Stay Away

city of stars

Though winning in Tunisia and Mexico totals my titles to eight this season and are a great way to solidify my place in the WTA finals tournament that starts on the 31st, I find myself more caught up in whether or not Fleur is doing okay than in my celebrations.

Emma Hayes did not agree to terminate her contract before the season started, and only Scarlett knows that Fleur wants to leave Chelsea. Their relationship is tense at the moment. Neither of them know where anything is headed.

From what Fleur has told me, I gather that she is pushing for a compromise with the club and hoping to sign for Barcelona in January. That way, she helps them in the first half of the Champions League, but also manages to have a hand in the undefeated Spanish team. What footballer doesn't dream of playing in a sold out Camp Nou?

I'm not sure exactly why she is moving clubs, but it must have something to do with her losing the Ballon d'Or to Alexia Putellas for the second year in a row. They play the same position, but my sister is two years younger and believes that she has been in England for too long. Reports from Scarlett show that she isn't coping well, and that she spends every minute she is not at training either practising even more, going to the gym, or talking to her agent. They seem to hardly be in each other's company at the moment.

The thing is, Fleur has told me that Scarlett doesn't want her to go, but refuses to come with her. She thinks Chelsea is the perfect team for her, and won't be convinced otherwise.

They have been arguing a fair bit.

Fleur calls me a lot, ranting about how frustrating it is that Scarlett won't hear her out. "My career is on the line!" she says, though I'm not sure if that's entirely true. She starts and plays a full ninety minutes for almost every game at Chelsea. I think she is just determined to prove she can be better than her counterpart. Besting her in her own club would definitely satisfy Fleur's thirst for competition.

When the Guadalajara Open ends and I have sent my trophy off to Melbourne, I'm on a plane to the US quicker than the paparazzi can catch me. (And they often do, which is never fun.) Leah is injured and in California, and we have a day's overlap to get dinner before she heads back to England for rehab.

I get to Los Angeles at midnight. Juan has allowed me three days of rest before we crack on with training for the last tournament of the season for me – I didn't play the qualifiers for the BJK Cup due to my hamstring injury. He has gone to visit some family in Argentina, not asking who I am so eager to spend time with in LA.

Leah is supposed to have messaged me where we are going to meet for dinner before my flight landed. I refresh my texts to see if I have missed it. She hasn't said anything.

I am waiting for my taxi, slumped on my suitcase with a cap pulled over my face, when someone grabs me by the waist. The scream that leaves my mouth causes a few people to turn around, and I jab my elbow into the person's stomach, shrugging them off. Until I recognise the rings on their fingers as the ones that took ages to remove on the last day of July.

"I will not be doing that again," Leah wheezes, winded from the force of my self-defence. I turn around sharply, and she pulls my cap off to get a better look at my face. I glare at her. "I wanted to surprise you."

"You scared me," I groan, my heart rate not slowing down. Her eyes are practically sparkling. She looks at me, I look at her.

Fuck.

"Gonna kiss me or what?"

It isn't dating. We aren't dating.

I press my lips to hers quickly, knowing that people are nosy and that photographers will be lurking in every dark corner of LAX. "I missed you," I whisper, a confession that I know I should not have made the minute it is spoken aloud. "I can't stop thinking about you."