Regardless of any of that, she’d betrayed him. Everything between them was ruined and he would have to learn to live his life without her in it.
Chapter Twenty-One
Amalie
“We could always slash his tires,” Romina pointed out, her fork waving through the air like a sword. The idea had her eyes sparkling.
Amalie shrugged as she pushed her pancakes around her plate. It’d been two weeks since Julian accused her of going behind his back, working with her dad. He hadn’t even given her a chance to explain, and that upset her more than anything. He should’ve known her better than that, should’ve let her explain the truth about what he thought he saw. Julian’s stubbornness fueled her own, because now she refused to even try to reach out to him. What good would it do? He’d already made up his mind and wouldn’t believe her. Besides, if he thought the worst of her so easily, then what they had probably wasn’t real anyway.
She accepted that this was her life now: a failed writer sleeping on her best friend’s couch while trying to make ends meet with an asshole father somehow thrown into the mix and a nonexistent love life. Thankfully, Romina and Simone had been amazing supports—Simone was more of the PJ’s, ice cream, and Netflix sort, where Romina ventured into Carrie Underwood “Before He Cheats” territory. This was all new to Amalie, of course. Her breakup with Maxwell hadn’t left her feeling this bereft, and yet she and Julian weren’t even really technically a thing.
Her lungs constricted as she thought about the way he’d looked at her that morning in New York, his lip curled in disgust as he laid out how she’d wounded him, betrayed him. Then he up and left without allowing her any further say. She wanted to despise him, but she just couldn’t bring herself to do it. That didn’t mean she wasn’t pissed, though. She’d had no idea her father was in town.
No, he’d tracked her down that morning in New York, catching her on the street and leading her back into the hotel lobby, telling her that he’d pulled some strings to get Julian a wild card. Apparently, he’d heard that Julian really had a shot, that people were talking about him, and he couldn’t pass up the chance to use Julian as a means of garnering attention for Warner Hotels.
Amalie had been mortified to hear that, knowing it would hurt Julian’s pride. She’d resigned herself to tell Julian once she got back from getting breakfast, to let him know she had absolutely nothing to do with it. From there she thought they could figure out the next step together—to refuse the wild card, perhaps? Hell, she didn’t know what exactly, just as long as it had nothing to do with Andrew Warner and his toxic parenting.
And now she realized that her father most likely staged the entire thing just so Julian would witness it. He didn’t want them together, not with how Julian supported her, believed in her, not with how he didn’t fit into the country club set or bow down to the great Andrew Warner. And how the hell did her father know her credit card had been declined? She would never have asked him to pay the bill. Just thinking about it made her blood boil.
“Hellooo. Earth to Amalie. Did you hear what I said?” Romina waved a hand in front of Amalie’s face as she scooted her chair back.
The sound pulled Amalie out of her pit of loathing, and her eyes snapped up to Romina. “I’m sorry, Ro. What?”
Romina threw her purse over her shoulder and then put her hands on her hips. Crap. It was serious if she had her hands on her hips.
“I asked if you’ve heard from Julian yet, or at least Paul?”
Amalie swallowed the lump in her throat, tucking her hair behind her ears as she shook her head in response. “Not a word.”
She stood from the kitchen table and, after washing her plate, moved to the couch that had become her unofficial office.
Romina’s mouth tightened into a disapproving line. “I already told you that he hasn’t missed a training session, and that I’ve made it my personal mission to torture the hell out of him, but yesterday I brought your name up and he refused to talk about you. He looked miserable.”
Amalie hoped in some sick, sadistic way that he was hurting just as much as she was. She missed his irritating ways, his inappropriate jokes, his knowing eyes. She missed him, and he hated her. Abhorred was a better word for it.
With a sigh, she stabbed at invisible lint on her pajama pants. She hadn’t worn real clothes in a few days. “Can we just agree to a temporary ban on discussing him?”
Her friend studied her for a beat, her brown eyes like laser beams shooting straight into Amalie’s soul. Ro’s expression softened once she found what she was looking for. “You really liked him, huh?”
Amalie’s body stiffened. Romina had hit the mark, though it wasn’t like Amalie had been particularly careful to hide it. As soon as she’d returned from New York, she’d given her friend the Cliff’s Notes version of her hot-hot-hot make-out session with Julian. That night played on a loop in her thoughts, and she couldn’t help but think if he was that incredibly skilled with his mouth, with anticipation, then the sex would be mind-blowing. She bit the inside of her cheek at the thought. No other man had sent her senses into overdrive, awakening every single inch of her, igniting that greedy spark deep down in her belly.
Her cheeks reddened as she pictured Julian’s toned, naked chest and the sounds he made when he hit a tennis ball. Gruncillating (yes, there was a technical term for those dead-sexy noises).
And yeah, sex would’ve been great, but she couldn’t deny that what burned between them was so much more than that. At least for her. Her heart was in the game now, getting battered.
Romina cleared her throat, a knowing look on her face. “Stop daydreaming about that asshole.”
“I can’t help it, Ro.”
