Page 3 of Rivals and Liars

She isn't lying, but every time she thinks about it her throat tightens. She'd been having a good tournament, had made it to the semifinals, and everyone was pointing to her—along with Leire—as the two most likely finalists. But she'd stretched for a ball after an almost impossible sprint, planted her front foot to stop herself, and it slid forward—nothing that hadn't happened before—except this time a sharp pain shot through her back, knocked the breath out of her, and took with it any chance of playing at full capacity. So despite a comfortable lead, she ended up losing, and with that, she was out of the tournament.

"We're not going to Berlin for the WTA 500. We're going home so Dr. Faruk can take another look at you, and if he clears you, we'll go to Wimbledon," Diane decides.

Kate snaps her head up.

"I'll let Germany go, but I'm not missing a Grand Slam over this," she protests.

"And I'm not arguing about it right now. We'll see Faruk and talk after. The MRI showed a slight displacement in one of your vertebrae—"

"A ridiculous displacement," Kate says, frowning. "And the pain isn't bad enough for it to be something more serious."

"I don't care what the scan showed back then. He said to come back if the pain returned despite the physical therapy and the injection, so that's what we're doing." Diane closes the topic, and Kate smiles at her with all the warmth she feels for this woman, because this fifty-eight-year-old is like a second mother to her.

She's had Diane as her coach since she first started competing professionally. They've always understood each other well—Diane doesn't tend to smother her, and Kate isn't a player with impossible demands—so they work together effortlessly. But what Kate admires most is how good she is at keeping a secret. Two secrets, in Kate's case: Diane is the only person who knows how serious the injury might actually be, and the only one who knows what's going on between her and Leire.

"She just came out," Diane says, as the door to the private dining room at the back swings open and Leire walks through, scanning the main floor with a quick sweep until she spots them.

She gives the coach a small nod of acknowledgment and keeps walking toward the side exit to catch the elevator up to her floor.

Kate's pulse jumps at the announcement. She can't help it, any more than she can help the smile spreading across her face.

"All right, let's go," Diane says.

The two women stand, leave through a different door, and take the elevators from the lobby, though the result is the same—they both get off on the fifth floor. Diane steps out ahead of Kate, as she has before, to make sure the hallway is clear and no one sees the player walking into the room of the woman who is, on paper, her biggest rival. Diane gives her a nod, and Kate hurries to the door and knocks four times, softly.

Leire opens it immediately, because she was waiting for this moment with just as much anticipation.

"Hi," Kate smiles as Leire pins her against the wall after closing the door behind them.

"I've missed you," the Spanish player says, running her fingers along Kate's sides as she brings her mouth close to kiss her.

Kate slides a hand to the back of her neck and lets the kiss unfold slowly, with the ease that comes from knowing every corner of that mouth—from knowing that they both like kisses that take their time, because it's been a long while since urgency drove them. Now it's this: unhurried kisses that drift from lips to throat, her smile against your ear, warm hands moving over a body learned inch by inch.

"You must be exhausted," Kate says when they pull apart, Leire taking her hand and leading her toward the bed.

"Exhausted doesn't quite cover it."

Leire drops onto the mattress with her arms spread wide and a loud, satisfied groan. Kate laughs and lies down beside her, propping herself up on one elbow to look at her.

"We don't have to do anything. We can just sleep," she murmurs, brushing the back of her hand across Leire's cheek.

"You don't mind?" Leire asks.

Kate shakes her head. All she cares about is being here, spending time with her—because when you're in love, any moment beside that person is enough, with no need for anything but the warmth of their presence. Her gaze drops for a moment as she remembers what Leire said at the press conference.

"Outside of it, we don't really know each other."

"I'm sorry," Leire murmurs, as if she's reading her mind.

She doesn't have that ability, but she does have a talent for reading Kate's expressions—because it's been three years of this, seeing each other in hotel rooms during tournaments, sneaking in and slipping out the same way. Three years of missing each other when one is in Australia and the other is in Spain, and in all that limited time, Leire has learned to know this woman better than Kate knows herself.

"I'm sorry for what I said. I felt cornered and I said the first thing that came into my head."

Kate glances at her, then looks down at her own hands. She feels a quiet pressure in her chest—something that always settles in during moments like this, lodging itself in her body and refusing to leave, because she can't seem to digest the fact that Leire's apologies have been feeling insufficient for a while now. Sometimes she feels like an object, Leire's favorite toy—something the tennis player enjoys in private and keeps hidden, all for herself.

"Hey, baby…" Leire turns toward her and runs a hand along the side of her neck.

Kate feels a shiver run through her skin from her nape all the way down to her feet, and she hates herself for not being able to end this even though it hurts, because the thought of a life without Leire in it is something she doesn't seem ready for.