Page 13 of Clean Point

‘Me and Daddy Nico Kotas are on the same Greek island. No, I’m not okay.’

‘Imagine the gorgeous tennis nepo baby those two would make? @Elite you should sponsor them.’

7

Scottie

Not Strong Enough – boygenius

I didn’t make it a habit to google myself. I had my automated daily news round-up for that.

Scrolling through the social media mentions while hanging off the edge of my comfy bed in an upside-down sprawl, I tried to ignore the comments. Sneakily taken photos from last night caught my eye instead – Nico and me, clutching our suitcases, navigating a foreign airport while hungry and exhausted. In every photo, we were barely looking at each other, his baseball cap pulled low as we kept a solid arm-length between us, all while maintaining a strong policy of absolute minimal communication with each other after our fight on the plane.

I tried not to feel betrayed by the human race.

Paparazzi, I’d gotten used to as much as I would. Over the last few years, I had become good at spotting them from afar, even if they were hiding. I’d learned if they were about, whatever I was up to was about to be splashed over the digital pages of a catty tabloid with whatever clever nickname they’d decided to christen me with.

At least, I normally had some warning. This, I hadn’t expected at all.

Taking a sneaky mobile photo of somebody post-flight in that lighting? Was nothing private anymore? At least Nico looked good. My attention caught on the glimpse of his muscled left thigh, analysing the red scar that ran across his opposite knee.

I scrutinized the photo once more – eyes narrowing on my unwashed blonde hair that had been hastily pulled back into a messy bun, comfortably baggy joggers and jumper I now regretted not changing out of on the plane.

We had gotten to the villa so late, nobody else except the housekeeper, Elena, was up to greet us, and after a quick snack, we were quickly ushered off to our bedrooms.

Now, ten hours and one refreshingly deep sleep later, I felt like a child trapped in their room. Out there was Nico, the asshole who’d sneered at me on the plane.

My phone vibrated in my hand, my mum’s contact photo, a selfie of us both on a road trip to visit Jane Austen’s house, covering up the badly taken photos. With no reluctance, I pressed answer, putting the call on loudspeaker.

Her voice boomed from the speaker, the tone accusatory. ‘Did you take my dress from the Versace 98 runway?’

I sat up straight, my eyes darting to the overflowing suitcase sat in the corner of the room. Mostly stuffed with comfy training clothes, the black dress stood out in a sea of white, the material spilling out over the edge. ‘I’m not sure I’ve ever seen it.’

She hummed in response, ‘Really? Because I’m looking at a picture of you from last week and it looks like my dress. And I can’t find it in my wardrobe.’

I could see her perfectly in my mind, sitting in the middle of her kitchen looking as glamorous as ever, the tabloids from last week thrown open all over the table as she tried to track down all the clothes I’d stolen from her.

‘Maybe the maid has it,’ I tried to reply, but if my shaky response didn’t give it away, the fact her first port of call would’ve been to check with her maid of ten years immediately would’ve sealed the guilty verdict.

She sighed, and I was sure I heard her taking an angry sip of tea. ‘Dry clean only and check their Google reviews first. It’s vintage.’

I grinned as I pushed myself up from the bed and pulled the short dress from the suitcase. Holding the dress up, I replied, ‘It’s something to remember you by.’

‘I’m not going anywhere,’ she said. ‘I’ve already emailed a dozen times to make sure I’m in the family box.’

‘Stop harassing Jon,’ I stressed as I hung the dress up, placing it on the outside of the wardrobe. I said a silent apology to the dress for stuffing it in my suitcase and kidnapping it from its owner. ‘I’ve not started training yet. We don’t even know if I’ll make it to Wimbledon.’

‘Of course you will.’

‘A hundred things could go wrong before then.’

‘Like?’ she asked, and I let the question hang in the air for a moment.

Like, I could grab my new mixed partner’s dick mid-flight after we fought over the armrest. He could call me a strange name I would be up half the night trying to translate on Google, and then we could ignore each other for the rest of the flight and camp, eventually dooming us to fail as a partnership, resulting in either of us barely making it past the first round on the grass courts.

‘Injury,’ I answered, taking back my place on the bed next to my phone.

There was another long pause on the other side, as if she knew it was pointless to argue. ‘I was researching this new partner of yours, you know.’

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