Page 75 of Risky Match
Blake looks pale except for the dark circles under his eyes. He’s uncharacteristically hunched over. He’s clearly beenthrough hell. I don’t know what’s hitting him harder: the physical trauma or another emotional Wimbledon loss. All I know is that he’s broken.
Josh says, “The doctor said you should eat a small meal tonight. I’ll have Fausto make something bland.”
But Blake snaps, “No way! I’m not eating anything else he cooks. He poisoned me. Bring me an unopened bottle of water and a new box of energy bars. I’m not taking any chances. I’ll be in my room.”
I cringe. Did he just accuse Fausto of poisoning him? How dare he?
“Be reasonable, Blake. Fausto didn’t poison you. We all ate his food. Everyone else is fine. You need a real meal tonight.”
“I said no. Do as I asked—or leave.”
Wow. Talk about storming in under a dark cloud of negativity.
“Blake, I know you’ve been through quite an ordeal, but I can assure you that Fausto didn’t poison your food. I’m sure the authorities will determine who did this to you. Please don’t worry about Fausto’s cooking though,” I say as calmly as possible under the circumstances.
“You can’t tell me not to worry. You aren’t the one who almost died. Feel free to eat whatever you want to, but I’m not eating another thing from this house that isn’t from a sealed package. Period.”
“But you need your strength for our match in two days. That requires real food, not just energy bars,” I say.
“You know that’s not happening. I didn’t want to play doubles in the first place. Now, I can’t play.”
“When I spoke with Dr. Shepard this morning, he said you will be fine to play,” I say.
“He doesn’t know what he’s talking about. I’m going to bed.”
Blake’s being bloody stubborn. To say his mood is morose would be an understatement.
We can only hope Blake cools down by tomorrow.
After that exchange, I’ve lost my appetite entirely, so I retreat to my room to send a message to the princes.
Me: My time here may be coming to a premature end.
CR: Not acceptable.
Me: It’s not my choice.
CR: Make it work. Be creative.
Me: I’m not a magician.
CR: You are now. No choice. Improvise.
Me: Understood.
How am I supposed to convince a man who almost died—and now wants nothing to do with me—to play a match in two days?
Given his attitude, I don’t really want to be around him either. He’s lettingmedown. He doesn’t care about my Wimbledon dream. He’s not any different than all the other men who pretended to care about me. All he really cares about is himself.
A familiar knock-pause-knock-knock at my door announces Erin.
“Come in.”
“Are you okay?” Erin asks as she enters and shuts the door behind her.
“I’m fuming and hurt. I can’t believe that Blake said the things he did. Fausto would never poison someone. And why is Blake brushing me off so harshly? I know he’s upset that he losthis chance to win this year, but it’s not my fault or Fausto’s. I thought Blake and I were friends.”
“Is that all you thought you were?”
