The hotel ballroom glittered with soft lights and the sounds of too many conversations layered over one another. Sleek cars were staged like art installations around the perimeter. I tugged at the hem of my dress, the kind Maddie had insisted looked “sophisticated but not try-hard,” and pasted on a smile as the sponsor reps swept me inside.
The usual drill: shake hands, smile for photos, answer the same questions about training and pressure and momentum. I was halfway through nodding politely at some executive when I someone I know long before called me.
“Liv?”
I didn’t even have to turn. That voice hadn’t changed, not even with stadium echoes and post-match interviews layered on top of it now.
Nico Tanaka. Premier League rising star, and somehow still the same boy who used to walk me home after practice carrying both our bags because he insisted mine “looked heavier than my entire personality.” The same boy who slid crisps onto my lap on the bus when I got quiet, who let me copy his math homework when tournaments swallowed my revision time.
I excused myself from the executive and when I turned to him, there he was. More taller, sharper jaw and a hair that clearly had a stylist now.
“Bloody hell, it’s been what? Years!” he said, eyes bright in that way that always made people feel like they’d been chosen.
“Too many,” I said, and meant it.
Back in school, he’d been my safe person more than anything, my grounding wire when I felt too odd or too intense or too… tennis for everyone else. He never made me feel like I had to shrink to fit in.
We grew into steadier, almost familial friendship. Maybe because Nico trusted me with the parts of him he hid from everyone else, like the night he told me he was gay, and my heart broke a little thinking he’d carried it alone for so long. I’d held that secret like it was made of glass because I knew how rare it was for him to hand it over.
Even now, years later, he still let me see the off-duty version of him. Seeing him now grown as established and overflowing with the kind of confidence he used to fake.
He caught me staring and grinned wider. “Still gawking at me, Liv?” he teased.
“Please,” I scoffed, bumping his arm. “Some of us have matured.”
“Sure you have,” he said, and the familiarity slotted back in like no time had passed at all.
Before I could say anything else, he pulled me into a tight hug, the kind of hug only someone who’s been in your life since childhood can give. It felt like being fourteen again, waiting for the bus with rain-soaked hair and a racket bag digging into my shoulder. It felt like home in a room full of strangers.
We stepped back, still grinning like idiots.
“Look at you, Mr. Football Star,” I said, giving him a once-over that was only half teasing. “I’ve seen your name in the papers, but seeing you here? You’re everywhere.”
“And you,” he said, pulling back just enough to look me over, eyes sparkling. “The Olivia Smythe! I should be askingyoufor an autograph.”
I rolled my eyes, but my cheeks heated anyway. “Stop it.”
Within minutes we’d slipped into an easy rhythm, swapping updates, teasing each other about our teenage crushes and failed hairstyles.
As the evening carried on, people began to notice. Maybe it was the way Nico’s hand brushed my elbow when he steered me through the crowd, or the way he leaned in when I spoke too close, and for anyone who didn’t know us, it’s perfectly normal for two people who grew up side by side.
But the photographers caught it, of course. They always do. A few flashes went off, then a few more, like sharks catching the scent of blood. British tennis golden girl in a sponsor gown and a Premier League athlete in a perfect suit. Easy chemistry. Easy narrative.
I couldn’t bring myself to care. If they knew him, they’d realize how absurd it was.
When the Porsche rep finally came to collect me for the next round of photos, Nico straightened, smoothing his suit jacket like he was about to walk a runway. Then he winked at me, full charm, full mischief.
“Don’t think you’re escaping me that easily. I’m buying you a drink after this circus.”
He said it with such casual certainty that I didn’t even argue. Just smiled, shaking my head. God, it felt good to have someone like him back in my orbit.
CHAPTER 22
ALEXANDRA
Ever since I saw that picture of Olivia with that man at the Porsche dinner, it had been gnawing at me. Now, sitting on the plane on the way to China, that feeling hit again, sharp as a bruise I kept poking despite myself.
It shouldn’t have bothered me. It really shouldn’t have. But there was something about the way he stood so close to her, the way she laughed in a way I hadn’t seen. It made my chest tighten in a way I didn’t want to name.
