Hate to Love You

by Isabelle Richards

  He doesn’t know the half of it. “She’s been saying that since we were ten. I think I’ve done all right. Let’s not ruin the day talking about Arianna. What’s up? What brings you by?”

  He looks around to make sure no one is in earshot, then leans forward. “Between you and me? I’m hiding. Henrik spontaneously came into town, and I’m just not up for spending the evening with him. The way he looks at my daughter makes me want to stab him with a steak knife, and I cannot have another football versus soccer debate tonight. Sadly, I’m so busy with work that I just can’t find the time to meet them for dinner. Such a shame.”

  I pull out my cleats and sit down to lace them up. “You sound real shook up. I don’t really know the guy, but from what I’ve seen, he seems like a douchenozzle. What the hell she sees in him, I’ll never know.”

  “He’s a rebound who’s stuck around a little too long.”

  “Rebound? From whom?” I don’t know anything about the guys who came after me. I’m not sure I want to, but I can’t deny I’ve been kept up late at night thinking about them.

  He leans against my locker. “Not from a guy. From her knee. You weren’t around much then, but her retirement practically broke her. She worked so damn hard to get back in playing condition, but no matter how hard she worked, she couldn’t get her knee where it needed to be. She sees it as a failure, her first and only. She thinks she hides it, but I know it broke a piece of her. Henrik got her up and living again. I’m thankful for that, but I don’t need him at Christmas dinner for the rest of my life either, if you know what I mean.”

  I have to get out of here. I can’t listen to this. After the morning I’ve had, hearing about how he was there for her when I should have been is more than I can take. “Aid, I’ve got to get to practice. We’ll talk soon. You can hide out at my place and help me review tape if you need to.” I run out of the locker room and don’t look back.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  October 1, 2013

  Palo Alto, CA

  Chase

  Why do I keep doing this to myself? I keep promising myself I’m going to stop, but here I am again, up before dawn. What sane person gets up at this hour to watch his ex? The woman I saw forever with, until she shattered my heart. In a fucking voicemail. She didn’t even have the balls to do it in person. I take that back—the one thing Arianna Aldrich has is balls. She did it because she knew it would hurt me. One second we were at my sister’s wedding and I was thinking about pulling out the ring that had been burning a hole in my pocket for months, and the next minute she was telling me she’s walking away. No, “running away” were her exact words. Well, fuck her. Except it’s more like fuck me, because here I am, months later, up before dawn to watch her play.

  I’ve wanted to call her a million times. She’s been playing like shit since the wedding. She’s still winning, but something’s wrong. I watched her Wimbledon match a few times (no, there’s nothing creepy about that), and she started favoring her right leg. It’s been getting worse each match. Did she hurt it? Has her coach picked up on it, or is he still just trying to get in her skirt? Knowing her, if she did injure it, she’s pushing herself too hard rather than resting it. But can I call her and talk to her about it? No! She said we’re done, so we’re done.

  The Tennis Network is a blessing and a curse. Without it, I would never see her, and I’d spare myself this torture. But without it, I would never see her, and that’d be worse. She’s playing Chantal Favre, an up-and-coming French player that Ari should be able to mop the court with. It’s such a fucking turn on watching her annihilate an opponent.

  Ari’s competitive edge is something I’ve never found in anyone else. It’s the one thing that always bound us. We understand each other in ways that no one else ever will. She’s powerful, aggressive, and confident. There’s no stopping her when she’s like this, and it makes me crazy for her. Our best sex was always after she had a match or I had a game. Or we went running. Or played golf. Or Scrabble. We’d even compete about who could clean out the dishwasher faster. As long as there was competition, the sex was insane.

  She’s killing this chick, taking the first set without losing a point, and I’m sporting wood. I may think she’s a cold, callous bitch, but my dick has a mind of its own. It pisses me off that she can still get to me, but obviously not enough. I still watch her every match. I don’t even wait to catch it on my DVR—I watch it live in the middle of the night. There’s something seriously wrong with me.

