Select (Select #1)(27)
Just like that, John began to play. I stood up and walked over to his court, wanting to be close to him.
He knew I was watching. I went right up to the sidelines, rash forgotten. It was his serve and he slammed it. I could tell he was showing off for me. But Pete seemed more motivated, running harder and making some crazy shots. John double-faulted and then double-faulted again.
First I saw the coach come over to watch the match, and then a few other players from the boys’ team. When Pete began to win games, the girls drifted over and were allowed to watch. The coach shushed his team when they clapped and yelled “Go, Pete!” at their number one player. When Pete took every game of the first set, you could tell something momentous was happening.
At the break John toweled off and caught his breath, keeping his eyes to the ground. I saw him look for me out of the corner of his eye when he lifted his water bottle to take a short drink. And then, like a floodgate, he was completely open to me.
One more set like this, and that will officially be rock bottom. And in front of her. Definition of a shit show. I should be handing out toilet paper.
I half laughed out loud at that.
Did she just laugh? At me?
John walked back to the baseline. Okay. Now. Turn it on. Put her out of your mind. But there’s no way in hell she’s going to see me lose.
He served, Pete returned, and John slammed it into the net. It didn’t look like things were going to change. John’s head was slowly being taken over by the game, though, and I became just another nagging problem in his headspace.
Probably 50k invested in my game by my hardworking parents and this guy will probably get a better scholarship than me. I’ve got to stop the chatter. I’ve got to stop caring so much about tennis, about this girl, about every stupid thing. Just play like I give a shit.
It was fascinating. John appeared completely calm on the outside. I couldn’t believe he was tearing himself up inside and the only evidence was the awful game he was playing.
This shoulder is fucking up my swing, fucking up my rhythm. I should just take a year off. Better yet, I should quit. The schools think I’m damaged goods anyway. Dammit.
“Wasn’t he supposed to be the next Texas Regional champion?” one asshole muttered jokingly for everyone to hear.
I couldn’t take it anymore. I’d never done it with something that was already in motion, but it was worth a try. It took a few more lost points for John, but I finally felt the rhythm of the game and connected with the energy of the ball.
Pete returned John’s serve and it was a solid shot, but at the last second I veered it into the net. I had done it. And then I did it again.
Pete began to teeter out of his zone, shaking his head, hitting the racket on the tops of his feet. The coach didn’t say a word. It seemed like everyone was holding their breath. Pete served and it looked like it was good, but I angled it low and the ball grazed the top of the net. I felt everyone around me blink.
Ten thousand hours of tennis and I’ve never seen a ball do that.
John won the game on the next shot, and Pete’s confidence took a hit. There was a major momentum shift after that and John got his head together. His mind was beautifully blank.
I pushed off the chain-link fence and straightened, now knowing he would win. I left before the match was over, my rash completely gone and a gigantic smile on my face.
The impact jolted me off my high, putting my consciousness squarely back on Cesar Chavez Street. The car that had rear-ended mine reversed and, tires squealing, peeled around me, taking off into the distance. The light turned green and I drove, pulling over at a point where the street quieted. I got out of my car and was walking back to inspect the damage when a white SUV pulled up behind me and stopped. Dammit.
“You okay, miss?” A man maybe in his thirties, suit jacket missing and sleeves rolled up, jumped out and walked right up next to me to look at the back of my car.
“I’m fine.” I tried to keep annoyance out of my voice since I didn’t want him to call the police.
“Looks good. No visible damage.” He said this officially, like he was reporting it.
He turned to me and sized me up as if checking that I was unhurt, and then he began to back away, returning to his car. “Glad you’re okay.” With that, he got back in his car, and I noticed another man sitting in the passenger seat. The car pulled out, expertly made a U-turn on the busy street, and disappeared as fast as it had shown up.
Relieved they were gone, I stood on the side of the road and looked at the back of my car, grateful that pecan trees were shading me. I was surprised to see there was visible damage. The back wasn’t level anymore.
It dawned on me that I now had an excuse to go where I’d thought about going. I wanted to see my dad. Kendra handled stuff like this, or at least she had someone she could delegate to. I could drive downtown—it wasn’t quite five o’clock, and everyone at my dad’s office stayed until late. While I dropped in to see Kendra, I could talk to Novak, away from the house. If I felt the usual comfort and affection, it would assure me there was no need to let any of what Angus had said get under my skin.
My hands shook slightly from the aftershocks of the minor accident as I drove. For a moment I fantasized about telling Novak what had just happened at the tennis court. It was the second time now. At best he’d probably say I needed to do a better job keeping it under control—that these spurts were dangerous without any guidance. Worst case, my punishment would be more severe.