Romina wagged her pointer finger back and forth. “Nope. No. No, ma’am. Don’t you dare wallow in this.” She motioned to where Amalie sat on the couch with greasy hair and day-old pajamas. “You pick yourself up, dust off your fine behind, and write. Channel this into that novel and write the best damn thing this world has ever seen. You don’t need him to finish it—not anymore. You got this. In the meantime, I’ll be here to help you get over that bastard.”
Amalie’s eyes flicked up. “He’s not a bastard. He’s…he’s…”
“A bastard.”
“He’s not, but I see you’re in Mama Bear mode, so no use in arguing.”
“Nope, you know it’s pointless. Now, you gonna write?”
Amalie exhaled the biggest sigh known to humankind and sank deeper into the couch. “I don’t even know how to finish the book. I’ve got this guy who’s finishing his journey, but what about the girl, the love interest? I don’t know where to go with her story.” The parallel was not completely lost on Amalie.
“Why don’t you write the love story you’d want?”
Wouldn’t that hurt too much? she wanted to ask. Instead, she just nodded. When Ro was like this it was just easier to agree and move on.
“Look, I gotta head to work, but call me if you need me, okay? Now open that laptop and work those little fingers to the bone,” Romina said as she bent down to kiss Amalie on top of her head. She waved as she slipped out the door, leaving Amalie alone with her thoughts and her unfinished manuscript.
Since Stella’s devastating email, Amalie had sought out other agents, some with cold queries, others with referrals from authors she knew, but over half had already come back as form rejections. With a sigh, she opened her email browser and went through all the fresh rejection letters. Would anyone ever want this damn story? Was it a waste of time? But no one wanted her story. What sucked even more was the fact that this story was something she believed in. It was one she wanted the world to read. Thanks to Julian, the tennis parts were realistic, and also thanks to Julian, she had a pretty amazing male lead in Jax. It was the most connected she’d felt to a character she’d written. And then there was Penelope, the character she’d loosely modeled after herself and Ro. That girl was badass and snarky and didn’t give up. She didn’t give up.<
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Amalie looked around the apartment. She’d moved out from under her father’s tyranny, took the harder path, all because she believed in herself. She’d sacrificed so much to follow her heart, and it didn’t seem fair to tap out now.
Julian’s words came back to her. I thought your pages were magic, that you’re magic…but please, please don’t give up. For me.
The truth was, she’d felt the same about him, thought he was magic. After all, he hadn’t given up. He’d gotten to the US Open, well, with her dad’s help, but damn it, he’d still worked his ass off to make his dream a reality, to place himself in the realm of possibility and opportunity. Why shouldn’t she do the same?
She took one last look through her rejections and then grabbed her phone, pulling up her favorite writing music. If no one would take her, she would do this on her own. She’d self-publish the novel. She’d work herself to the bone to reach out to bloggers and reviewers. She’d blitz her social media pages. She’d do everything she could if it meant keeping the dream alive. Julian started at the bottom. So would she—although this wasn’t really the bottom, it was just a different path than she originally wanted to take.
Feeling lighter than she had in days, she wrote her heart out, taking Romina’s advice. She wrote the love story she wanted, wrote the grand romantic gesture that would steal her heart, and before she knew it, she had a story she was proud of.
Well, it didn’t happen that quickly. She still lacked an ending and then the remaining tennis scenes which would have to be written with the internet’s help. Her heart literally hurt as she thought of Julian, but she pushed through.
As a distraction, she pulled up another search and found a book cover designer who could create a beautiful cover on a budget, as well as an affordable book formatter. She’d take on a few more freelance jobs to buffer her finances, revise the novel, probably rewrite it one or two more times before finding an editor, and then, well, she’d release it to the world.
But…the cover designer and the formatter needed a title. Amalie pressed her hand to her forehead. She’d been struggling with that for a while and nothing had stuck. Her mind wandered to Julian and the way he played tennis now, painting the lines, as he and Paul had called it. That term had always seemed beautiful. With a gasp, Amalie shot up from the couch, hands over her mouth. That was it! Painting the Lines.
Her heart sped up at the thought. It was almost enough to make her forget that her and Julian’s love story wasn’t the one she’d written.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Julian
A week and a half had passed, and it was the Friday before the US Open, just three days until the tournament started. Julian had just finished practicing with Austin at the USTA Billie Jean King National Tennis Center. Paul thought practice would help Julian calm some of his worries about the draw, which was set to release any second. Thankfully his coach was right, since all he could think about was getting out of his sweat-soaked clothes. He thought he’d get a reprieve from the Big Apple’s humidity, but not so much.
When he and Paul headed to the locker room, Julian couldn’t help but think of how Amalie would be loving every minute of this, taking pictures and talking to all of the tennis players. The other night he almost signed up for Instagram and Facebook just so he could see if she was on there, just to get a glimpse. But deep down there was still so much anger. He wondered if she’d be at his first match, and if so, what would they even say to each other? He thought about that way more than he should, but as usual, those feelings were quickly doused by the image of the Warner logo everywhere he looked.
So much for learning to live without her.