  She’s blasting through the second set. This may go down as one of the fastest games in history. Match point. Come on, Ari, ram it down her throat. She runs forward for the overhead slam and nails it. Game, set, match.

  Shit. Something’s wrong. Watching the replay, she came down on her right knee wrong. The commentators don’t mention it, but I see it clear as day. Ari goes to the net to shake hands with her opponent, then falls into her chair. They’re showing a close up of her face. She looks poised, not giving anything away, but I can see that she’s hurt. Bad. I grab my cell and call Pop.

  “You’d better not be calling me from jail,” he answers.

  “Pop, you need to call Aiden. Ari’s hurt.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Pop, she just finished her match in China. I promise you, she’s hurt. You need to call Aid and that jackass she calls a coach.” I hang up, not wanting to get into it. I don’t want to answer questions about why I’m watching or why I care so damn much.

  I pace the living room. Do I book a ticket and fly out there? Do I call her? Text? I don’t know what happened, but I know it’s bad. It’s killing me being across the damn globe from her. I want to be there holding her hand. She’ll put on a façade, keeping herself together, and I want to be there so she can feel safe to come apart. But she doesn’t want me there. I’d probably just make it worse.

  Cold hands come across my bare stomach. “What are you doing up? It’s so early. Come back to bed.”

  This is why I don’t let women sleep over. Melanie and I have a nice casual thing going, but I let her sleep over once, and she thinks it’s more. “You go. I’ll be there in a bit.”

  “No, you need your sleep. You’ve got practice in the morning.” She takes my hand and pulls me back to the bedroom. “You’re so tense. I can help you with that.”

  She tries for over an hour, but my body won’t comply. I may physically be with her, but the rest of me is in China with Ari, where I belong. Melanie gives up and rolls over after a while, looking rejected.

  I never get back to sleep. My mind races with all the possibilities. I replay that last shot over and over. When she plants her right foot, her knee buckles. In real time, it looked as if she just fell forward from the power of her shot, but I can see it. Her knee gave out. I hope to hell I’m wrong.

  A few hours later, Charlie is at my door in tears. “Have you heard?”

  I pull her into my arms and lead her to the couch. “Tell me the latest.”

  She cries into my shoulder, soaking my shirt. “Ari’s knee gave out. Pop and Aid are getting on the first flight to China. I’m going later today after my chem exam, which I’m going to fail because I can’t think straight. Aid said it’s bad, Chase. Like real, real bad.”

  I rub her back, hoping to quell her tears. “It’s Ari we’re talking about. She’s indestructible. I watched the tape. She didn’t even flinch. I’m betting this will all blow over. Maybe it’s just a sprain or something.”

  “I’m worried it’s more than that. She got into an accident a couple months back, and it’s been bugging her since then.”

  I pull back so I can look at her. “What? When did that happen?”

  She avoids my gaze. “Uh, June. Right after the French Open. She crashed the Bentley. No one knows, so don’t say anything.”

  Right after the wedding, I bet. Goddamn it, Ari. I know she was drunk off her ass when she left me that message. If she was drunk driving, I’ll kill her.

  �
�I won’t say a thing. No one would believe me if I did. Everyone knows Ari and I don’t talk.” I walk to the kitchen to get her a glass of water. “So what time’s your flight?”

  She takes the glass from me and takes a sip. “One thirty. Can you take me to the airport? Spence is still in Chicago, and I don’t want to leave my car.”

  “I’ve got practice,” I reply.

  Melanie pops out of the kitchen, wearing only one of my T-shirts. “I could give you a ride. I don’t have anything going on today.”

  Charlie goes ramrod straight. “I’ll catch a cab.”

  Melanie shrugs and goes back to my bedroom.

  I look at Charlie curiously. “That was unlike you. She was being nice, and you were completely rude. What’s going on? Have you got something against… um…”

  “Melanie. Her name is Melanie.” She stands and stares at me as if I’ve just broken her heart. “How can you possibly care about her right now? You’re a cold bastard.” She storms out and slams the door.

