t want him to stop touching me, supporting me, showing me affection. But I don’t want to put the spotlight on him this way. He deserves to be in it for his accomplishments, not because he’s with me.
“You know I don’t care about those articles, right?” he asks softly, brushing a strand of hair behind my ear. My eyes flutter open and land on his lips. His nice, soft, inviting lips that have been my comfort for years now. Ever since that first night we made the agreement. Ever since he told me he couldn’t accept—not without kissing me.
I swallow hard and meet his hazel gaze. He looks…sad. The crinkles at the corners showing his concern for me. So I give him asmile and hug him tight once more. “I just think we need to show less PDA. I don’t want to deal with the media any more than I have to, okay?”
Rowan is quiet for a moment but eventually he says, “Anything for you, Mags.”
I smile in the crook of his neck and remember all the other times he’s said that phrase to me. Almost like a promise that he’ll never let me go. Maybe I’m selfish to keep him when I can’t offer more than this agreement. But as long as he’ll have me, I’ll do my best to show him how amazing he is.
The next day,I’m assaulted by reporters as soon as I enter the arena. I try to ignore them as Andreea leads me to our seats, but their pestering questions still linger in the back of my mind. I’m distracted for most of Rowan's match so I barely notice when his opponent sends a ball to his left service court, causing him to sprint and try to catch it in time. The ball bounces once and bounces low. Low enough that Rowan has to slide and reach to hit it.
The move surprises me. While I know Rowan is agile and plays quite defensively, he usually has better placement than this.
For a second I think that he’ll make it, but then his foot catches on the service line as he attempts to slide. He goes down. Hard. The collective gasp in the arena chills me and I stand up, gripping the railing.
“Is he okay?” Andreea asks, gripping my forearm in concern.
I watch as Rowan pulls his knee up to his chest and at first I think he landed on it, hurting it in the process. But then I see thebend of his ankle and I squeeze my eyes shut. Fuck. This is going to set him back for weeks, if not months.
“No, no, no,” Andreea mutters, covering her eyes. I watch helplessly, my stomach twisted up in knots, as both his opponent, Jack Dunn, and a medic check on Rowan and help him off the court. He tries to keep a straight face for the crowd and cameras, but when he makes eye contact with me, I can see the devastation on his face.
I bite my lip hard enough that I can taste the copper on my tongue. It takes all my willpower to march out of the section and into the medical center with Andreea in tow.
My heartbeat doesn’t settle down until I see him. Rowan takes the pain in stride and doesn’t complain or melt down in a room full of people. But I see how gut-wrenching this is for him and if I could save him the pain, I would. I want to reach out and hold his hand, I want to comfort him, but there are too many people in the room.
Rowan smiles brieflyand waves at the cameras as we walk (and he hobbles on crutches) from the arena to the car that will take us straight to the airport. Only our coach and physio traveled with us, alongside Andreea who’s been helping with logistics and re-booking our flights and hotels.
I expect him to make his usual snarky remarks and laugh this off, but he doesn’t. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him this down. He gives Andreea one word answers each time she asks if he’s okay. I don’t dare ask him anything in the car or on the flight back. Not that I could ask him, when he spent all twenty plus hours watching game play on his laptop or listening to something on his phone.
The silence was stifling and I didn’t have the words to console him. I still don’t as we leave the Miami airport together. I give the driver my address and it’s not until we get to my townhouse that Rowan looks up at me with red-rimmed eyes.
“You should have taken me to my house,” he croaks and I give him a disapproving look. He frowns at me and I purse my lips.
“If you think I’m leaving you alone in that stupid guesthouse so you can mope around, you’re sorely mistaken.”
Rowan stares at me and his bottom lip wobbles. I feel bad for being harsh on him earlier, so I press a gentle hand to his cheek. He leans into it and closes his eyes in relief. Did he think I would ditch him?
“Let’s go inside,” I say, opening the car door and helping him out. The driver brings our bags up and I give him a generous tip before he leaves.
The house is quiet as we make our way to the large sectional in the living room. I rarely spend time here, but at this moment, I’m glad the couch is big and comfortable enough for him to rest on. Rowan props his fractured ankle diagonally on the couch and stares at it, a swirl of emotions crossing over his face.
I want to tell him I’m sorry. I want to rage about it and tell him he deserved better, but I don’t think that’s what he needs. I mostly just want to know what he’s thinking.
“Ro,” I say gently, taking a few steps closer and looking down at him. His eyes are glued to his ankle so I reach out a hand and tip his head back to look at me. Even worn out and sleep deprived, he’s still the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
“I ruined it,” he says, voice hoarse. A tear rolls down his cheek and I wipe it away. I take a seat next to him and pull him down to rest his head in my lap. He gives in and I keep a steady hand across his chest, the other running through his soft hair.I’ve never been good at comforting people, but it seems to be what he needs. I’d do anything for him.
“What did you ruin?” I ask as his tears continue to fall, his hands clutching to my arm across his chest like it’s a lifeline.
“This,” he says, squeezing my arm. “We were supposed to win a Grand Slam this year, kickstart our professional careers. We were supposed to do thattogether. And I fucked it all up by taking a risk. We were supposed to get matching tattoos of alligators holding a tennis racquet.”
