Page 20 of Clean Point

‘Why not?’ he asked, his irritation clear in the gruffness of his tone.

‘I don’t date.’ The words were sharp, maybe a little too sharp, but nonetheless true. It had been … a while. For years, there was no room in my life for anything more than a couple of nights. Then, with my knee and the surgery, there was no room at all. It was taken up by appointments, rehab and anxiety.

‘I wasn’t suggesting you actually date.’

‘And I wouldn’t date her,’ I added hastily, only realizing what I had said when Scottie piped up with an annoyed ‘Hey!’

Her eyes were narrowed angrily at me, lips pressed into a thin, disapproving line. ‘Like you’d have a chance.’

I fought the urge to pick at her words, to smirk and tease. While I didn’t date, it wasn’t like I didn’t know how to. Like I didn’t think about it or her, no matter how much I’d tried. Her, with the long legs and the blonde hair I could see tangled up in my fist. Knowing she was only down the hall.

And that’s exactly why we couldn’t date.

‘Again, not the suggestion,’ Jon said, shaking his head.

‘Maybe you better explain, so I understand. Because from here, it seemed like you were proposing I date my mixed partner for money and publicity.’

He took a breath to clear his irritation before he spoke again. ‘Not date,’ he tried to explain, his voice clear. ‘Be seen together. Allow the brand to share images of the two of you training and using their products. Let the press and public put two and two together. They think you both can raise the brand’s awareness, and I agree.’

‘This is insane. You’re insane,’ I cried, exasperated, hands flying into the air because I didn’t know what else to do with them except perhaps strangle my coach. My palms landed on the soft material of my navy baseball cap, and I was reminded of the leftover vanilla and orange scent Scottie’s shampoo had left behind.

‘And not for money and publicity. For a brand partnership. They are only interested in the two of you together after you were spotted landing at the airport—’

‘You mean after people sneakily took our photos and posted them all over the web?’ I corrected. I had only found out about them after Henrik, one of the other players training here, showed me the pictures all over social media. I’d had some paparazzi presence before, usually around tournaments, but it had been years since I’d had any real press interest after learning how to avoid them.

‘Gee. Could you sound more like a granddad?’ Scottie remarked, sounding too casual with it all.

I narrowed my eyes at her, and her eyes met mine. ‘You’re on board with this?’

She shrugged her shoulders, her face remaining suspiciously neutral as she spoke. ‘This happens either way to me. At least this time, I’d have a say. Control the narrative.’

She didn’t mind? She didn’t think it was a risk to her career, her image, to let everyone think she was shacking up with her tennis partner? That allowing a brand to manipulate her image to sell rackets and shorts was ‘controlling the narrative’? Maybe it was because she wanted to see me suffer after the pool incident. Questions were on the tip of my tongue when Jon interrupted again.

‘You need sponsors. ELITE is willing to fund everything single-handedly if you both agree to a little extra publicity and play into rumours that have already begun to crop up online.’ He placed an iPad on his desk, facing it towards us. The homepage of the Daily Tea was open. Something shifted in my gut, a twist as I read the words.

Is Slutty Scottie cleaning up her court? Spotted landing in Rhodes with none other than fellow tennis legend Nico Kotas!

My gaze involuntarily moved to Scottie, the headline burning into my brain like a hot brand. They called her that? Even when things had been bad in the media for me, when I first took off, they had never called me anything like that. Her eyes moved from the iPad to Jon, her expression stony and impossible to read. I thought again about how she’d looked earlier. The memory of the soft request about her father had me seeing the vulnerable side of Scottie for the first time. What was it about her that tempted me to reach out, uncurl her clenched hand, and intertwine her fingers with mine?

Reading the headline back stirred something dark and violent inside of me that made me want to find every bastard who had ever dared to call her that and make them regret it. Yet another reason this was a terrible idea.

Jon’s voice cut through the horror. ‘I wouldn’t suggest it if I didn’t think it was a good idea. You need funding, and ELITE is willing. And despite what you think, it could be good for you.’

‘How on earth could this be good for me?’

Jon shifted uncomfortably between us before swallowing. ‘You have no publicity.’

I smiled, trying to recall if I still knew the passwords to my social media. ‘That’s how I like it.’

‘But because you have no publicity, all people can talk about is your career. Your knee. How they’ve not seen you in a competition, even at a friendly, in half a year. Longer if we want to talk about competitions you performed well in.’

I gulped at the thought. Had they counted me out? To them, was I another dinosaur trying to keep their career fresh long after the sell-by date? My performance in my last few matches felt like the ugly scar across my knee: red, swollen, and sensitive. In the last one, I’d barely managed to be competitive – spending hours icing my knee at night and praying the painkillers would be effective enough to get me through at least the first set. In the end, I’d had to pull out completely.

‘If they’re talking about you and Scottie, that’s something else,’ Jon pointed out before turning to her, his head tilted forward. ‘And you. You have too much publicity. If you do this, we can control it a little and get them talking about you and Nico. Maybe we can protect you.’

‘I don’t need protection. I’m used to this.’ She said it so easily, but the words replaying over and over in my brain said otherwise. What else had they written about her?

Jon eyed her, clearly as convinced as I was. ‘That may be, but this gives us an opportunity for some good press. None of this name-calling.’ He motions at the iPad as he lifts it from its place and locks the screen. I watched his eyes read the words as they disappeared, hurt flashing there for a moment, and I found myself wondering if this was the best headline he could find. The least offensive.

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