“I…” His gaze fell and his brow crumpled as he swallowed back the words that were clearly difficult to say. “I…I just want you to know that this,” he nodded toward the bed, “was everything.” He kissed her softly. Sweetly. “Everything.”
Her eyes watered, but she quickly blinked back the tears. “For me, too. One hundred percent for me, too.” She pulled him in for one more tight hug, careful not to kiss him again. If she did, she’d stay. She’d stay and tell him that she loved him…and then straddle him on the desk chair. “Goodnight, Smoke. And good luck, even though you don’t need it. I’ll see you soon.”
With that, she got the hell out of his room, making a run for the penthouse.
Something Julian said stuck with her—that she’d been with him for his moments and now it was her turn. She couldn’t help but worry that their dreams were taking them in two different directions, but the feelings between them were obviously real and strong, no longer crush territory but something far more powerful, powerful enough to withstand any storm. As she dialed Brynn’s number, she realized she had to believe in Julian and what they shared and the fact that all of this was meant to be.
Bigger still, she had to believe in herself.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Julian
When the morning of the final came around, Julian was well-rested, but everything he ate or drank threatened to reappear and he couldn’t stop bouncing his legs, his hands tapping out offbeat rhythms on his knees.
His mind went to Amalie, as it often did, along with his latest revelation when it came to her. He’d decided that the next time he saw her, he was going to tell her he loved her. He’d wanted so badly to tell her right before she left for LA, but the words just wouldn’t come. Well, no more playing it safe. Wherever life took her, he was going to be right there at her side.
“What’s that about?” Paul asked, voice gruff and all-business as he motioned to Julian’s face.
Julian ran both hands through his hair. “Don’t worry. When I get on the court, I’ll be one-hundred-percent focused on tennis. I can promise you that. But I can’t help but think about Amalie. I love her, man. I love her more than I’ve ever loved anyone, and that scares the hell out of me, just like all of this”—he spun in a circle, his arms out to gesture to his surroundings—“scares the hell out of me.”
Suddenly the doubt he’d been doing a pretty good job at pushing down rose to the surface.
Shit. Not now. Not now.
Paul furrowed the white caterpillars above his eyes. “What do you mean?”
Julian shrugged. “I mean I’m scared I’ll fail today. What happens then? This is all I’ve wanted for years.”
“Even if you lose, which I don’t think you will,” Paul responded, “it wouldn’t be the end of the world. But if by some fluke you do lose, the USTA wants you on tour, permanently. Apparently, you’ve finally appeased the tennis gods.”
Andrew had already told Julian as much, which actually added to his mounting worries. “And that’s just it, Paul. I don’t know if that’s what I want, because that would mean I wouldn’t see Amalie as much. Whatever I decide, it’ll be with her by my side because I’m not half-assing this thing with her. That woman is everything to me.”
The sound of clapping rang through the locker room, and then Andrew Warner surfaced, looking more relaxed than Julian had ever seen him. “Well said, my boy. Well said. You just might deserve my daughter after all.”
Julian smiled, still shocked they were even on speaking terms.
“I just came to give you this,” Andrew said as he dug a small, folded square of paper from his perfectly pressed navy suit. “From Amalie. She gave it to me before she left for LA. I’m to let you know she’s here in spirit.”
Julian reached for the note as his heart swelled. That girl.
“Good luck, Julian. We’re all rooting for you.” Andrew gave him a quick pat on the shoulder before disappearing through the locker room doors.
Julian looked at Paul, then at the note in his hand. Paul nodded his chin toward it. “Well? What are ya waiting for?”
Julian unwrapped the note, his eyes greedily taking in every dainty scrawled letter and loopy Y.
Julian,
You can do this. I’ve believed in you since day one, although sometimes I hated to admit it. Go out and play the match your dad always knew you could play.
—Love, Amalie
He gulped as he read it one more time. She was right. He could do this, not only for himself, but for his father and for her.
