Page 44 of Drop Shot
“Look at that,” Elias’s mom says behind us. “Aren’t they so cute?” Alvinia presumably asks her husband, the words lilting with her Swedish accent.
“Yes, very cute, dear,” Malcolm replies.
Ebba gags. “Yes, they’re adorable.”
I lean around Elias to ask her, “How’s Keaton?”
“Good,” she replies with a smile that doesn’t quite meet her eyes. “Busy with work.”
I’ve only met her boyfriend once, but it’s safe to say I’m not a fan. With the way Elias frowns beside me I take it he’s not either. It doesn’t help that it’s painfully obvious to anyone with eyes that Ebba and Fisher—Noah Baker’s coach—have a thing for each other. Ebba’s never told me about it even when I’ve hinted and tried to pry it from her. I’m not sure if they were ever together, but they sure do eye fuck each other a lot.
“Oh, that’s too bad, sweetie,” Alvinia coos to her daughter. “I was hoping he could meet us in Monte Carlo.”
“I hoped so too,” Ebba sighs. She finishes a text or email she’s typing and presses send.
Since we’re all on board, we prepare for takeoff. I’ll never get used to flying private with Elias. He flies private almost everywhere. Not because he’s so famous he needs to avoid being seen, but he’s insanely wealthy and can afford it. Between the money he earns from matches, and endorsements, he’s set for life. Not to mention the extra money he makes on appearances and such.
Take off has my tummy jolting, but soon we’re at cruising altitude and I pull out my trusty iPad to sketch.
Elias peeks over at the piece I’m working on. I draw all kinds of things but among my favorites are fashion sketches. I never had any desire to actually going into design but I think since I admire clothes so much it was natural for me to move into sketching them.
“I didn’t know you draw,” Elias says softly beside me.
Before I can reply, Ebba snorts. “She was your assistant for years and now she’s your girlfriend and you didn’t know she draws? Some boyfriend you are,” she jests, but there’s a little more bite to her tone than usual and I wonder if it has to do with the Keaton thing.
Before Elias can reply, I interject. “It’s been a while since I sat down and sketched so that’s why.” To Elias, I say, “I always liked drawing in school and I’ve dabbled some over the years. I’m primarily self-taught, so I promise you I’m not that good.”
He frowns at that. “Don’t put yourself down, Whim. That’s fantastic.” He points to my screen.
Heat rushes to my face. “It’s really nothing.”
“You’re doing it again,” he says. I sigh and pull my lip gloss out of my bag, applying it because they suddenly feel dry. “Why do you do that?” he asks.
I shrug. “I don’t know,” I answer honestly. “I guess because I don’t see what you see? I see all the ways I can improve it. I see how my lines are wobbly because my hands shake?—”
“Because of the…” he whispers so no one can overhear, but Ebba’s already popped her earbuds in and his parents are talking about some show they’re currently binging.
I nod. “Yeah. It’s a side effect of the medication.” I press my lips together flatly, not wanting to talk about it more because I can tell this is one of those times it’s going to make me mad.
The thing no one warns you about any kind of diagnosis is how even years later there are waves of anger and grieving because how dare your own body betray you this way. How dare it let you down and fail to do the one thing it’s supposed to do—thrive. It’s even worse when the very medicine that’s supposed to help causes a host of issues in itself.
Elias seems to sense I’m not in the mood to talk about it, and I don’t think he’d push it with his parents and Ebba so close even though they’re occupied.
“Basically, I always see what’s wrong—what I can improve on. I’m looking at it from a skewed perspective.”
He doesn’t say anything for a long moment. His eyes hold mine hostage. “Well, if my opinion matters at all to you, then I want you to know that I think you’re really fucking good.”
I give him a small smile. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” He flashes a panty-melting smile. Pulling out his headphones, he fixes them on and starts up one of his favorite podcasts by a former tennis player. I recognize it immediately from the small display photo on his phone, because he had me queue it up for him all the time while he’d do various activities, be it meditating or exercising or a cold plunge.
He closes his eyes and lies back.
With no more distractions, I lose myself in drawing and funnily enough I find myself being less critical as I go.
I forgot that Ebba and their parents were staying in Elias’s place in Monte Carlo too. How I forgot, I’m not so sure, since they always stay here. I suppose it was my mind’s defense mechanism not wanting to accept that we’d be sharing a bed sooner than I thought.
Elias can sense my unease. “I can sleep on the floor,” he says.
