Page 77 of Drop Shot
“How are things with Keaton?” I ask.
She sighs and stuffs her phone in her shoulder bag. “Fine. He was supposed to meet me here, but he said things came up and now he can’t. He says he won’t miss the French Open, but…”
“But you have your doubts?” I finish for her and she nods. “What about you and Fisher?” I ask. “Are you ever going to tell me what happened between you guys?”
She looks down at her hands, inspecting her perfect manicure. “There’s nothing to tell, because nothing happened.”
“You’re such a liar,” I say in a teasing tone, bumping her arm with mine.
Silence settles between us and I think that’s it, but after a bit she says in a whisper, “It hurts too much to talk about.” Her lips turn down and I swear there’s the glimmer of tears in her eyes.
“Ebba,” I say softly, rubbing her arm.
“It’s in the past. Complete history.” There’s a tell-tale quiver in her voice.
I look across and find Fisher watching us, eyes zeroed in on Ebba with his brow wrinkled in concern.
“If you ever need to talk about it, I’m here. I won’t judge.”
She forces a shaky smile. “Maybe one day I’ll be ready to talk about it.”
“How’s your leg doing?”
Ebba suffered a leg injury from a bike accident long before I met her, but I know it gives her trouble now and then—more so lately. Before following a career in social media she’d dreamed of being a dancer. The accident snatched those dreams from her.
“As good as can be expected.” There’s a bitter undercurrent to her words. “My doctor is suggesting another surgery.”
“But you don’t want that?” I prompt when she gets quiet.
“No,” she sighs. “I don’t. But I might not have any choice.”
I hesitate, but finally voice, “Are you in pain?”
I can tell she doesn’t want to answer, but eventually says, “Yes.”
My heart breaks for Ebba. I’ve known her as long as I’ve been working for Elias and she’s truly one of the kindest people I’ve ever met. She doesn’t deserve to be in pain and suffer.
I reach for her hand and give it a quick squeeze before letting it go. “I’m here for you if you need me. You know that, right?”
She pulls me into a hug. By the time she lets go, Noah and Fisher have left. “I know. And in case I haven’t said it, I’m glad my idiot brother got his head out of his ass when it comes to you. He’s clearly obsessed with you.”
I snort, and it’s on the tip of my tongue to say no he’s not, but I catch myself just in time. “He’s a good boyfriend,” I say instead.
Ebba’s phone buzzes. “Car’s here,” she announces, and we head out to the waiting black SUV.
The drive is silent, but not awkward. The car drops us off and we navigate our way to the entrance reserved for those attending with the players and their teams. After our badges are checked we’re quickly let through and search for the player box. Ebba and Elias’s parents are already there and both stand quickly to hug me.
“How did he seem this morning?” His mother asks me, smoothing her fingers through my hair. The touch is so gentle, so motherly that it makes my heart ache for my own mom. I’ll see her in a few months when we’re back in the states for the US Open. Even though it’s in New York, I plan to make a trip down to Miami while I’m in the States.
“He seemed okay. We didn’t get much time to chat. He came back to shower after his morning practice—said he needed to be away from the court to regroup—but headed back out right after.”
“He needs a win,” she sighs. “I hope he can pull through to the final.”
I hope so too. He’s been working hard. Too hard, I’m afraid. I don’t want him to risk injury.
I settle into my seat and pull my sunglasses from my bag, sliding them onto my face to shield from the bright sun.
When Jackson joins us, I try not to bristle. The date he sent Elias and I on did indeed end up on some sports blogs. Why people care about the personal lives of athletes is beyond me, but I guess Jackson’s ultimate goal is working. Fans are buzzing about us online. There has been some negativity as well—mostly from men claiming I’m clearly only with Elias for money. Sadly, they’re not really wrong considering what I’m being paid for this farce. Ironically, though, the photos that went viral weren’t even the ones from our date but instead of us dancing in the street with the locals. Someone snapped a photo of me lifted off the ground in his arms. In the picture Elias is grinning at me and I’m smiling back, my left hand on his cheek. We look … happy. We lookreal. Even I was fooled. He’s a good actor.
