Page 61 of Set to Love

Sixteen

Imake it about ten steps away from the court, Max’s hand settles on my shoulder.

“Katie . . . please,” he says quietly.

The pain in his voice almost undoes me. I close my eyes for a moment and exhale slowly. Sweat mats my hair to my forehead. My clothes are streaked heavy with dirt from the court.

Mentally, I’m even worse. The adrenaline is draining out of me, leaving behind nothing but exhaustion. I want nothing more than to find a dark corner, fall apart, and forget about how today has gone.

Instead, I slowly turn around to face him. I’m ready to tell him that I can’t do this right now, but the words never make it past my throat.

He starts to sing. The familiar, soulful melody of Elton John’s “Sorry Seems to Be the Hardest Word” drifts between us. His voice is low. His eyes lock on to mine, full of so much regret that I know there’s no way I can stay angry with him.

And believe me, a part of me really, really wants to.

A laugh that’s half-sob and half-exhaustion bubbles up in my throat. Only Max would try to serenade his way out of an extremely late arrival. I shake my head. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I practiced it the whole trip here,” he says. His hand slides down my arm, catching my fingers. His grip is warm and steady, a stark contrast to the way my own hands are shaking. “I wouldn’t blame you if you never wanted to speak to me again, but I need you to know I tried everything to get here.”

Up close, he looks almost as wrecked as I feel. His hair is sticking up in six different directions, and there’s a faint crease across his shirt like he spent half the day folded into a train seat. “Should I even ask what happened?” I finally say.

“Let’s just say I caught the first train I could, and then everything that could go wrong did.” He runs a hand through his hair. “There was some kind of signal problem just outside Fort Lauderdale. We sat there for nearly an hour. Then we got delayed again further down.”

He shakes his head. “I kept watching the clock, realizing I was missing more and more of your match.” His gaze drops to my leg. “Katie, you’re shaking.”

“I’m fine,” I insist.

To prove my point, I try to shift my weight onto both legs equally, but it’s an awful, ego-driven idea. Pain shoots up my ankle, and I stumble.

“I’ve got you,” Max says, steadying me before I hit the ground.

For a second, I lean into him whether I want to or not, my balance totally shot. “I can walk,” I mutter.

“You can barely stand,” he counters, his voice low and steady.

“That’s not—” I start to argue. Before I can finish arguing, he slides one arm behind my knees and the other around my back, lifting me effortlessly into his arms. “Max⁠—”

“Please Katie,” he says. “Just . . . don’t fight me on this.”

I should. A week ago I would have. But after playing two long, grueling matches today, I don’t have the energy to resist. Worse, a part of me doesn’t want to fight him on this.

Being in his arms feels so right. I let my head fall against his shoulder. My fingers curl into the soft cotton of his shirt, and his arms tighten around me almost imperceptibly.

He carries me just far enough to reach the nearest bench before carefully lowering me onto it. He doesn’t pull away immediately. His hands linger for a few extra seconds and neither one of us seems too sure of what to do.

“Move over, Prince Charming,” Zoe demands.

Max blinks, startled out of his trance, and shifts back to give her room.

Zoe kneels beside the bench. Her fanny pack of medical supplies is unzipped and wide open. She pulls out a bottle of ibuprofen, a tape cutter, some creams, and two fresh rolls of compression wrap.

“How did you even fit all that in there?” I ask, my voice sounding tired even to me.

“Practice,” Zoe mutters. She doesn’t look up, her fingers work my shoe off.

I hiss as the heel of my sneaker clears the swelling, and I feel Max flinch beside me. He’s hovering like he wants to help, but even he knows he’s been thoroughly outranked by my best friend.

“Theo’s grabbing the ice,” Zoe says, ignoring him. She’s focused entirely on my leg, carefully peeling back the sweat-soaked tape.