Just as he put his tennis bag down on an empty bench, his phone buzzed with a notification. He looked at Paul.
“Might as well check it so you can get in the right mindset,” Paul answered in a grizzled voice.
And with one click, the world felt like it was tumbling down around him. He would be playing Dominic Meklau, the number four player in the world.
He barely registered Paul taking the phone from his hand, his coach’s voice barely coming through the roar of Julian’s pulse in his ears. “Dominic Meklau?” Paul said. “We can handle that.”
The Austrian was set to be the next generation of tennis. This was the same guy who bumped Alexander Becker from his number four spot. The twenty-three-year-old was coming off a win at Wimbledon and was a major force in the tennis world. Hell, there was talk he could very well win the US Open. Veteran players on the tour actually said in their interviews that they were afraid to play Meklau. Yeah, and that’s what Julian was up against, first thing.
Julian finally snapped out of it when Paul handed his phone back to him. He sat on the bench with a loud thud, his shoulders slumped, foot bouncing. “I worked this hard to get this far only to play the number four player in the damn world during the first round? I know I’m good enough to beat some of these guys, but we’re talking about top players now, more specifically a recent Wimbledon champ.” His hand rubbed incessantly at his forehead. “What was I even thinking? I can’t do this. I don’t even belong here. Hell, Andrew Warner bought my way in, so this is probably a big fuck you from karma.”
He wished he’d never even gotten the wild card. All it did was make him feel like a fraud. He’d even made the mistake of looking on social media again, of searching his name and seeing what everyone was saying about him—that he had no right to be in the US Open because he didn’t earn it. The worst part was that he had those same thoughts. All he could do now was play like he deserved it and silence those doubts, which was made even more difficult by the fact that his first opponent was a beast.
Paul struck the back of Julian’s head with a solid thwap.
“What the hell?” Julian’s hand flew to the offended spot.
“Snap out of it, kid. You’re going down a dangerous road with those kinds of thoughts, and now’s not the time for them. Guess what? You made it here. If you weren’t capable of playing with the big boys, you wouldn’t be here. You”—he poked Julian’s chest with a stubby finger covered in gray hair—“deserve to be here. This is your chance to live the dream, to not get discouraged and give up before you’ve even had a chance to prove who you are.”
Without conviction, Julian replied, “I know. You’re right.”
Paul cocked an eyebrow as he continued. “Damn straight I’m right. So what that you’re playing Meklau. You’re just as good as he is, and remember this: he had to start somewhere and now look where he is. Who says that can’t be you? That it won’t be you? But if you start with all this woe-is-me talk first thing, then yeah, you’ll lose. You can’t go in there with this kind of attitude. It’s not what’s in your heart, but what’s in your head that’s holding you back. You got tons of heart and you’ll show the world that on Monday.” With a dismissive hand, Paul looked down at his watch, then back at Julian. “Let’s go. Your mom should be at the hotel by now. I didn’t spend all that time convincing her to break her superstitious live-match ban to come to New York for you to lose your nerve. We’ll have a nice dinner and not think or talk about any of this until Sunday.”
Julian agreed, but what he didn’t say, what he was afraid to voice, was the fact that if he failed at this, he couldn’t go back to selling pharmaceuticals. He couldn’t go back to living a normal, mundane life. After these last few months, he realized that he wanted more, and damn it, he was going to go out there and get it.
By the time Sunday rolled around, Julian’s nerves were in tatters. He tried to shake out his arms and stretch his neck as Paul led the way to the locker rooms at the Billie Jean King Tennis Center, but he was still a mess. As soon as they stepped inside, the melody of different languages and the sight of other players getting ready to leave for the night engulfed Julian.
Paul and Julian headed to a row of benches in the corner—the farther away from everyone the better, at least for right now. It was then that Julian understood he’d finally made
it. This was his childhood dream, to play on Arthur Ashe Court, and now he was actually here—it was a reality.
The realization had his stomach dipping and twisting, and goosebumps slid along his arms. That feeling was quickly overtaken by something else the moment Andrew Warner swaggered his vampire-looking ass into the locker room, a rectangular white box in hand.
The air sparked, suddenly charged with tension. Paul edged closer to Julian, a protective dad gesture if he’d ever seen one. Julian on the other hand, didn’t budge, only giving Andrew the slightest tip of the chin.
“I’ve got something for you.” Warner’s gaze skated over the locker room and then returned to the box he set down on the bench.
Julian held his breath as Warner opened the box, moved aside white tissue paper, and then pulled out a sleek black headband, black socks, and shorts to match. The court shirt was the last thing he revealed.
Paul raised his eyebrows and gave an approving nod. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to let Andrew Warner pay for his tennis gear.
That thought lasted all of a second because Warner turned the shirt to the side, where a gaudy, oversized Warner Hotels logo had been stitched onto each arm. Not just one arm, but both of them.
“I’m not wearing this,” Julian growled, eyeing the tennis shirt with obvious disgust.
Paul sighed and was about to speak when Warner said, “You have to. I got you here.”
Painting the Lines: A Hot Romantic Comedy (Ace of Hearts Book 1) Page 20