Page 98 of Set to Love

“A few hours. I couldn’t turn off my mind,” Max mutters, his voice slightly hoarse. He finally looks up, and his expression softens when he sees me. “I gave up around three and just started reading again. I hope I didn’t wake you.”

“You didn’t. I passed out,” I say, sticking a fresh pod into the machine for myself.

He stands and stretches, the fabric of his shirt straining across his shoulders. “Thanks for letting me stay on your couch,” he says, offering a small smile. “I know it’s a lot, me being here like this.”

“You’re stuck with me.” I walk over and rest my hands on his shoulders. I start to rub the knots, trying to pull him out of his head for a few minutes.

He places a hand over mine, squeezing gently, and lets out a sigh so deep, it rattles his chest. “I don’t know what I would’ve done without you this weekend. You’ve been my rock.”

He suddenly shifts, his gaze traveling back to his phone on the table. I can see the desperation in his eyes. “I know you’re rather sick of it by now, but would you run lines one final, final time with me?”

I keep my hands firmly on his shoulders, “No. I’m your voice of reason. Enough is enough.”

He hesitates, like he’s about to argue. For a second, I think he might. Then he exhales and nods, though it feels like a concession.

I give him a peck on the cheek. “Trust all the prep you’ve put into it. It’s already in there.” I tap his head with my pointer finger. “And on the bright side, by this afternoon, it’ll all be over and we can go out and celebrate,” I say, walking back toward the coffee machine. “I don’t think I can get out before five, so let’s do dinner. You pick. Anywhere you want. My only rule is no scripts allowed.”

“I’d like that,” he says, finally turning to face me with a glimpse of the lighter version of Max I first met in Orlando. But then he checks his watch, and I see the mask snap back into place.

His phone buzzes. “Mum” flashes across the screen. He stares at it for half a second before silencing it and slipping the phone into his pocket.

“I have to get going,” he says, grabbing his bag. “My mobile said there was a delay on the Central line and I can’t be late today.”

“You’ve got this,” I tell him, walking him to the door. I lean in and kiss somewhere between his cheek and temple.

He flashes a tight smile and heads out the door. As it clicks shut, I stand there for a moment. Taking a deep breath, I grab the trash can from beneath the sink and start putting the room back together.

The apartment feels strangely quiet without Max in it. Over the last few days, I’ve gotten used to his constant presence—music humming from his headphones, scripts scattered across my sofa, his voice filling the room while we run scenes for the hundredth time. The silence now feels wrong.

The thwack of the ball meeting the sweet spot of my racquet echoes through the indoor court.

“Keep ’em coming!” I call out, bouncing on the balls of my feet.

Everything is clicking today. Every ball is coming off my strings exactly the way I want it to.

Adala sends a blistering cross-court forehand my way. She expects a deep return, but I decide to see if I can catch her off guard. Softening my grip, I angle a drop shot toward the ally, forcing her to scramble for a defensive slice.

“Someone’s playing inspired tennis today.” She laughs, wiping sweat from her forehead as we pause for a water break.

“Got that right,” Alex adds, leaning against the net post with an amused look in his eyes. “I wouldn’t want to be on the receiving end of that. It’s nasty.”

Adala nods. “Where have you been hiding that shot, Katie?” She looks genuinely curious.

“It’s always been there.” I shrug, taking a long pull from my water bottle. “I used it a lot back in college. Then, when I turned pro, I lost my feel for it. You’ve helped me get it back.”

“No,” she says, “You’ve helped yourself. The only thing Drew and I have done is make some technical adjustments. And speaking of training . . .” Adala turns and faces Alex. “What are you doing over here?”

He smirks. “I’m waiting on you, Coach. You’re late.”

“Not late. I’m exactly on time.” She points a finger at her watch. “It’s twelve fifty-nine.”

“Technicalities,” he mutters under his breath, turning back toward the baseline.

“What was that, Alex?”

“Nothing!”

“That’s what I thought.”