Folding the note reverently, he tucked it in his bag. Just as he zipped it closed, security called for him and Javier to start their walk. Julian tried not to study his opponent too much, but it was hard not to. Javier Rodriguez was a Spaniard the tennis world had nicknamed “The Dog,” because he could and would chase down any ball and efficiently send it right back over the net. This fact alone made him one of the toughest competitors on the tour. He’d already racked up three French Opens and one US Open and was looking to add another win to that list. If all of that wasn’t enough, the guy was 6’1” with a sturdy build, legs like tree trunks, and a physique that screamed he could beat your ass.
As Julian walked down the hallway in front of Rodriguez, his ears began to ring, his body tingling with the urgency and knowledge of exactly what was at stake.
As usual, Charles Avery waited at the mouth of the tunnel, microphone in hand.
After pleasantries, Charles got right down to it. “What’s your mindset going into the match?”
While most players offer a generic answer, like “I just want to play each point,” Julian was completely honest. “I really don’t know.”
Normally Charles would ask a follow-up question, but thankfully, it was like the man could sense that no other questions needed to be asked, because he extended his knuckles, giving Julian a fist bump. “Go get him.”
As Julian walked on court to a packed house, the crowd erupted, flinging their support fully behind him. He tried to soak it in, hoping the momentum would carry him through the match.
He looked over at his box and his gaze flicked over Paul, Romina, Austin, his mom, Andrew…
His stomach dropped, that flicker turning into a full-blown flame as he locked eyes with Amalie.
Shock trickled through his veins because she was there when she should’ve been in LA. He stumbled a little as he found his way to his chair, not taking his eyes off her once.
“Hey,” he mouthed, his brows scrunched in confusion. He felt a niggle of worry that she might have done something reckless, like walk away from her chance because she felt the need to support him. If that were the case, he’d stop this match right now just to put her on a plane back to California.
Her smile grew even wider, reaching all the way up to her eyes as she tilted her head. “Hey.”
He saw movement out of the corner of his eyes and saw Paul flapping at the end of the row. “Everything is fine. She did great in LA!” he yelled above the noise.
Relief eased some of the tension in his shoulders as his eyes flicked back to Amalie, who was laughing. She gave him a thumbs up to reiterate Paul’s announcement.
“I’m proud of you,” he mouthed, placing a hand over his heart, before turning to the chair umpire.
When he and Rodriguez made their way to the net for the coin toss, he could see that his opponent’s face mirrored his own, etched with unwavering steely resolve. Julian lost the toss, and Rodriguez elected to serve. As the match started, Julian struggled with the speed and power of Javier’s serve. Damn it. He couldn’t let this guy run him all over the court, but he moved like he was in mud, his footwork sluggish. Of course, Rodriguez was anything but sluggish. That guy was tuned in, and he pounced right away to break Julian’s first service game. The crowd was silent, and there was no real energy in the stadium, which sucked because Julian so desperately needed it, needed something, anything at that point.
The set went by and looked
more like an exhibition match, with Rodriguez easily winning 6–1. Julian’s mind was spiraling, those old doubts slowly twining themselves through his brain and reaching down to twist around his heart. At the beginning of the second set, Julian had the opportunity to start off serving but ended up double-faulting to give the first game away. His nerves were total and utter shit. He was playing scared, and as hard as he tried to claw his way out of the pit he’d tripped into, it was too late. He gave the set away, 6–4.
Get it together, man. Get your shit together.
Toward the beginning of the third set, the temperature changed drastically as clouds darkened the stadium. As they were locked in an intense first game of the set, Rodriguez held serve, and once they headed for the changeover, rain pelted the court.
Julian lifted his eyes to the sky, big heavy drops hitting his face. Within less than a minute, the umpire announced that play had been suspended while the roof was being closed and directed Julian and Rodriguez to go off court into separate locker rooms.
