Page 94 of Set to Love

He shrugs. “No comment.”

“Definitely conspiring,” I say quietly.

I take a few more bites of my food and chew slowly. As I study Max, I notice he’s hiding his own exhaustion beneath the goofy grin. “Tell me about your day. How’d the rest of the workshop go?”

His entire face lights up. “We finally put together the opening number for the second act today, and it’s honestly brilliant. Definitely the best project I’ve ever worked on.”

He jumps to his feet and demonstrates an impressive turn straight into some ridiculous jump-spin combination in the middle of my living room.

I laugh, shaking my head. “Show-off.”

“You’re just jealous because you can’t do that.”

“Correct,” I say immediately. “If it were me, I’d somehow sprain both ankles and take out the coffee table and maybe even the lamp.”

His grin widens, and I can’t help smiling back. There’s something magnetic about Max when he talks about theatre.

We spend the next few minutes chatting about The Winged God, Max animatedly breaking down choreography changes and the sequences he’s most excited for in the second act. By the time he finishes, his dinner has gone lukewarm.

He leans back against the sofa with a satisfied sigh. “Okay. Enough about me. Tell me more about this mysterious Stratford Sports Club of yours.”

I groan dramatically and let my head fall back against the cushions. “Actually, do you mind if we don’t talk about tennis anymore tonight?” I ask softly. “I just want to be here with you.”

“As the Tundra Queen commands,” Max murmurs. He reaches for the remote with his free hand and navigates to a reality show about people baking cakes that look like everyday objects. “Noodles and nonsense, it is.”

He doesn’t ask another question about practice. He just keeps working the knots from my feet while we eat dinner, laughing at contestants who somehow manage to turn sponge cake into convincing-looking handbags and shoes.

At one point, I catch him watching me instead of the television. “What?” I ask.

He smiles. “Nothing.” He gives my foot one last gentle squeeze. “Just making sure you’re okay.”

“I think I will be.” I smile back. “Especially if you keep bringing me Thai food and giving world-class massages.”

“Deal.”

Outside, London hums beyond my windows. Curled up beside Max, I stop thinking about everything I still have to become and simply enjoy being here. With him.

Twenty-Three

By the end of my second week in London, life has settled into a rhythm. There are still rough days, but there are good ones now, too.

It’s the little victories. I’m no longer waddling. I’ve graduated from penguin to baby giraffe—still wobbly, but at least I’m moving under my own power.

But the biggest change is what’s happening on the court.

It turns out that training full-time looks very different from squeezing practices between shifts at Lina’s. I’m sleeping, recovering, and eating like an athlete instead of grabbing whatever I could between shifts. And it’s working. Balls that would’ve gotten past me two weeks ago are suddenly within reach. For the first time since I arrived in the U.K, I can actually see the rough outline of the player I’m trying to become.

On Friday afternoon, Drew suggests what he calls a “little team-bonding activity.” Five minutes later, I discover that means Drew and me versus Alex and Adala in a “friendly” doubles match.

“Thirty-all,” I say, bouncing the ball and trying to catch my breath. I toss it, extend, and serve.

The ball clears the net, sailing across the court to Adala. She already has a read on me and is waiting. Her expression is lethal as she draws back her racquet, grunts, and rips a heavy approach shot right at Drew’s hip. I can see why people used to say she could challenge the top male players back in her prime.

Drew frowns, digs the shot out of his shoelaces, and lasers a backhand cross-court toward Alex.

“Nice try, old man, but I know your game,” Alex chirps. He’s all smiles, but his feet are moving like lightning. He lunges, flicking a volley back toward the middle, trying to catch me flat-footed.

Two weeks ago, I’d have watched that ball go by—or pulled something trying to reach it. Today, I’m already there. I stay low and whip a forehand straight through the gap between Alex and Adala. Neither of them even gets a racquet on it.