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A frown lined his forehead, drawing in his fair eyebrows, and his blue eyes narrowed suspiciously. He croaked out a grouchy, “What do you want?”
“Coach? Sir,” I walked in uninvited, lengthening my bones to their full height. “Uh, good morning, I’m Taylor Frank and I’m here to play tennis and I was told I had full access to the school gym.”
Coach Mercer adjusted the brim on his cap and his lips pressed into a straight line. “You were here yesterday?” He checked his wrist watch.
“Yes sir.”
“Tennis scholarship girl?”
Well, I didn’t like that title, but I muttered, “Yes sir.”
“You’re on a strength training program?”
“Yes sir, I have one.”
His eyes seemed to assess me, not in a leering way, but looking over my physique. Not that the Covington Prep t-shirt revealed much more than the lower half of my biceps and forearms.
“You need to bulk up?”
“Well, not exactly bulk up,” I said, imagining myself as a body builder. “Just get stronger.”
“It’s no use just coming in here once a week,” he said, closing the folder on his desk. “Strength training requires commitment.”
“I know sir, that’s why I want to come in every morning. The tennis team only does one gym session a week.”
Coach pushed back his chair and stood. “Okay.”
“Excuse me?” I blinked rapidly as his tall frame approached me, unsure if I’d heard correctly.
“I saw you playing Holbrun yesterday,” he said, “That was some serve.” There was a hint of awe in his voice, but he cleared his throat and was gruff again. “But you could do with a bit of muscle.”
I had a feeling it was as close to a compliment as Coach delivered. I scurried after him as he unlocked the door to the gym. Coach Mercer sent the football team on laps around the field. They protested and said they were supposed to be doing weights. Coach pulled out his stopwatch and the boys stampeded out. In the twelve minutes they were away, Coach read through my program and showed me what equipment to use. When the team returned, he turned his attention to them, but every so often he came to check on me. Never a smile, just a stern direction. It kind of reminded me of Mom. Mom was a strict task master, never sugar coating anything. It was hard work that produced results, she had said, there were no short cuts to success. If you worked hard, you reaped the rewards. And that was precisely why I was here at Covington Prep—to work hard.
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Because of our teambonding activity, I’d booked an early coaching session with Coach Clay for Saturday morning. Private coaching wasn’t cheap, so I knew I had to make the most of the hours I had with him every week. It was nothing compared to the hours Mom had spent on me, and it was going to be up to me to put in my own hours on the court. A little difficult when I didn’t know anybody, but Clay had said he could find me hitting partners in the weekend, and from yesterday’s practice, Grace—or rather her mother—had indicated she would be happy for the two of us to hit regularly. With it being likely that we would team up for doubles, it would be a good chance to learn each other’s game. Bianca had been moodily silent when Mrs. Lee had asked.
Dad was working on Saturday, already asked to do some extra hours. He said he was enjoying the job, but I despaired that he was working on the production line when he was far more capable than that. He hinted that he might bring some ice cream home for dessert, as staff got a discount.
“Yes please!” I said. I hadn’t been to Peter’s Ice Cream Shoppe yet. I’d turned down Lucy twice because of tennis training, and because of the team bonding event, I couldn’t commit to today either. Admittedly, I hadn’t done much to cultivate a friendship, even though she continued to be helpful to me.
“What flavor would be your first choice?” Dad asked.
“Any!” Ice cream was definitely a treat, something Mom had allowed only on special occasions. Top athletes had to keep to a healthy diet. Therefore, I wasn’t picky or fussy about any flavors.
“Pick one.”
“Probably chocolate,” I said with a smile.
“Okay, we’ll see,” Dad said, lifting my tennis bag into the trunk of my car. He kissed the top of my head and I promised to text him later.
It was still nerve wracking for me to drive through the gates of the Covington Heights Country Club. The place was so fancy, but it was good to see there weren’t many cars this early. I scurried through the entrance and out to the tennis courts to do my warmup. Time with Clay was precious so I didn’t want to waste it with things I could do myself.
I ran shuttles, did resistance band exercises for my shoulders and stretched. For the next forty five minutes, Clay worked on my serve and my forehand, and I was annoyed that I couldn’t stay and practice what he’d taught me, but I had to make my way to school.
“Did you find someone for me to hit with tomorrow?” I asked him as I packed my racquet away.
Clay laughed. “You don’t think you deserve a day off?”
