Page 14 of Clean Point

‘Nico?’

I could hear the smirk in her voice. ‘You mean the six-five hunk?’

I side eyed the phone with a slight distaste. ‘Is this a conversation I’m seriously having?’

‘I swear every single photo of that man makes him look like a snack.’

‘I’m hanging up now!’

I was inches from the red button when she spoke again. ‘I saw you in the airport. The pictures, I mean.’

I sighed at the reminder, my interest in the conversation renewed. It was hard to find people that understood what it was like to see your name in fake headlines. Thankfully, Mum was one of those people.

‘I’m not dating him,’ I began to yammer. ‘I met him barely a week ago. I can’t even be spotted with another tennis player without them assuming the worst.’

‘Darling, is being tied to that man something we would describe as the worst?’

‘You know what I mean.’

‘I do, but at the end of the day, you know it’s outside your control what they write about you. You can’t fixate and you certainly shouldn’t be googling yourself.’

‘I wasn’t!’

‘Turn off the notification and then I’ll believe you. You’re in training now, and I know you want to take it seriously. Whatever they are or aren’t saying about you, it’s all a distraction from what matters at the moment.’

I grumbled, knowing she was right. I picked up the phone, swiping away from the call to my browser, the horrible photos attacking me all over again. Finding the settings, I disabled the notifications, knowing that not checking for a while, even a few days, would do me a world of good.

Let this all die down and focus on tennis. Show them what they should be talking about.

‘Done,’ I said before returning to the call, the article replaced with my mum’s face pressed close to the screen. Two of the same blue eyes stared back at me, and for a moment, I wished to go back to that day when we decided London was too much for us both and we needed to run away to the countryside.

‘Good. I’m proud of you for doing this, you know? It’s not easy, but if it was, it wouldn’t be worth all the fight I know you’ve still got.’ I wanted to argue, to ask ‘what fight?’ But instead, I closed my eyes and remembered those words.

I’m proud of you.

‘Thanks, Mum.’

As we said our goodbyes, my eyes found her dress again, hanging on the wardrobe. Despite her irritation at my sleight of hand, I was glad I had a piece of her with me.

When the call cut out, I was still half tempted to look up flight times back to Heathrow, if only just to see her again, but instead the persistent grumbling of my empty stomach won, and I made my way out of the room.

I crept out into the upstairs hallway, trying not to make any more noise than was necessary against the marble floor. The villa was huge, consisting of three floors, two of which were bedrooms for guests, and no more furnishings than was necessary. It was luxurious, but the owners had chosen the minimal aesthetic that only the truly rich could achieve: white perfect walls, hallways so empty they echoed like a quiet cathedral.

I hadn’t gotten far when the sound of footsteps rose up the hall, chatting voices, and the shriek of laughter. Like a coward, I hid, running into the nearest room and leaving the door slightly ajar, allowing me a sneaky view of the others.

Jon had told us there would be others staying at the villa. It made sense to have a few other pros here. And while we’d mostly be staying out of each other’s way, it gave us somebody to play against. Training sessions would still be private, with scheduled time at the gym and on the court.

The dark glossy black hair of Inés Costa came into view. I knew her well. Back in the day we’d been on opposite sides of the court more than a couple times. We’d been friendly, despite the fact that during matches, I had the habit of wiping the floor with her. She was smiling at Henrik, a Czech player new on the scene, and one I hadn’t met yet, as they turned the corner into the hall.

Nothing to worry about, I told myself. Friendly faces. Then she turned the corner.

Dylan Bailey.

‘I’m just saying, I don’t know why she’s here,’ Dylan started, and my heart fell into my stomach. I hadn’t seen her since that day. Her face in perfect view, us walking toward each other to meet at the net, her refusing to take my hand. ‘She’s a cheat. Jon’s making a fool of us by having her here.’

‘She made a mistake.’ Henrik shrugged. ‘He must believe in second chances.’

I huddled behind the partially open door, straining to hear the conversation.

---