  What the hell? I run after her and stop her in the driveway before she gets into her car. The morning sun blinds me. Using my hand to shield my eyes, I stare at her. “Want to tell me what that was about? You never storm off on me. We don’t do that.”

  She puts her hands on her hips. “I’m just upset about Ari and don’t have it in me to worry about your current bed warmer.”

  I hold my hands up in surrender. “Fair enough.”

  I open her car door for her, and she hugs me before getting in. “Are you sure you don’t want to come with me?”

  I lean my arm against the roof of her car. “Why would I do that? That’s ridiculous,” I protest, possibly a little too much.

  Looking down, she fidgets with her keys. “I don’t know. I know you two have had your issues, but this is major. She might need all the support she can get.”

  It kills me that I can’t talk to Charlie about this. I’m so sick of all the secrets, but now is not the time to let the cat out of the bag. I clench my fist as I concoct another lie. “I’m in the middle of the season. I can’t possibly fly to China right now. Plus, she won’t want support from me.”

  That was clearly not the answer she wanted. Charlie looks crestfallen.

  I tap the roof of her car. “Let’s not talk about this now. You’ve got an exam to get to and a plane to catch.”

  She looks up at me. “Call her at least,” she pleads.

  “Send her my best for me, okay?”

  “You can really be an asshole,” she says before slamming the car door.

  Tell me something I don’t know.

  I’m worthless at practice. Forgetting plays, screwing up calls. If Aiden were still my coach, he’d make me run the stadium until midnight. That man thinks running the stadium is the cure for everything. I keep checking my phone for updates, but nothing’s come in yet. I dial her number a thousand times, but I never have the balls to hit send. Hearing from me will just make it worse. All I can do is sit and wait for the tidbits I can glean from my family. But they all think I don’t care, so I’m not even on the calling tree.

  Arianna

  October 4, 2013

  Torn MCL, ACL, and LCL. The trifecta. I’ve apparently been playing with a partial tear in both the ACL and LCL, putting all the pressure on the MCL. I can’t say I’m surprised. I twisted it getting out of my car after the accident, and it hasn’t felt right since. When I landed wrong after that last shot of my match, I heard a nasty pop as I decimated what was left of my knee. I’m looking at surgery and months of rehab. This is potentially career ending. Those words keep echoing in my mind like a scene from a bad movie.

  It isn’t a death sentence, even though it feels like one. I’m going to fight like hell to come back. There’s a chance, and I’ll work my ass off to make that chance a reality. Hard work, perseverance, dedication. I can do this.

  The doctors in China have been great, but there’s no way in hell I’m having my surgery here. I need to be able to have a conversation with my doctor without a translator. I can’t risk something getting lost in translation. Tomorrow, I’m taking a private plane to Florida to see Dr. Andrews, knee doc of the jocks. He’s seen my MRIs and hopefully can do the surgery early next week. If my knee has a chance, it’s in his hands. Daddy, Pat, and Charlie are here, and I’m so thankful they can help me through this.

  But something’s missing. Charlie’s trying too hard to be positive, and Daddy and Pat are both too wrapped up in worry for me to really lean on them. I have to temper my reactions or they’ll fall apart. As always, I have to be the strong one.

  It pains me to say it, but I need Chase. He’s the only one who gets me, understands my competitive nature. He wouldn’t try to soothe me. He’d motivate me to fight back, and that would soothe me. He would comprehend how I feel as though my whole identity is at stake. If I’m not Arianna Aldrich the tennis star, who will I be? I’ll be damaged goods. Then who will want me?

  October 8, 2013

  I was so doped up, I don’t remember any of the trip from China to Florida. That’s probably for the best. Surgery is tomorrow, and everyone is here: Daddy, Pat, Katie, Charlie, Spencer, my coach, and my agent. I’m putting on a great front. Everyone thinks I’m strong as titanium, but inside, I’m cracking. The one person I need hasn’t called or even sent a goddamn text. Charlie said he’s seeing someone. I guess he’s too busy with his new toy to worry about me.

