I notice my phone is flashing and see that I’ve missed a call from Gabriel. He’s left a voicemail, and I quickly check it, my pulse kicking.
Hey, Spencer. You probably don’t even look at your phone on match day. But I just wanted to call and say that you’re a total fucking legend and the best tennis player alive, and you’re going to kick ass today and every single day after, too. Okay? Just didn’t want you to forget that.
I grin to myself. Gabriel’s voice sets everything right, his confidence and humor lighting me up from the inside.
Yeah. He’s right, and I’ve got this.
I start with my breath. I steady myself and erase everything that isn’t tennis. The game is woven into the fabric of my being, and when I walk out onto the court, my body comes alive.
Everything makes sense. I come in strong behind my serves, dominate the net, and move like lightning with every return. My competitor puts up a strong show, but I deliver a quick and decisive win. When I close it out with three aces in a row, I turn my eyes out to the crowd for the first time and smile.
And in the post-game clarity, exhausted and buzzing, my brain finally opens enough for the truth to appear.
There’s no way in hell I can stop myself from falling in love with Gabriel.
CHAPTERTWENTY-TWO
GABRIEL
“Second placein the opening tournament last week, that’s right. And did you notice? They’d only seeded him at number four. But I wasn’t surprised.”
Daniel, the driver from the service who picked me up at the airport, hands me my guitar as he smiles. “I saw. Hell of a final match. Wilchins could have easily taken it if a few points had gone differently.”
“Watch his game here in Miami. He’s starting a winning streak that’s going to carry him through to Paris.” I grab a few twenties out of my wallet for a generous tip. “Thanks, Daniel.”
Never thought I’d be the kind of person who talks sports with strangers. But when Daniel mentioned that he was a tennis guy and a Spencer fan, I got all worked up. Sure, I’m still figuring out the lingo, and tennis scoring is totally confusing. But it feels good to brag about Spencer’s success.
In fact, a lot of things feel good right now. The music I’m writing is starting to come together, form into songs. They’re taking a different shape than I expected, raw and stripped back, yes, but joyful as often as they’re twisted up.
Emotional, like Spencer would say, but with streaks of optimism, too.
Fox is ready to hear what I’ve got. My contract says it's time, and I know he expects me to deliver like a professional. By the time I’m back from Miami, these songs will need to take shape.
They’re not written from heartbreak, but the longing I feel for Spencer infuses every note.
I’ve decided not to tell him that I’m falling for him and that I maybe want more, at least not yet. But my soul has found another way to declare the truth, singing it loud and clear.
I want to believe that this is the proof I needed. I’m not writing music from the devastation of a brutal breakup, although I know our divorce is inevitable. It still tears me up when I think about losing Spencer, but maybe I don’t have to lose him.
Maybe this can work. Maybe I won’t have to write a Spencer breakup album after all.
“Gabriel.”
I turn at the sound of that sweet, deep voice, and when I see Spencer walking toward me and the Miami hotel, I take my sunglasses off. The day is bright and warm, and he’s in an athletic shirt and shorts, something he might wear on the court, but he’s already cleaned up from the match he won this morning. His tennis bag over his shoulder, he’s wearing an inconspicuous gray cap to block the sun.
Like always, he looks spectacular. Spencer is alive with the heat of victory, and his muscles pop as he comes to me, quickening his pace.
He smiles, and I’m grinning, and it’s only when I go to pull him into a kiss that I remember we’re surrounded by people and phones. We’re supposed to kiss, but not like I want to kiss him. This is still pretend.
Even though it’s not.
Instead, my hand lands on Spencer’s bicep, and he presses his fingers to my cheek. We stand close, breath heavy, and his scent fills me, electrifying me from inside.
“Thanks for coming to Miami,” he whispers against my mouth.
“My pleasure,” I whisper back, and we both step away without closing the kiss.
Fucking torture.
