Page 131 of Double Fault

She smiles up at me. “Yeah, she’s got me too.”

I pack up the rackets and extra balls, then take Sabrina’s hand and lead her toward the parking lot.

Though she tries to hide it, she can’t wipe the smile from her face. She wouldn’t have any doubts about my feelings if she knew how much I love her already, but I’m too scared to say those three little words. Soon, though, I will. I don’t know how long I can hold them back now that I’ve admitted it to myself.

CHAPTER 33

SABRINA

As the tournament has progressed,the crowds have grown, but none have come close to comparing to this. There’s not one empty seat available as Maddie and I head to the section reserved for Noah’s team and guests. I’m sweating so badly already that my sunglasses keep sliding down my nose. I can’t imagine what it’s going to feel like for Noah and his opponent—a German player in his late twenties.

“Is it normal for me to feel this nervous?” I ask Fisher when we’re seated beside him in the players box.

“Yes,” he answers without any sort of hesitation. “I threw up this morning.”

Eyes wide, I inspect him, waiting for him to break into a grin. Instead, he remains serious.

“Oh.” That’s the only response I can come up with.

I wish Ebba was here. We don’t always sit together, but when we do, we have a blast. Today, she’s with Elias, right where she should be, while he recovers from surgery.

“Do you think he can win?”

It’s not that I doubt Noah’s abilities. I’m just new to all this, so I don’t know the first thing about the other players and theirstrengths and weaknesses. And now that I know that even the court type has an effect on play, I’m more lost than I was before.

Fisher rubs his stubbled jaw. “I think that because of his play style, he has a better chance. But in tennis, anything can happen.”

“Is he nervous?”

Fisher tilts his head left and then right in consideration. “I think so, but he talked to his therapist this morning, so I’m hoping that helped.”

I straighten, frowning in confusion. I’ve been traveling with him for months, and this is the first I’m hearing of therapy. “Therapist?”

His eyes widen. “He didn’t tell you. We”—he points to Terese and Pierce—“made him after his meltdown at the cinch Championship.”

“I had no idea,” I breathe, hoping Fisher doesn’t detect the echo of hurt in my tone. Therapy is a very personal thing. I get that. And our relationship is new. Even so, it stings a bit to find out from Fisher rather than Noah.

“Hey,” he says, his arm brushing mine as he adjusts in his seat. “He just started. I’m sure he’ll tell you soon.”

I wave a hand dismissively. “It’s not a big deal.”

Yes, therapyisa big deal, but he is under no obligation to open up to me about it. For all I know, he plans to mention it to me but isn’t ready just yet. Especially if he was forced into it.

Between one second and the next, the atmosphere in the stadium changes, and I know it’s time for the game to begin.

My heart pounds in my ears as I survey the court. Noah wants this so badly, and I want that for him. He deserves it. Losing the cinch Championship was a blow to his confidence, and this would go a long way in reminding him of how incredible he is.

As they announce him, I sit at the edge of my seat, watching him strut out and wave to the crowd. He looks incredible in the all-white athletic gear, his hat backward and his dark hair curling around the edges of it. His face is clean-shaven, making him look younger and even more devastatingly handsome than usual.

Girl, you’re so down bad.

The players shake hands and pose for a photo, and then the coin is tossed. Noah’s opponent, Damian Aberer, according to the video screen, wins and chooses to serve first.

Around me, the crowd is silent. That’s one thing I’ve struggled to get used to. Spectators are expected to keep quiet the majority of the time, especially when the ball is in play. Any sound or movement is highly frowned upon.

The players get their rackets and move into position, and Noah bounces from foot to foot. Even from here, there’s no mistaking the lines of tension bracketing his mouth. At the sight of the deep wrinkle of concentration slices between his brows, I itch to rub it away with my thumb.

You can do this, I chant silently, wishing he could read my thoughts.I know you can.

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