Page 81 of Clean Point

‘Dylan.’ She twisted to find me, her body jolting up straight. In a heartbeat, her guard was back up, any sensitivity in the moment vanished.

Her eyes scanned me up and down. ‘What do you want?’ she sneered.

‘I heard what he said,’ I admitted cautiously. I held my hands up as if to try to soothe the situation, prove to her I was here as a friend, not a threat.

‘So?’ Her sharp tone was accusatory, rough around the edges, as if to miss my point completely.

‘So? He can’t speak like that to you.’ I shook my head before remembering his final words. ‘Is it true what he said? About the contract?’

She rolled her eyes at me, pushing herself up from the bench to reopen one of the lockers in front of her. ‘He’s just a tough coach. It isn’t anything I can’t put up with.’

‘There’s no putting up with him.’ I tilted my head to the side. ‘I would know.’

She let out a cold laugh as she hastily began to stuff clothing into a large gym bag. ‘You were weak.’

‘Excuse me?’

She paused, her expression fed up. ‘You think that was anything worth getting upset about?’

‘Come on, Dylan. You’ve been coached by Jon, you know that’s not normal.’

‘Jon’s soft. I didn’t need soft. I needed to win.’

I laughed at the irony. ‘Then Matteo’s definitely your guy because he will stop at absolutely nothing to get you there.’ Memories threaten at the edge of my mind, the brutality of that man’s appetite for winning, but I pushed them back down. ‘But don’t think for a second any of it is about you.’

‘What? Is it about you then? Revenge on the pretty little daughter that betrayed him.’

‘No.’ I shook my head simply, ‘It’s about himself. His legacy. There’s only one person he wants to see succeed, and it’s himself. Everyone else is collateral.’

‘Right.’ She drew out the word before she slammed the locker door closed again. ‘And who am I supposed to believe? The cheat, or the man who just told me how to win?’

‘Dylan, wake up. He threatened your career.’ I stopped short of pointing out that he was the threat, the one she should’ve been concerned with.

She shook her head again, that smile a mean thing as she hoisted her bag strap onto her shoulder. ‘The only threat to me is you, Scottie.’

She started to barge past me, but my hand went to her arm, clutching tightly. She immediately stopped, looking down with disgust where I held onto her. But my grip only strengthened, desperate to hold her attention.

Her eyes met mine, confusion all over her features. Holding her gaze, I said. ‘I meant it, before, when I said when you need help, I’ll be there.’

She pulled back at my words, yanking her arm out of mine, and after a moment, a pause, she blinked and walked away without so much as another smart retort or insult.

I turned on my heels, watching her leave, the door swinging back and forth on its hinges as she disappeared through them, leaving me all alone in the locker room, hoping that this time, she would listen before it was too late.

35

Nico

You First – Paramore

‘And it’s an unexpected first win at Wimbledon for Scottie Sinclair. She won in two sets today against—’ The voice from the TV of the sports commentator disappeared into the noise of the packed hotel bar, the rest of his words lost, but the screen already had my attention.

I’d been nursing a glass of whisky for ten minutes waiting for Scottie to arrive. A tequila old-fashioned I had ordered for her sat untouched, swimming around a large ice cube. After her first victory earlier today, I promised her a drink on me. And after a raised eyebrow from Jon, I promised just the one drink, but stopped short of inviting him along.

The screen held my attention as I watched the replay. I’d missed it with my own match playing at the same time. I’d won, but the after-match dip in the ice bath had been both tortuous and heavy on my knee, the joint throbbing. It wasn’t anything I couldn’t handle. I smiled as they showed her final point, her joy palpable as she celebrated. It was almost too easy for her, tracking down each ball like her life depended on it, hitting every serve with an exact precision.

It had been a week since the gala and the cupboard and her father, and things had been … different. Like the tension between us had both broken and grown. Now I’d had a taste of her, I wanted more. More of the noises she had made, the needy movement of her perfect hips.

My head turned as another person walked into the bar, eyes assessing to see if it was her yet. She was late, of course, which normally I’d hate, but I didn’t mind waiting for her. I took a sip of the amber liquid, enjoying the burning at the back of my throat.

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