  The surgery goes okay. There was more damage than the MRI indicated, but Dr. Andrews thinks there’s a chance I can get to where I need to be. Rehab will be a bitch though. I need to stay close to Dr. Andrews so he can check on my progress every few weeks, but I have no interest in staying in Florida where I’ll be hounded by the press every day, so Daddy hires a well-respected physical therapist to move into the Bahamas house with me. Sean Samuels has worked for several NFL teams, rehabbing crybaby football players. His job is to kick my ass and get my knee back into fighting shape. I’m sure I’ll be a piece of cake since I actually have a work ethic.

  Everyone helps me get settled at the Bahamas house, but then they need to get back to their lives. Daddy breaks the news to me that I’ll be on my own for the holidays. Daddy is doing play-by-play for one of the Thanksgiving football games, and the Niners are playing in the other. Christmas is on a Sunday, so I can’t expect any of them for Christmas for the same reasons. All I can focus on is healing, rebuilding, and strengthening. Happy holidays to me.

  January 30, 2014

  Months have gone by, and still no word from Chase. The starting quarterback for the Niners blew out his Achilles in the last game, and Chase is up. I always thought I would be there for his first game as a starter. I guess things don’t always work out the way we plan. As much as it kills me to admit it, I need him. Needing him makes me feel weak, which makes me hate myself, which makes me hate him with a fervor I’ve never felt. I knew we were over, but now I wonder if I ever meant anything to him at all.

  I take all my rage and hurt and throw it into my rehab. Sean thinks he’s a cruel devil, which is adorable. Clearly he doesn’t know he’s dealing with Lucifer herself. He can barely keep up with me. He pushes me; I push myself ten times harder. Eat, sleep, rehab. Rinse, repeat.

  I’ve essentially become a recluse. I only delve into the real world when I have to—sponsor responsibilities, social appearances I can’t beg off, and whatnot. My heart’s not in it. I flash a smile and give everyone a sound bite about how well I’m healing and how I’ll be back on the court before we know it. I avoid my family at all costs to avoid any and all things Chase. I watch his games and they kill me, but I can’t not watch. Watching him relieves the pain in my chest, until I remember that he’s an asshole and I hate him, which makes the pain that much worse. But I can’t not watch.

  The anniversary of my mother’s death hits me harder than normal this year because it’s the first year I’m alone. Daddy said he just didn’t have it in him to come here because the memories of Mom are too strong
here. He built this house for her.

  When I’m on the court, I feel connected to my mother somehow. Months off the court have taken her from me, and I feel her slipping further and further away. I gave Sean the day off, so he flew back to Florida to see his girlfriend. It’s just me and a big empty house full of memories and ghosts. Between the annual call from the psycho and the internet being splashed with pictures of her murder, I can’t take it anymore.

  I grab my racket and hit the court. I take out all my rage, hurt, frustration, and bitterness on the backboard until I hear a snap. Pushing myself up, I try to stand, but my leg goes out and I fall on my ass. My knee can’t take any weight—I can’t even limp. Regretting my self-imposed isolation, I have to belly-crawl to the house. Pulling myself toward the house, my arms and legs drag against the pavement, scraping off my skin with each excruciating inch. It takes me two grueling hours to get to a phone. Bloody and raw, my knee is the size of a honeydew. Daddy’s phone is off. He’s probably at the bottom of the bottle, his new tradition for this day. Pat, Katie, and Sean’s phones all go to voicemail.

  Everything else is fuzzy until I wake up in the hospital in Miami. I’ve undone all the progress I made because I couldn’t keep my emotions in check. Dr. Andrews was able to reconnect the tendons, but the damage is far worse this time. My chances for career recovery have gone from possible to slim to none.

  Two days later, Charlie’s sitting in my recovery room after my surgery. “You’d think for the price you’re paying for this place, they’d at least have nicer hospital gowns. That one is doing nothing for you.” She hands me a cup of water.

  I take a small sip. “That’s an untapped market for you. Designer hospital gowns.”

  “I’ll tell Spence.” She laughs. “Maybe he’ll invest.”

  “He’d invest in an ice shop in the arctic if you asked him to. That boy thinks every word out of your mouth is pure gold.”