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“It’s for my brother,” Max continued.
“Oh,” I said again, having no idea what he meant. My gaze averted to Dad and Mrs. Stephens in a discussion.
“He’s got a new student he’s coaching and he wanted me to see how she’s going,” Max said.
“That’s nice,” I said offhandedly, concerned that Dad was going to embarrass me in some way. Dad had rarely come to any tournaments, it was always Mom and me. Dad’s tennis was limited to social playing. Sure, he could hit a ball, and he’d mentioned dabbling with it in high school, but Dad’s passion had been football. He’d been the star quarterback, though Dad had come from a very small town with a very small school.
“Yeah, he wanted me to take stats, you know, serving percentages, unforced errors, that sort of stuff.”
“Yeah,” I said, hoping Dad wasn’t being a nuisance to Mrs. Stephens. I caught a whiff of woody fragrance. Max had moved a little closer, and I had a fleeting daydream of staring into his honey brown eyes, touching his soft brown hair and loosening his tie.
“So, you had 75% first serves in. Well, 76% to be precise,” he said. “You should be pleased with that.”
For the second time within as many minutes, my mouth gaped. “What?”
“76% of first serves in.”
It was an impressive stat, but this wasn’t the time to congratulate myself. “You took my stats?”
“My brother coaches you.”
“Coach Clay is your brother?” Clay always wore a cap so I couldn’t say I’d noticed any physical resemblance, but now I was thinking that perhaps their noses and voices were quite similar.
“Uh huh.”
“That’s crazy,” I said.
“What’s crazy is you winning ninety percent of the points when your first serve went in.”
I blinked in astonishment. It was an amazing stat, but more amazing was that Max had been sitting in the stands taking note of every shot I hit.
“You also hit—” He consulted his phone, “Five backhand winners and three forehand winners. Three aces and two double faults.”
One double fault was one too many, Mom always said, and there was a tightening in my chest as I remembered how Mom was the one who always reported on my stats after a match. Mom, who should’ve been here.
“I better get ready for doubles,” I said quickly, a lump in my throat threatening to choke me, and a welling of tears about to blur my vision. Heaving my bag onto my shoulder, I accidentally bumped his arm, but carried on without apologizing. I didn’t want to be a blubbering mess in front of Max. Or anyone for that matter. It had been bad enough that Bianca had caught me all teary-eyed in the locker room.
For our first time playing together, Grace and I were ecstatic with our result. In a couple of instances we both ended up on the same side of the court, but generally we combined well, and we won easily in straight sets.
“Thanks, Taylor,” Grace said as we hugged after the game. “That was so much fun.”
Mrs. Lee was right there with us, chatting excitedly about how great we’d played. She took me aside and spoke in a whisper behind her hand. “Last year, Grace had to play with Addison. Every time she’d hit her volleys into the net. Terrible!”
I smiled sympathetically, sure that Mrs. Lee was exaggerating, though as we watched the end of Bianca and Addison’s doubles match, I was inclined to believe her. Addison dumped three balls into the net in one game, making Bianca glare at her in frustration. They managed to scrape through with a win, but it was obvious Bianca wasn’t happy.
Our team won 6-3, with Addison and Jorja losing their singles, and Jorja and Esther losing their doubles. Mrs. Stephens congratulated us on our victory and as team captain, Bianca thanked all the parents and friends who supported from the sidelines.
That’s when I became emotional. Sure, Dad was here with me, but I couldn’t stop thinking about how much Mom should’ve been. Standing next to my teammates, I had to literally clamp down on my lower lip to stop it from trembling. I closed my eyes and tried to concentrate on my serving statistics, or that one shot where I’d hit crosscourt but should have gone down the line, or...Max.
A strange shudder ran through me and my eyes popped open. In my peripheral vision I could see Max standing up in the grandstand looking down at us. Probably mesmerized by Bianca, I told myself. I had to admit Bianca did have good public speaking skills.
Back in the locker room, Grace and I were still dissecting our game. That’s what Mom and I always did, talked endlessly about every point I’d play and what I could have done better or differently. Grace seemed to have that same insatiable hunger for analysis.
“You know when it was 30-15, and you served out wide,” Grace was saying, “I was so ready for that crosscourt.” She laughed while recalling her brilliant intercept at the net.
“Yep, you nailed it,” I said.
“And then your—”
