Page 39 of Rivals and Liars

The first questions come in. They're about the match and her aggressive playing style. Leire handles them as best she can, because when certain shots come up she genuinely can't remember hitting them.

"You left the hotel unexpectedly yesterday. Did something happen? Was there a problem with your room?"

"Lately I just can't sit still. Figured I'd try a different mattress."

She leaves it there, and it works. The room laughs—she doesn't—and the next question circles back to the match. Leire relaxes a little, one weight shed, because some journalists will chase a bone to the end, and for a moment she was afraid one of them might track down her father and ask him something that would only make them want to dig deeper.

She's still thinking about that when the next question hits her square in the chest.

"What happened in the hallway with Brogan before the match?" A man in his forties, second row. "Have things between you and Brogan gotten closer, or was that a showdown between two rivals? Lately you two have been seen together a lot."

The Spanish woman's mind spins, fear floods through her, and the anxiety starts to choke her. She loses her grip and answers defensively—because that's what she always does when it comes to Kate—and she says the last thing she should ever have said.

"I've said it many times before: Brogan and I are just colleagues who tolerate each other on the court and have nothing in common off it."

A muffled silence rings in her ears when she finishes, while a low murmur ripples through the room as the journalists trade comments.

"Thanks for coming," she says, her voice tight, standing before anyone can ask anything else.

She walks out of the room and into the hallway with shaking legs and the feeling that she's falling headfirst off a cliff. She just did the exact opposite of what she promised Kate. She had a clear opening to tell the whole world once and for all that she's in love with her, that she's sick of the questions and just wants the two of them left alone from here on—but she didn't take it, and this time she can't even call it cowardice. It was her head, her nerves, and the unbearable stress she's been carrying these past few days.

It wasn't the right moment; she couldn't have handled this right now, and she doesn't know how she'll handle Kate when they see each other, because without a single word spoken, she already knows that what she said was like driving a blade straight into the center of her heart.

Chapter 19

When she sees Kate, Leire already knows things have changed. She doesn't need to be told—she can read it in Kate's body language the moment she opens the door: head down, hands buried in her pockets, shoulders caved in. After the press conference, Diane had been waiting for her at the building entrance, arms crossed by the door.

"She wants to talk to you, and I'd really appreciate it if you'd at least give her that much without making her wait any longer."

Kate's coach's expression had been severe, a cutting edge to her voice.

"How do we do this?" Leire had asked.

"If you tell me which hotel you're at, I can arrange to get her in tonight without anyone noticing."

Leire had told her, given her the room number, and they'd agreed Kate would come around eleven. The redhead has just stepped inside, dressed all in black, hair tucked under a baseball cap and her hoodie pulled up over it.

Kate takes it all off when she comes in and walks straight to the back of the room, relieved to find no couch—just two armchairs facing each other by the window, where Leire has already had the presence of mind to draw the curtain.

She sits and presses her back against the chair, hands flat on the armrests, her whole body rigid. Leire finally moves and walks over to the other armchair, and it's when she sits and looks into Kate's eyes—red, swollen, and dull—that she truly sees the damage her words at the press conference have done.

"Kate, I'm sorry," she says, drawing out the last syllables to underline how much she means it.

The Australian's gaze lifts.

"What exactly are you sorry for, Leire? For promising me one thing and doing the exact opposite, or for lying to my face?" Kate's tone sends a chill through her and makes her chest tighten.

It's not because it's harsh. It's because of how exhausted she sounds—but Leire feels drained too, with no idea how to handle this and her father at the same time.

"Everything, baby, I'm sorry for all of it. I got nervous, I didn't expect that question, and in that moment I just shut down—"

"You always have an excuse for everything, Leire, and I'm so tired. I'm worn out waiting here for whatever scraps you'll give me. I'm sick of not being considered, finding out you changed hotels in a hallway like everyone else. But what drains me most is this—coming to talk to you and always watching you find some reason that justifies everything you do. You make your own choices. Nobody else does it for you. You were sitting in front of that microphone and you could have taken two seconds to think before you spoke. You didn't have to say there's something between us, but saying we have nothing in common—with that much contempt—do you have any idea what that felt like?"

She can imagine it, actually. She only has to think about how she would have felt if it had been the other way around and it was the redhead who had spoken like that. But she knows saying so won't fix anything. She's pushed Kate to her limit, and words aren't enough anymore.

"I told you I'm sorry, Kate, and you know I mean it—but I'm not at my best right now. Things have happened these past few days that I still don't know how to deal with."

Kate cuts her off with what almost looks like a sarcastic smile, except it doesn't quite make it to her lips.