Page 173 of Double Fault

“You can always wait for a position to open up.” Alyssa drops onto the couch and rests her feet on the ottoman.

“I know, but if I go back before I have this figured out, I’ll feel like I failed. I can’t keep dating himandbe his nanny. I need my own thing. I want to be Sabrina, not just Noah Baker’s nanny or Noah Baker’s girlfriend.”

Laughing, Lucy tosses a piece of popcorn at me. “You don’t want to be his girlfriend, huh? The lie detector determined that was a big fat lie.”

“You know what I mean.” I toss one of the small throw pillows at her in retaliation, accidentally knocking the bowl off her belly completely.

“Not my popcorn,” she whines, scrambling to put the kernels back in the bowl.

“Whoa, what happened?” Alyssa asks, her tone full of concern.

I scoff, assuming she’s talking about the popcorn and wondering why she’s so upset about it, but when she scoots to the edge of the couch and lets out a drawn-out “uh…” I quickly realize she’s fixated on the TV.

I jump up and take two big steps closer to the screen. “Is he okay?”

He limps off the court and collapses into the chair.

“Did you see what happened?” I ask Alyssa, cursing myself for not paying attention.

“It looked like something with his ankle.”

Hands on the sides of my face, I pace up and down the length of the family room.

No, no, no.

This can’t be happening. Images of the moment Elias was injured flash through my mind. Dammit. This can’t be happening.

“I can’t believe I’m not there.”

The commentators ramble on, but I don’t hear a word they say. I’m too focused on Noah’s face as the cameras remain focused on him. He’s trying his hardest to conceal the pain, but I see it. This isn’t a small injury he can play through. It doesn’t look nearly as bad as what happened to Elias, but he’s pale and gritting his teeth. Shit. He’s definitely in pain.

I pick at the edge of my nail as I pace.

I hate this so much.

“This is the Olympics,” I say, as if Alyssa and Lucy don’t understand the importance. “If he can’t play, then he won’t have another chance for a medal for four years.”

“Maybe it’s not that bad,” Lucy says, her tone somewhere between reassuring and unsure.

“I hope not.”

A medic squats in front of him and examines his injured foot. Then, with a nod, he stands and tests his weight.

When he gets back on the court, I’m flooded with relief.

“He’s okay.” Feeling as if I’ve just finished a marathon, I drop onto the couch.

Only he’s not. Within minutes, his face is a mask of pain. He sprints to the right to get the ball, but he comes up short and drops his racket. Then, chest heaving, he slowly walks off the court, back toward his chair. Wetting his lips, he looks toward where I assume his team is sitting and shakes his head.

I press my hands together and drop my forehead to them. Though I know exactly what the move means, I want to deny it.

This can’t be happening. He’s hurt, and I’m not even there.

He sits back down, and the medics look him over again.

Nodding, Noah rolls his ankle. Quickly, he grimaces and the nod turns into a shake.

“I’m going to throw up.”

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