Page 124 of Double Fault

Though my lungs seize, my heart accelerates to impossible speeds. Very few people have ever told me they love me, and not a single instance has felt as important as this one.

I swallow past the lump in my throat and kiss the top of her head. “I love you too.”

Sometime later, after we’re both asleep, I hear Noah come in. His big, warm body settles behind me, and he presses his lips to my neck as he brushes a thumb over Maddie’s cheek.

“My girls,” he whispers.

At a loss for how to process the emotions warring inside me, I pretend I’m still sleeping.

And when I wake in the morning, he’s already gone.

CHAPTER 32

NOAH

Elias is goingto beat me. I’m one game away from the finals match, and I’m going to lose. At this point, there is no way to turn this game in my favor. Even though we’ve been training together here and there, he’s still better on grass than I am.

He slides across the court and sends the ball back my way. I nearly trip over my own feet as I lunge for it. I miss, but it doesn’t matter.

“Out!”

At least that’s a point in my favor.

During this stage of the Grand Slam tournament, the stands are packed. Though it may have more to do with Elias. He always draws a good crowd. I have to give him credit there. He’s young and charismatic, naturally drawing people to him.

I reset myself, preparing for his next serve. There’s no doubt in my mind it’ll be vicious. Elias isn’t one to cut a person slack, even a friend.

The ball soars my way, and I dive for it. Fuck yeah. It flies back over the net. He’s ready for it, sprinting forward. Shit. He’s preparing for one of his infamous drop shots. After all the time we’ve spent together, I recognize the move. It’s one of the skillsthat makes him so hard to beat. Somehow, I manage to get it and slam it back over to his side of the court.

He runs backward, eyes on the ball, pulling his arm back to hit it.

As if the world has slowed, I can see his every move. His arm is suspended in air, one foot raised. When it comes down, though, it tangles with his other foot, and he goes down hard. He cries out in pain, rolling onto his back, and clutches his knee.

No.

Any athlete in my place would want to win. But I’d never want it to be because my opponent is injured.

Elias rocks back and forth, grunting and holding his shin. A whistle blows and the umpire climbs down from his stand. Tossing my racket, I leap over the net and run to my friend’s side.

“What is it? Your knee?”

With a nod, he hisses through his teeth. “Fuck, I think it’s torn.”

Fuck is right. If the tear is bad enough, he could be out for the rest of the season, maybe longer.

The medics appear, but rather than back off, I loop Elias’s arm over my shoulder and help him up and over to his chair.

As I step back, he looks up at me, the pain in his eyes unmistakable.

Nausea roils in my gut.

Injuries are par for the course in any pro athlete circuit. They’re an inevitability. Even so, I can’t stand to watch someone suffer.

When the medic instructs him to stretch his leg out, he complies but immediately cries out in pain.

Not good. Not good. Not good.

It’s not my job to help; I need to get the hell out of their way. But the need to support him has me nearly crawling out of my skin. I don’t like feeling helpless.

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