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The next shot fired out of the ball machine low and high, and I lurched my arm back, taking the racket over my head and swinging hard, sending the ball straight for the ground and out of bounds on the other side of the net.
Shit.
I ran my sandpaper tongue over my lips, desperate for water from all of the exertion as I ran frontward, backward, and left to right, trying to keep up with the speed, trajectory, and spin I’d programmed into the machine.
I’d clearly overestimated the shape I was in.
Sure, I exercised. I ran and used my own small equipment to do strength training at my apartment, but tennis required muscles I rarely used anymore.
Every six months or so, I’d start to miss the game, the new challenge that every serve would offer, and I’d use my membership to access the pristine private courts at the gym.
I never played anyone, though. I hadn’t played with a partner since the first round of Wimbledon, July second, five years ago, shortly before I moved to New Orleans with my brother. That was the day I’d gotten a code violation, a default on match point, and so, with no hope of winning, I’d walked off the court before the game was officially over and never returned to competitive tennis again.
My brother had tried comforting me, telling me that I couldn’t expect to get my head in the game after what we’d been through earlier that summer. It had been a hard time.
Hell, it had been a hard two years prior to that, but it was still a moment I wished I could go back and change. My last match on a professional court had been my worst, and it was the only thing in my life I was ashamed of.
I’d behaved like a brat, and despite everything I’d accomplished up until that point, that’s how people remembered the old Easton Bradbury.
But I would make damn sure that this Easton Bradbury never made that same mistake.
It was strange how something that felt like second nature at one time now felt so foreign. I used to do this every day. I’d wake up at five o’clock in the morning, eat a light breakfast or drink a protein shake, put on my gear, and hit the court for five hours.
In between I’d do my home study and eat, and then I’d go back out for either more practice or another workout.
At night I’d ice sore joints and muscles and read before bed.
I didn’t go to school, I didn’t go to parties, and I didn’t have friends. That’s probably why Jack was my BFF.
I grunted, feeling the ache in my grip as I squeezed the racket and backhanded the next tennis ball, sending it over the damn baseline.
“Damn it,” I mumbled, pulling to a stop as I put my hands on my hips and dropped my head. “Shit.”
I dug the remote out of the waistband of my tennis skirt and pointed it at the ball machine, powering it down just as a ball came flying toward me.
I ducked and then twisted my head in the other direction, hearing a car honk behind me.
Jack sat in his Jeep Wrangler laughing at me as “Untraveled Road” by Thousand Foot Krutch blared from his car.
I rolled my eyes and walked for the gate, handing the remote to the attendant and grabbing my gym bag. I tossed my towel into a bin before swerving around the fence and down the sidewalk.
“You only caught the end of that,” I protested, climbing into the passenger seat. “I was hitting balls like crazy.”
He smiled to himself, shifting into gear and pulling away from the curb. “You know you could play with me, right?”
I snorted. “No offense, but I want to be challenged, Jack.”
His chest shook with laughter. “Brat.”
I smiled and dug my phone out of my duffel before stuffing the bag onto the floor between my legs.
Jack had actually been a great sparring partner when I was younger. He’d even competed before it became obvious at an early age that it just wasn’t a passion for him.
When my parents noticed that I was more interested and a lot more pliable, they let him off the hook and nurtured me. I never understood why it was so important for one of us to be competing at a high level in a sport, but I basically just wrote it off as a desire for them to be in the limelight and live vicariously, both of them amateur athletes in their day.
“You only come out here sporadically, and you always want to be alone,” Jack commented, turning onto St. Charles and traveling past Tulane, heading toward the Garden District. “It’s like you’re forcing yourself to do something you don’t want to do. As if you still feel obligated to play.”
Spills of gold fell across my lap from the sunlight peeking through the trees overhead, and I checked my e-mail as I tried to ignore Jack’s constant invasiveness.
He’d been like this since that summer five years ago, but I thought once I’d graduated college, he’d refocus more on himself.
“Easton?” my brother pressed.
My eyelids fluttered in annoyance, and I scrolled through messages, forgetting my brother as soon as I saw one from Tyler Marek.
I swallowed the thickness in my throat, my eyes moving over his name and trying to ignore the strange hunger that filled my stomach at the enticing thought of an interaction with him.
“Easton?” Jack pushed again, his voice sounding annoyed.
“Jack, just put a cork in it,” I barked, clicking on the e-mail and reading Marek’s message.
Dear Ms. Bradbury,
I was under the impression that we’d handled this.
While I understand you are a trained professional, there are certain things I will allow and certain things I will not. My expectations for my son’s education follow the state standards, and I suggest you find a way to do your job – like all the other teachers in that school – that does not increase the burden on families more than the tuition we already pay. In the future, I expect the following:
