Page 120 of Drop Shot
“Elias,” I mutter under my breath. “What are you doing?”
I don’t think I’ve ever been so stressed watching one of his matches before. But this isWimbledon,and he was only beginning to get back on track. A loss here would be devastating for him.
If I didn’t have the fear that cameras are on me, I would be watching through my fingers as it moves into a tiebreak.
“I think I’m going to be sick,” I mutter.
Ebba reaches for my hand. “He’ll pull through. He has to.”
Only, he doesn’t, and Elias is out of Wimbledon in the first round.
The crowd is in shock.
I’m in shock.
So are Ebba and her parents.
I know Elias has to be devastated as he shakes hands with Trager who says something that has Elias’s upper lip curling in a snarl.
This is a heartbreaking loss for him.
After shaking hands with the umpire, he quickly packs his bag before waving to the crowd and exiting.
God, I want to get to him as quickly as I can, but I know it’ll be a little while yet before I can talk with him.
We don’t bother staying to hear whatever Trager has to say. I don’t care if it might come across as rude. I just want to get to wherever Elias is and wrap my arms around him.
Waiting for him feels like hours even though I know it’s not nearly that long. I’m just so desperate to make sure he’s okay with my own two eyes.
When he finally texts to meet up with us, and I spot him rounding the corner I can’t control my natural reaction to run to him.
I throw myself into his arms and he catches me easily with a small grunt. His lips find mine and the kiss is soft and sweet. There’s a sadness to it too, and I know how heartbroken he must be by this outcome.
“Hey, baby,” he murmurs.
“I’m so sorry,” I tell him. “Are you okay?”
He sets me down and cups my cheek, thumb smoothing over the curve. “No.” I’m glad he at least answers honestly. “But I’ll get over it eventually.”
“I’m sorry,” I say again.
“It’s part of the sport. More losing than winning. I just hate I went out this quickly.”
My heart hurts deeply for him. Elias deserves to make it farther—to win. He won Wimbledon the first year I began working for him but not since.
“Don’t cry for me,” he says softly, wiping away my tears. “I’ll be okay.”
I wasn’t aware I’d begun to cry.
“Fuck Trager,” I mutter.
I’m shocked when he gives me his full-blown mega-watt smile—dimples included. “Yeah, fuck him,” he agrees and lowers his head to give me another quick kiss. “I better talk to my parents.” He nods in their direction.
“Oh, of course.” Somehow, I forgot that there were other people around us, including his family.
He laces his fingers with mine and we cross the short distance to where his parents and Ebba wait at the table I was originally seated at with them.
“My baby.” His mom is up and wrapping her arms around him. She’s tall, not quite as tall as him, though. “How are you feeling?”
