Page 17 of Rivals and Liars

When she finally said it—her voice flat, her eyes glassy, as if she were a criminal confessing to some terrible crime—Candela understood that something must have gone very wrong at home for her sister to have never felt free enough to say it sooner.

That day robbed her of sleep for months, because she couldn't stop putting herself in Inés's shoes, and it seemed deeply unfair that her sister had spent years trapped in a lie because she hadn't felt safe enough to express something she should never have had to confess to anyone.

The memory of that day is what has kept the photo of the two tennis players safely locked on her phone. She told her editor she'd accidentally deleted it, and ever since he hasn't stopped assigning her to watch them and push them with questions to see if one of them slips up and gives herself away.

She usually tells him she doesn't think that's going to happen, that it was a casual encounter she's sure won't be repeated—but Candela knows that isn't true. She did do her job, and there have been multiple times she's made her way into the players' hotels, watched, and seen Brogan leaving Cobos's room on at least seven separate occasions over all this time. She's certain they're together in some way—that a purely physical relationship can't be what causes that tension in Leire every time someone mentions Kate's name, or that slight tightening in the redhead's jaw that she covers with a brilliant smile and a clever comment whenever someone asks about her rivalry with the Spanish woman.

She decided she wasn't going to be the one to expose Cobos like that, that this wasn't the story she wanted to break, that she didn't want to be responsible for publicly destroying a woman just to earn a bonus.

So now she's sitting next to Sergio, her cameraman, staring at her phone screen, dazed, while he gets to his feet.

"Should we head to the press room?" Sergio asks. "McKay's probably about to start."

"Go ahead, I'll be right there," she murmurs without looking up from the image in front of her.

It came through from an unknown number: a sharp, clear photograph showing both tennis players unmistakably in the locker room. It's from two days ago, when Leire made it through the third round—she knows by what the player was wearing, and by what Brogan had on that morning: dark shorts and a white hoodie that stood out against the reddish tone of her ponytail. Both women are recognizable without question, both in profile, Brogan's hand at Leire's neck and her lips against her mouth while the Spanish woman has one hand on her waist and the other flat against the center of her chest.

Candela exhales and looks at the number. She doesn't recognize it, but she knows exactly what it means when material arrives like this, with no ask attached: someone in the orbit of one of the two players wants that photograph to come out. She could suspect either of them, but given that Leire has always claimed to be interested in men and is also sponsored by a very conservative brand, she rules her out entirely. She can't say the same about Kate: the tennis player is openly lesbian, the obvious candidate to be the one behind the message—except for how broken she's seemed lately. Candela's no mind reader, but something tells her it isn't her, that if this image goes public the most likely outcome is that the scandal ends the relationship, and she doesn't believe the redhead is looking for that.

She stands and tucks her phone into her bag as she heads down the bleachers, turning the question over in her mind. If she doesn't use the image, she knows this person will eventually find another journalist with fewer principles. She exhales in frustration and walks into the press room, deciding she won't do anything—and wondering whether she should reach out to the players to warn them about what might be coming their way.

Chapter 10

"Good Lord, honey, what are you doing down there?"

Diane's voice reaches Kate as if from very far away. The tennis player blinks and needs a few seconds to understand what's happening. She's in her hotel room, lying on the floor beside the bed with her arms stretched out at her sides, and apparently she'd been falling asleep.

The nightmares had started around four in the morning: she'd been lying on her side, pressed against Leire's body, Leire who was on her back with her head turned toward her and one hand tucked beneath her leg.

At first she thought it was the position, that the ache in her hip would ease once she straightened up, but when she did it shot through her entire back, from her sacrum all the way to her shoulder blade. She moved slowly and sat up on the bed, both hands flat on the mattress while she closed her eyes and waited for the intensity to fade.

Leire stirred, and gripped by the irrational fear of being found like that, Kate grabbed her clothes, got dressed as best she could, and slipped out of the room to go back to her own. By the time she walked in, the throb had shifted and was running down the back of her leg, cutting off her breath. She took a long, scalding shower and swallowed one of the painkillers Dr. Faruk had prescribed for exactly these moments, then lay down on the floor, hoping the cold of the hardwood would take the edge off.

She lay there staring at the ceiling, eyes blurry with tears that were half agony and half rage at not being able to stop what was happening. She started thinking about Leire—about how she should have woken her and asked her to rub in the cream, or simply let herself be held, because she feels like she's slowly falling apart. But in that moment all she could think was to run—which is what she always does—and then she stayed there, letting the pill do its work while she made up her mind to talk to the Spanish woman, even if she still doesn't know exactly what she's going to say.

At some point she must have fallen asleep, and now Diane is standing over her, staring down in horror. Kate's first thought is pretty absurd, because the only thing in her head is that maybe she should start breaking the habit of giving her coach a spare key to her room.

"Kate—" Diane drops to her knees beside her, and Kate blinks again, pushing that stupid thought away and coming back to the present.

"I'm fine," she says at last, and she isn't lying, because the spasm has eased and now she only feels numb from the cold floor.

"What on earth are you doing down here?"

Diane helps her as she starts to sit up, and when Kate looks at her with that sadness in her eyes, she gets a pretty good idea of what happened.

"Why didn't you call me? I would have helped, I would have—"

"I'm sorry." Kate sits on the edge of the bed, so deflated that Diane cuts off her scolding and sits beside her to pull her into a hug. "Hey, it's okay."

She kisses her on the top of her head, and when she pulls back she takes her hand.

"How are you feeling now?"

"Fine. It's almost completely gone. I can play, if that's what you're asking."

Diane twists her mouth into a grimace. She doesn't like this; she'd love to have the power to force her to make the right decision and pull her away from the courts for good, but she understands the redhead is still processing the news.

"I'm going to call Thomas and have him come right now. We'll move the physio session up to before the match and skip today's practice. We'll focus on warming up."