Page 92 of Hard to Love

I rise to my feet as if I’m on autopilot. My body and heart already reacting before my mind can process his words.

“So tell me you’re in love with me too. Tell me the past two weeks have been as miserable without me as they’ve been for me without you. Even though you have played like the incredibly talented tennis champion you are. Tell me that we’ll figure out how to make this work because damn it, woman, you’re my Cards O’ Fun, and I want to keep turning them over and experiencing each different one with you. Only you.”

Tears slip down my cheeks as I struggle to find words to respond. As I try to figure out how to make him understand what I’m feeling inside. And there’s a moment between our eyes meeting and our lips meeting where the world stops for a few seconds, and the only thing I can think of, anticipate, dream of, is his kiss. A moment so poignant and perfect that when I brush my lips against his and breathe him in, I know this is the beginning.

This is my future. He is my forever.

“I love you too,” I murmur. He wraps his arms around me and holds me tight, causing me to feel completed and complemented in a way I never have before.

“Now, tell me exactly what you know about Martina Hauerr’s game and how to beat her. Because this is your win, Lancaster. Prove to me that you’re ready to take that crown. Show me what it takes. Get out there and win. Let’s go.”

And that’s what I needed to hear. That gruff, authoritarian, no-bullshit encouragement.

Victory, here I come.

FINN

FOR A MAN WHO WAS taught to shun love, to shun emotion, it’s impossible to put into words what it’s like watching the woman you love—yes, love—get ready to battle on the court with the world watching.

There’s color in her cheeks and a smile on her lips. There’s a swagger in her step and confidence in her attitude that I love knowing I helped put there.

She completes her warm-up and steps over to the bench to wipe the sweat from her brow.

My chest feels like it’s going to burst with a pride I don’t think I’ve ever experienced before. For her, battling to be in this moment after everything she went through, and for me, finally putting to rest my dad’s rhetoric that he spent a lifetime trying to make me believe.

Not all women leave.

Some battle. Perhaps even fall. But if you hold out your hand long enough, be patient enough, and make yourself just as vulnerable as they feel, then you just might change the cycle.

“Quiet, please,” the chair umpire says to the stadium, as both Stevie and Martina walk to their respective ends of the court.

I’ve played this over in my head on the flight. Just how I’ll do this. So that Stevie will be reminded of her father while at the same time starting something that is uniquely ours. This won’t be the last time I’m sitting courtside, cheering her on.

I slip the red Nike hat onto my head.

Hell, might as well take note of this important first too.

“Game on, Rapunzel.”

STEVIE

FINN GROANS BESIDE ME AT the bright sunlight glaring through the windows of our rental house. “It’s winter. Doesn’t Australia know that?” he says as he rolls onto his back and sighs loudly. We’ve both been having trouble adjusting to the time difference, but that’s why we’re here so early. To get acclimated before the Australian Open starts so it doesn’t affect me when I play.

And so we can have some added bonus time together.

“But it’s summer here. The sun and heat are a welcome change from the cold of New York.” I shift, sliding my arm beneath the pillow my head is propped on so I can study him. His dark hair. His profile. The rise and fall of his bare chest. The pillow creases on his cheek.

I love him.

It’s plain and simple. I love him in a way I never knew was possible. But I feel like we’re going through a rough patch. Between training for the Australian Open and his work taking him all over the place, I feel like we’re never on the same page.

That’s why I’m so very grateful he’s here with me. And I’m hoping that this added extra downtime together in Melbourne will help with that.

“You’re staring at me,” he murmurs but keeps his face aimed at the ceiling.

“I am.”

“Humph.”