Page 24 of A Summer of Stars

“Francisco—”

“Wait, you didn’t let me read my favorite one: ‘Who’s Kieran Alexander’s Fourth Girlfriend of the Year?’”

Air filled my lungs, and an unexpected laugh fell out. According to a billion tabloids earlier this year, my last “girlfriend” was my sister. One photograph of us at the airport together, and I was wed. Mila had gagged.

“I think Mila was more horrified that people thought she was straight.” I laughed. I hadn’t seen her for a few months since filming kept me in Ontario. I had offered to fly her out to New York, along with the rest of our family, but it was becoming more and more risky for Abuela to travel. I was fortunate enough to have Franny with me.

“Never mind, back to business,” Franny said, despite also laughing. “The Charleston Open is the largest women’s-only tennis tournament in North America. It spans over nine days, showcasing doubles and singles. The champion is awarded—whoa, one hundred thousand dollars! You’re finally dating a girl that doesn’t need your money—oof.”

I pulled my arm away from his chest and gripped the wheel again.

“According to WTATennis.com, Luna Aldridge’s highest ranking was number six in women’s tennis two years ago, out of twenty-five hundred women. She’s won eleven singles titles… and she’s currently ranked number seventy-four… It looks like she took a small break… Her last match was last year. That’s odd, isn’t it?” He quirked his head to the side.

“Franny,” I said pointedly. I had no desire to talk about this woman.

He paused, thinking. Then he cleared his throat. “Have you talked to Dad at all?”

I rolled the windows up as we approached the stadium’s entrance. “I spoke with him yesterday about Abuela. He said she’s been eating regularly and going on walks in the morning, and she even began tending to her tomatoes again. I’m thinking of maybe moving to a larger place so that if she or Mila or Mom ever want to visit, there’d be room.”

“Kieran, no. I meant about the press tour, and your new girlfriend,” he replied.

“No, I haven’t. Dad wouldn’t care to know anyway.”

“As your assistant, I think they need to know. The last thing we want is Mila liking one wrong post about Luna Aldridge and every person online thinking the family hates her because Mila had no idea that the two of you are supposed to be in a relationship. This entire plan will blow up,” he rushed, his sentence sounding like one long word.

“I’ll tell Mila, and Abuela and Mom. But not Dad. It’s not up for discussion,” I finished.

As we followed the security vehicle in front of us, the stadium loomed above us like an ominous cloud prepared to suck us in and swallow us up. But if that meant I didn’t have to have this conversation any longer, then I could appreciate a storm.

When I was a kid, my abuela used to put on WWE and wake the neighbors with her enthusiasm. She’d clap her hands when her favorite wrestler entered the arena and holler when they stepped into the ring. She’d jump from her cushioned seat and shout at the TV with repugnance or exhilaration—it depended on the outcome—and her face would bleed color and glisten with sweat. She’d flash me a quick smile to reassure me she wasn’t crazy.

Women’s tennis was like a classy version of WWE. People were gasping and falling forward and hopping out of their seats in surprise. People wore bright, white hats, and freshly steamed linens, and held drinks that probably did anything but hydrate.

I was just one of what looked like ten thousand people that swallowed up the court below. The sun beat down on the back of my neck as I tried my best to ignore the phones pointed in my direction. There were more people here than I was expecting. I was hoping to spend the match hiding under the visor of my hat, clapping every time Aldridge didn’t miss a ball, and suppressing a laugh every time she did. But my presence was much more apparent than I was anticipating. This would definitely make the paper tomorrow.

“Stop scowling so much,” Nari said from the seat behind me.

The phones disappeared as all focus shifted to the court. People rose from their seats.

A woman with tight braids and a neon yellow dress entered below with a backpack over her shoulder. Intense. Her eyes stared straight ahead as she walked toward a bench at the side of the court.

Franny leaned over. “That’s Petra Tunisia, she’s ranked number three in the world.”

Everyone else seemed well aware, because not a seat was emptyin the stadium, and arm space was consumed with elbows needing room to clap. Spectators were smiling andwowing, their mouths forming perfectly stunned circles, as the tennis player silently placed her items down.

Then the crowd erupted in another wave of excitement.

Aldridge’s dark hair was tied back and shielded by a black visor as she walked out. Her slim stature was covered head-to-toe in black. Even her bag was black.

She peered up at the eager crowd, letting her gaze wander as she walked. It was as if she were taking a mental snapshot of each face. She gave a small wave, resulting in a group of girls throwing their arms up in the air to wave back. She beamed.

She usually provided the same feigned warmth on red carpets. Something about this was different, though.

Both women stepped onto the court with their rackets, and everyone swallowed their emotions, sitting. A coin toss took place, and they went their separate ways. Aldridge carried a neon ball.

She bounced it against the court with her racket before throwing it high.

The man behind me inhaled. Aldridge jumped, her racket sending the ball across the court so fast I almost missed the opposing player sending it back.