Page 120 of Ruthless Court

Eli catches my eye from the court and lifts one eyebrow.

I know what he’s thinking.

Bookworm.

Hannah.

Sandy.

I grab a towel and wipe my face.

My game tightened after she named the problem. Now I’m thinking about the flaw before every drive, which makes it worse.

I’m letting a five-foot-nothing archaeology student live in my head and rearrange the furniture.

Coach walks over during the water break.

“You distracted?”

“No.”

He waits.

I don’t change my answer.

“You’re forcing everything,” he says. “Slow down and read what’s there.”

I nod.

He studies me another second, then sends me back in.

On the next possession, I use the screen.

Keep the dribble alive.

Let the defender commit.

One more step left.

Finish high.

The ball drops cleanly through.

No hesitation.

Bookworm’s voice still follows me down the court.

You decide where you’re escaping before the trap closes.

I hate that she was right.

I hate more that I need to know what else she sees.

* * *

I arrive at the seminar fifteen minutes early.

The back-corner seat is empty.