Julian slumped over as soon as he sat down in the locker room, his soaked hair in his hands. He was fucking up big-time out there.
A sound at the door had him looking up to find Paul headed toward him. Just as his coach opened his mouth to speak, Amalie’s voice came right behind, feistier than ever. “What the hell? You got your head in your hands like you’re just giving up?”
Julian turned, drinking her in like the mirage he thought she was. She was just so damn beautiful.
Storm clouds rolled in her eyes as she slammed his locker shut in utter frustration. Damn, he’d forgotten how hot she was when she was mad. “Get your ass up! You’ve come this far and now’s not the time to let your mental game suck. I could tell in that last game you were hesitating. Well, you know what? Julian Smoke doesn’t hesitate! He goes after each ball and he paints the damn lines! When this roof gets closed, there are no more timeouts for you. This is it. Now go out and win this thing. Your dad didn’t waste all those years training you just for you to get to the final of the US Open and to give up without a fight.” She blew a wayward strand of hair from her eyes as Julian’s hand itched to touch it, to touch her. She turned her fierce angry eyes to Paul. “Now Paul, you can go ahead.”
Paul’s lips twitched beneath his mustache as he shook his head. “Nah, I think I’m good.”
Energy thrummed through Julian’s body as he realized that this moment was something he didn’t even know he desperately needed. It felt like he was able to take his first full breath since the match started.
He caught Amalie’s eye, her chest heaving, her breath coming in quick gasps. Suddenly appearing nervous, she smoothed her hands down over her striped sundress. “Oh, well, good then. I’m going to head back up there before I get in trouble for being here. So, you know what to do now, right?”
Julian’s grin grew so wide it felt like it swallowed his face. “Yeah, I know exactly what to do.”
Amalie pushed her hair behind her ears and gave him and Paul one last glance before nodding curtly, and then moved toward the door.
“Hey,” Julian called, his voice thick as he gently grasped her hand as she passed the bench where he sat.
A tiny gasp escaped her pouty lips as he tightened his grip on hers, attempting to channel some of the emotion he felt into that single touch. “Thank you, Amalie. Really, I mean it.” He stood up from the bench, wrapping his other hand around her waist and pulling her toward him. “None of this would be happening without my Stardust.”
Amalie’s lips parted, eyes bright as she brought a hand to his face, rising on her tiptoes to plant a kiss on his lips. “I could say the same about you.”
“And I could say we have a tennis match going on and save all of this for afterward,” Paul said with a cough.
Julian and Amalie both laughed and shook their heads. He bent down giving her one more kiss, this time on the forehead, before she slipped out of the locker room.
As soon as the door closed gently behind her, Paul turned toward Julian, lips still twitching. “So, now what?”
Feeling like a new man, free from his fears of failure, Julian pulled his dad’s necklace out from beneath his shirt and ran his fingers over the ugly gold racket. “I’m going to win, and then I’m going to get the girl.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Amalie
By the time Amalie sat back down in the box the roof was fully closed and they were preparing to bring the players back out. She could still feel Julian’s touch on her skin, see that crooked grin of his. A smile crept upon her lips, her fingers brushing over it to check if it was really real.
“Someone’s happy.” Romina gently bumped Amalie’s shoulder.
“Let’s just say it’s been a really good few days.”
And it had. She’d signed on with Brynn as her agent and negotiated a contract for Painting the Lines to be made into a film, a combination of events that was almost unheard of, especially with how fast everything had happened. On top of that, she was about to watch the man she loved win the US Open. It was wild to think how far they’d come from that night in the bar.
“You really do love that boy, don’t you?” Ro said with a grin.
Amalie nodded, her earlier smile stretching even wider across her face as she watched the crowd settle into their seats, the chair umpire heading back onto the court.
“I can’t believe I’m going to say this,” her friend continued, “but you’re perfect for each other.”
