How is he going to handle this loss? Am I supposed to give him space? I should just act like a friend, but that feels wrong. The questions flash through my mind, stressing me out, throwing me into self-doubt.
Maybe it’s my fault that he lost. I don’t even know how or why, but the possibility eats away at me.
Fuck, does this mean it’s time for me to leave Miami? I thought we’d have at least a week together, but now, it’s over?
Five anxious minutes later, he walks in to his private locker room. He’s still dripping with sweat and flushed from the match. Immediately, I stand.
“Spencer. Fuck. You were incredible. And that match was so close. I’m so sorry it didn’t go your way.”
He drops his tennis bag, not even bothering to hang it up, and sits on the couch. Spencer puts his elbows on his knees as he holds his head, looking at the ground.
“Everett played a near perfect game,” he says flatly, but his foot keeps tapping the floor, like an outlet for his energy.
“I honestly thought you were going to win,” I say, at a loss for how to comfort him.
“Fuck,” he curses under his breath. Finally, Spencer looks up to me. His expression is strained, like something is eating him up. “It’s just one loss,” he says. “It’s one tournament. It’s not a Grand Slam. But I thought I was on a roll. I thought this was the start of a winning streak.”
“This is the start of a winning streak. It’s like you said. Everett played a near perfect game.”
Spencer stands. “And so did I,” he says emphatically. “But I still made mistakes. I lost a couple points I didn’t need to lose. Pivotal points.” He pinches the bridge of his nose. “Maybe I’m not thinking as clearly as I thought I was.”
Because of me. Shit.
He’s confused and distracted because of me.
“Spencer, shit. I’m sorry,” I tell him. “I know, right from the start, you were worried about a fake marriage distracting you from your game.”
He turns and looks right at me, and his expression softens. “Gabriel, no. That’s not what I’m saying. I’m not blaming this loss on the fact that I’m falling in love with you.”
Spencer’s eyes widen, and his jaw slackens.
I blink.
Did he just say what I think he said?
* * *
SPENCER
Fuck. I just told Gabriel that I’m falling in love with him.
Is that even true? The words came out so easily, but my head is swimming. I just played the most intense game of my career. Everett and I brought the absolute best out of each other. We challenged each other at every turn, drove each other to new highs. Flooded with adrenaline, aching with exhaustion, the high of the incredible game came to a crashing halt when I lost.
I’m tired. I’m frustrated. I’m angry that I’m out of the tournament, and I also feel prematurely defensive, knowing what the hateful people are going to say. This is just the fuel they need to rear their ugly heads again.
But in all the chaos, the words that flew out of my mouth suddenly seem strangely, undeniably true.
Of course I’m starting to fall in love with Gabriel.
He stares at me, hazel eyes wide. His lips are softly parted, showing the blunt, white edge of his teeth, and his breath is caught at the top of his inhale.
“You’re falling in love with me,” he finally says, like he needs to hear the words again.
Gabriel and I are in my small room, the tournament continuing in the arena outside. I lock the door, my heart beating. Finally, reality catches up to me.
I can’t fall in love with Gabriel. Gabriel doesn’t want that, and we have nine more long months of marriage together.
“I’m sorry,” I say, my voice raspy. “It’s the game or something.” I try to take it back, but I can’t lie, and right now, it feels so fucking true it hurts. “I know you’re not looking for love. I shouldn’t blurt that out.”
