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His mouth purses. ‘Not exactly. Noah, I need to tell you—’
Suddenly, the door to the corporate box swings open. Gabriel turns, and whatever he’s about to say is quickly forgotten. I glance behind me to see a woman in a wheelchair push through the doorway. A burly man wearing all black sticks close behind her.
‘Heya!’ says the woman in the wheelchair.
Gabriel leaps out of his seat. ‘Phoebe?!’
Phoebe? Instantly, Gabriel’s by her side, and she’s smiling up at him, the apples of her cheeks flushed red. I get the weirdest sensation that I know her from somewhere . . .
‘A little Swedish bird told me you’d be gracing his corporate box tonight,’ Phoebe says. ‘I got permission from my doctor to stay out for a while.’
Then Phoebe’s dark gaze zeroes in on me. ‘Oh, hello.’ She glances back up at Gabriel, suddenly nervous. ‘I didn’t realise you—’ She pauses. ‘Maybe I should go.’
‘No,’ Gabriel replies quickly. ‘No, please stay.’
Phoebe.
My heart’s beating hard as Phoebe wheels across the floor. I have no reason to be jealous—Gabriel is notmine—but Phoebe is gorgeous with her large dark eyes, rounded full lips and curvy frame, and jealousy is a wild and unforgiving beast that doesn’t care for logic. Iamjealous and it fucking hurts.
Gabriel looks back to me. ‘Phoebe, this is my friend, Noah.’
Phoebe wheels forward. ‘Nice to meet you, Noah.’ She shakes my hand and then nods to the man beside her. ‘This is Blake, my security.’
Her security?!I look between Gabriel and Phoebe. It feels like I’m getting pieces of a puzzle, but I can’t make sense of the full picture.
As Phoebe gets settled, I look back to the court and take a long sip of my whiskey, washing the cottony dry feel from my mouth.L. FROEBEL v. D. RHODESis displayed on all the screens around the arena. I heard what Phoebe said earlier, and all the pieces suddenly fit: this isLukas’scorporate box.
I grab my phone from my pocket and googleLukas Froebel.
Instantly, Lukas pops up, easily recognisable by his spiky blond hair and dashing good looks. I scroll down the page until I findPeople Also Search For.
She’s there.
Phoebe Song. The photo on Google is taken from a tournament, but it’s her; she has the same muscular frame, the same long jet-black hair, the same dark mole on her right cheek.
The woman in front of me is Phoebe Song.
ThePhoebe Song. US Champion Phoebe Song.
I feel like I’m having an out-of-body experience. I’m sitting in a corporate booth watching Lukas Froebel with a US-fucking-Champion and . . . Gabriel. A man I hardly even know.
A man who has very obviously lied to me.
I remember the name Lukas flashing up on Gabriel’s phone yesterday when we walked through the laneways. Glancing over my shoulder, I make sure Gabriel’s still talking to Phoebe before turning back to my phone and typing inLukas Froebel and Gabriel. . .
. . .Madani, Google autofills.
Pressing enter, I wait for the page to load.
Photos flood my screen: Lukas with his hand slung over Gabriel’s shoulder, each of them holding a racquet. Lukas and Gabriel in a photoshoot forGQ. Gabriel holding a trophy above his head, his hair and smile wild.
Gabriel, Gabriel,Gabriel.
I put my phone down and swallow the rest of my drink. Below us, ball kids step onto the court. The match is starting and I’m sitting in Lukas Froebel’s fuckingcorporate boxwith two star tennis players.
Tennis players who garner media attention. Who are photographed and publicised online without their knowledge or permission.
Tennis players wholiedabout who they were this entire time, unknowingly putting me in danger.