Just as Amalie was about to reply, the players came out to thunderous applause. Her heart thumped wildly, frantic and barely contained as she took in Julian’s strong form, his cocky smile. He looked over and winked.
Romina leaned in and added, “And he’s madly in love with you.”
Amalie couldn’t help but gently shove her best friend’s shoulder with her own and roll her eyes. “Oh, please…”
But she hoped it was true.
Chapter Thirty
Julian
Julian was down 0–1 in the third set, and he knew there was no more margin for error.
With that thought, he held serve easily without losing a point. He channeled Andy Murray, roaring after winning the game, signaling not only to himself but to his box, to the crowd, to Rodriguez, that he was all in and wasn’t going down without a fight.
Julian centered himself, letting his breath come in and out in controlled pants, focusing on the task at hand, which was dismantling the toughest opponent he’d ever faced.
As the set reached the tie break, Javier served first, and Julian smoked the ball right past his opponent, painting the line. He fist-pumped the air, his adrenaline electric.
Now was the time. He could hear Amalie encouraging him not to give up, could hear Paul telling him that was exactly the shot he’d been looking for the entire match. If he could just get through this tie break, then he had a shot at victory. He felt the strength to win deep down in his bones.
And that he did. He won the third and fourth set with surprising ease, evening out the match with the fifth set deciding who would take home the title.
Julian wiped his sweaty hands on his shorts, narrowing his gaze on Rodriguez as he watched him walk to the chair umpire. His opponent asked for a bathroom break, but Julian chose to stay on court. If he left now, his momentum would be all screwed up.
As he waited, he took a sip of water and then made a point to stay loose by doing a light boxer shuffle. His mind was focused, zeroed in, but then the crowd, that wonderful, fantastic New York crowd, drew his attention. The fans started off by doing the wave, and then they broke into a chant—“Smoke, Smoke”—they shouted over and over again. Julian couldn’t suppress the smile that lit his face. The fans believed in him; they believed he could win this thing. If he did, he’d be the first American to become the men’s US Open champion since 2003.
When Javier returned, he looked dead at Julian as he knocked into his shoulder, throwing him off course, turning the crowd into a booing
horde. Julian felt the anger lick at his veins, but he fought down any response to react. He’d react during the next set, Rodriguez could bet on that.
The next set began with Julian ready to serve. He let the steady bounce of the ball on the asphalt calm his temper, at least long enough so that he could channel it into a killer serve. Even with all of that intensity, the fifth set was grueling, lasting over an hour before he and Rodriguez arrived at a tiebreaker. The US Open, unlike every other major, has a fifth-set tiebreaker, making it that much more intense. It was do-or-die.
Julian started out behind in the tie break and it looked like Rodriguez was getting his second wind. Even with Julian hitting two screaming aces, both over 135 mph, it didn’t faze the man. If Julian didn’t do something, his dream would be over and he wasn’t ready for that, not yet, not when he was so close.
With several deep steadying breaths, Julian hit two winners that put him behind Rodriguez by only one point.
The next rally was the longest of the tournament, of Julian’s career. He and Rodriguez were locked in opposite corners in a forehand, cross-court battle. Julian’s heart thundered, his pulse resounding in his head. On the forty-eighth shot of the rally, Julian sent a forehand down the line to get his first chance to take the lead in the tie break, evening the match at 5-all.
On the next point, Julian struck a forehand crosscourt, out of reach of his opponent. The crowd erupted as match point was called. Julian could win. He could win.
Julian’s hands shook, but one glance at the stands, one look at her, and he was centered.
Amalie beamed at him, genuine and full of hope and pride.
Julian brought his eyes back to the court as he moved to the baseline to serve. With a shaky exhale, Julian stepped to the line for the biggest point of his life. As he tossed the ball in the air and started his lunge toward the shot, he let out a massive grunt and struck an ace up the middle, winning the match in a stunner.
Painting the Lines: A Hot Romantic Comedy (Ace of Hearts Book 1) Page 26