Total pages in book: 92
Estimated words: 87804 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 439(@200wpm)___ 351(@250wpm)___ 293(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87804 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 439(@200wpm)___ 351(@250wpm)___ 293(@300wpm)
“Look, Ol…” I stop, distracted by the vibe burning the side of my face. Compelled to look to the right, I find Noah staring back. “Can we have some privacy, please?”
For a minute Noah doesn’t move, simply glares, chest puffed, tattooed arms crossed. Oliver returns an equal glare. It’s glares, glares everywhere. Noah finally sees the error of his ways and moves further down the bar to do whatever he’s pretending to do so that he can continue to eavesdrop.
“It’s over, Oliver,” I say softly. I don’t want to hurt him. I might not be in love with him, yet despite his actions I care about him deeply.
Oliver’s stubble-covered jaw stiffens. “Fine. Take more time––it’s on you if your training suffers.”
“No.” It leaves my mouth much more easily than I expected. A steady calm washes over me at the realization that this is without a shadow of a doubt the right thing to do.
“No?” He scoffs. “That’s it? No––after six bloody years?” His anger is palpable, the volume of his voice increasing with every word.
Beyond Oliver’s shoulder, I vaguely notice Noah’s head pop up. He’s abandoned pretending and given us his full attention. Call me psychic because I can see where this is leading and it’s nowhere I want to go.
I take his hands in mine. “This has been a long time coming.”
Oliver’s face goes flat. “It’s him, isn’t it? The wanker with the tattoos. Who is he, Maren, schoolgirl crush?”
“The wanker that owns this joint, asshole. The one that’s about to throw you out,” the wanker down the bar shouts.
I can deadlift twice my weight and these two idiots are going to fight over me? Really? And before noon, no less? Come on.
Squaring up, Noah throws his towel onto the bar top and Oliver turns to face him. This is what they call cock fighting.
“So,” I start, nodding, my gaze moving between idiot number one and idiot number two. “Are we all gonna go Kung Fu fighting? Cuz I’d like to get a turn.”
“No Kung Fu necessary, baby. Just good old-fashioned fisticuffs,” rejoins idiot number two from the far side of the bar.
“Baby? Who the fuck do you think you are!” Red-faced, Oliver charges. Noah vaults over the bar. And I spare no time jumping into action, placing myself between Oliver and the man I intend to clobber the stupid out of as soon as I get a chance.
“Stop it! Noah, stay the hell out of this. It’s none of your business.” I look up at Oliver who is busy making chopped meat out of Noah with his razor sharp glare. Tugging on his shirt, I say, “Oliver, come on. Let’s go outside.”
He leans his chest into my good hand, warning me that I couldn’t stop him if he didn’t allow it. A tense moment passes before he pulls back and wraps his fingers around my hand, the one pressed over his heart. Taking it, he leads me toward the door. I catch Noah ready to pounce out of the corer of my eye and mouth stay.
Outside, the sky is carpeted with clouds as far as the eye can see and as melancholy as the scene below. We walk to his rental car hand in hand. At the car, he leans against it, stuffing his hands in his front pockets. Trying to appear unaffected right now seems pointless but he tries anyway.
“Who is he, Maren?”
“I’ve been trying to tell you for weeks.”
“The business partner,” he offers drily, new understanding in his eyes. Shaking his head, he pauses while I squint up at him. “I knew something was off.”
“He has nothing to do with this.” The skeptical look he shoots me is his answer to that. “Remember when we met––how I told you the last relationship I was in had ended badly and I wasn’t looking for anything serious? He was the bad relationship.”
“Ah.” For the first time I see resignation in his faraway gaze. And with it, a small hole opens up in my chest, the ache already building.
We’ve had some great times together. Oliver was with me every step of the way as I climbed the ranks of the WTA. For my greatest victory––Wimbledon. And my most painful defeats––the US Open. A large part of my success belongs to him. Despite everything, I am going to miss him.
“This isn’t about him and you know it. You didn’t want to hear that I’m burnt out, or that this was a blessing in disguise.” I hold up my cast. “You didn’t want to hear that I’m having fun here because it doesn’t fit your idea of what our life should look like…your agenda.”
I don’t go on even though there’s a lot more I could say. Like the fact that neither of us really knows the other––not really. Which is absurd since we’ve been sharing a roof and a bed, working together nonstop since the day we met. That neither of us digs past the surface because we’re afraid that we’ll discover what we already know in our hearts––that we have nothing in common except tennis and winning.