Page 103 of Drop Shot
“He’s smart sometimes, but don’t tell him I said that.”
She laughs and I think it’s the first genuine laugh I’ve heard from her in two weeks. “Trust me, I’m not saying a word to him. He’d gloat forever.”
It grows quiet between us and then Ebba says, “Have you ever been to the Louvre?”
“I haven’t actually.”
“You wanna go?” she asks with a smile. “It’s one of my favorite places here.”
“Sounds fun.”
A museum sounds like a nice change of pace.
She motions her parents over to join us and asks if they want to go. After a quick look exchange between the two, they agree.
“I’ll text Elias and let him know where we’ll be.” I’m already pulling out my phone to do just that. I know if we’re not back by the time he makes it to the hotel he’ll be panicking over my absence.
I suppose it’s because I didn’t know Elias on as much of a personal level as I do now, but I never realized how much he worries about those he cares about and it’s obvious I’ve joined that list now. But I don’t dare allow myself to read into that fact.
I know Elias expressed his desire to explore things between us for real, but I have to be realistic.
I’m not the kind of girl for him.
I’m not a supermodel or actress.
I’m not anything special. I’m just me.
CHAPTER 35
WHIMSY
With one day off—whichis still spent with practice and physical therapy and all the other things Elias has to do—it’s now Sunday, the day of the final match at Roland Garros.
As a Majors tournament it’s a big deal. The Superbowl for tennis players and fans if you will. Except instead of once a year, it’s four times. The Australian Open, Rolland Garros, Wimbledon, and the US Open.
Celebrities fill the stands, including quite a few from the States. The energy in the stadium is infectious and I hope the crowd will help build Elias’s momentum. Despite some of his bad behavior at times, he’s generally a fan favorite.
It’s warm already, and our seats are currently directly in the sun. A decent breeze is made by my folding fan, and I pray that my setting spray does its job and locks my makeup into place.
Elias and his opponent—a powerhouse of a player at only twenty-two named Conor Davies from Great Britain—each enter the stadium to a raucous of cheers. My heart is already racing, and the game isn’t even underway.
Elias looks surprisingly calm as my eyes track his movements. By the time Conor makes the first serve I’m taken by surprise. I’ve been so focused on every detail I can absorb from Elias’s micro expressions that I didn’t realize they were already starting.
It’s going to be a long game. I think Elias expects that from the way his brows settle and the determination in his gaze. He’s locked in and focused. I can only hope that bodes well for him.
First set goes to Conor.
Second to Elias.
The third is neck and neck and goes to a tiebreak. I bite my nails the entire time—a disgusting habit I haven’t resorted to since I was around twelve years old and got braces.
When Conor cinches the win for the third set my stress levels are through the roof. That means Elias has to win the next one and a fifth set in order to win.
“My stomach hurts,” I mutter to Ebba. “I genuinely think I might throw up.”
“If you do”—she says under her breath— “don’t do it on me.”
“I’ll aim for Jackson,” I whisper back, and she has to hold in a laugh.
