Page 8 of The Rebel
“Yeah. She was feeding Volley while we were away.”
“Yeah, Mom said. You guys went to Florida, right?” I already knew that.
“To see Paris,” she said with a heavy sigh.
“What?” I was surprised by her reaction. “You didn’t have a good time?”
“Well, sitting in the heat watching Paris hit tennis balls all day,” she paused and grumbled, “it’s not my idea of a good time. Especially for Christmas.”
I made the mistake of laughing, receiving a deep scowl in return. “I haven’t seen Paris in ages. Is he based in Florida now?”
“Yeah, mostly. Since the US Open.”
“He had an amazing tournament. Making the big bucks, I hear.” Mom had told me that the prize money for a second round loss in a Grand Slam was over $100k. Pretty good for a couple of days work. There was huge money to be made in the sport—if you were good enough. And being good enough meant putting in the hard work. Paris definitely had that drive, his focus becoming single minded as he’d climbed in the junior rankings.
“Hmphh,” Valencia shrugged like she wasn’t impressed. Or proud.
“What? He didn’t treat you with his winnings?”
“Doubt it,” she scoffed. “He’s cheap. He wouldn’t buy me anything.”
“What?” I bantered back. “Surely he got you something?”
“Oh yeah.” Her eyes widened, but her reply was pure sarcasm. “I got a US Open towel, one he got for free from the locker room.”
“Hey, at least he was thinking of you.”
“It still had his sweat all over it,” she sneered, her pitch rising sharply. “Like, he literally gave it to me straight after the match. All wet and smelly.”
She had me laughing. “You should’ve put it up on e-bay. Could’ve made some money. Paris Reid’s sweaty tennis towel.”
Valencia huffed and mumbled in disgust. “Yeah. There are actually people who’d be dumb enough to buy it.”
I’d been following Paris’s progress not only on the tennis court, but online. He was growing a fanatical fanbase of young girls, most who probably didn’t know a thing about tennis. But his success at the US Open had changed everything for him. And with his poster boy good looks, sponsors were clamoring for him.
I nudged Valencia toward my truck. Amelia and Katie thought it was hilarious when I’d told them what I drove. They thought I must be a farm boy from the country.
I opened the tailgate with my remote and lifted Valencia’s sled onto the cargo bed.
“Why weren’t you sledding today?” she asked.
I scrunched my nose up, shook my head and said with a laugh, “I leave that to Ollie and his mates. Hey, do you want a hot chocolate?”
She frowned, but lowered her head like she’d suddenly become shy. “No, it’s all right.”
“No, come on,” I said, signaling to the coffee cart across the parking lot. “You deserve one after what Ollie did to you. Let’s warm you up. So, tell me about Florida.”
“Paris got invited to Juan Duran’s academy, so he was training with some top players. Do you know Stefan Stolz? Fernando Torres? Shyla Tatum? They were there.”
“Wow,” I said, the names vaguely familiar because I tried to keep up with Paris’s progress. “Paris is mixing with the top guns.”
“Uh huh.”
“So, what’d you do?” I asked.
“Me?”
“Yeah. Did you play?”
