“I am celebrating. Internally.”
Bridget’s lips curved back into a smile. “One day, I’m going to get you to laugh again if it’s the last thing I do.” She rested her hand on my arm. “Congratulations to you too, Dr. Manalo.”
My inner Alpha reared up, ecstatic. Even though it was just a touch on the arm, it was enough to make my blood sing. I could feel my pulse in my ears, my face hot with embarrassment at my reaction to something so chaste as a pat on the arm. Ifought for control against the urge to grip her hand in mine, to kiss each delicate fingertip, to press her wrist to my nose and find that tantalizing scent.
Unsurprisingly, the descenters didn’t stand a chance. My scent broke through, strong enough to flood the space between Bridget and me.
I’d been battling my scent ever since I presented. While most Alphas either wore theirs as a badge of honor or used it as a cudgel to get their way, I did everything I could to tamp mine down.
Alpha scents were biological weapons. They were tools meant to force reactions in others, primarily through intimidation. And I refused to use mine that way.
Bridget inhaled, then stepped back, her hand slipping from my arm. She looked alarmed, and my shame intensified. I backed away, putting more distance between us. “I apologize,” I said, my voice wooden. “Excuse me for a moment.”
I fled the lab, leaving Bridget looking bewildered, and resolved to make sure she never, ever touched me again.
Chapter 5 - Andrew
Being the best wasn’t about training or talent, though both helped. Over the years, I’d learned that winning required an innate drive that couldn’t be taught.
“Kill or be killed,” as my father Roger liked to say when he beat my sisters and me in Monopoly.
My mother called them “big feelings,” which apparently you’re supposed to grow out of when you gain the ability to regulate your emotions. That happens to most people around four or five years old.
I just channeled them into a savage backhand.
“You can’t bottle determination,” I’d once said in a post-Wimbledon interview, after winning in the semis. It had been a throwaway line, a response to the interviewer asking what I kept in my water bottle on the sidelines, but it became the soundbite that defined my career. Especially in the years since my injury.
It occurred in the final of the US Open. I was up 5-2 in the final set with match point on my racket, about to put the nail in Pavlovic’s coffin. I was returning a high ball, not even a difficult maneuver, and somehow my legs twisted beneath me and I went down, landing directly on my knee. The pain was excruciating and immediate. I tried to stand, and my leg crumpled beneath me.
I don’t remember much of what happened afterwards, and I’ve never watched the footage. A dozen sports psychologistshave told me I should, that it would provide “closure,” but I refuse to relive the worst moment of my life. The one clear memory I have, the moment that pierced through the haze of pain and anger, is Pavlovic raising that fucking trophy above his head, beaming like he deserved it. If I had been able to, I would have tackled him.
After the diagnosis of a full ACL, MCL and meniscus tear, everyone had advised me to retire. Dr. Davis, the best orthopedic doctor in Fairview, agreed reluctantly that I’d probably never be able to perform at the same level.
Even Gabriel had begged me to quit. “You have nothing to prove, amore,” he’d said multiple times as I struggled through basic PT. “Take the announcer job and make your money without killing yourself.”
“That can’t be my last match,” was always my answer.
He didn’t understand. Even with our bond that let him experience my pain and heartache, he couldn’t fully comprehend my need to compete, to push myself, to win. To control the intense emotions that would choke me if I couldn’t channel them into something productive.
I sought a second opinion, and a third, and then finally underwent a meniscus replacement in a private hospital in Croatia. The surgery didn’t go well, and I was left with nothing but a shred of cartilage.
But now, two weeks after my first injection of whatever concoction Dr. Davis had convinced me to take, my pain had receded enough for two training sessions with Roberto that left me breathless with exhaustion and hope.
“Good work,” he shouted from across the court. We were at our place outside the city, where I’d had room to install a full indoor hard court and gym. “Now go rest.” We’d spent most of the time drilling my forehand. I wanted to work on my serve, but he refused, telling me to have “some damn patience.”
“Same time tomorrow?” I asked.
“Nah, you’re doing strength,” he called back. “With Julie. Good luck.”
I sighed. Julie was a sadist, but that’s what I needed if I was going to get back to top form.
It was still early morning when I wandered back into the main house. I hadn’t bothered to put on a coat for the short walk through the courtyard, and the chill in the air made me shiver. I paused, looking out over the bay. The house was about an hour outside the city, one of the more modest mansions that dotted the coastline, even if it was extravagant by normal standards. Gray clouds mounted along the horizon, blocking my view of the sunrise. We’d probably get a storm later, maybe even snow.
A thin layer of frost covered the grass and statues that came with the place: gaudy reproductions of Roman sculptures that made Gabriel double over in laughter. He refused to part with them.
Maria, our housekeeper, was bustling in the kitchen when I entered. She was from Italy too, one of Gabriel’s old friend’s nonnas who had been looking for a fresh start. She was gray-haired and small, which belied her fierce temper. Along with her pleasant camellia scent, the kitchen smelled of rich spices and fresh bread.
“Good morning,” I said. “Something smells great.”
