AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Chapter 10
Max
When Jordy said hewas driving over to Woodruff High to watch the girls tennis team play, I jumped at the chance to join him. His younger sister, Esther was playing, so I pretended I was doing him a favor by keeping him company, adding that my brother would want the stats for Taylor, his latest coaching sensation. I scoured the stands for a place to sit as he wandered down to Esther’s court.
A hand was waving manically in my direction, someone in a cap, and it took me a moment to realize it was Taylor’s Dad. He shifted along to make room for me, filling me in on the first set which Taylor had won 6-3. She was blitzing through the second set as if she had a bus to catch.
That’s what I said to her Dad after Taylor had served two consecutive aces. “Mr. Frank, has Taylor got an appointment?”
He laughed and insisted I call him Brandon; Mr. Frank was his father, he said. “The change to her serve is making a difference,” he said, nudging me. “Your brother adjusted her elbow position.”
“She’s firing missiles at her opponent,” I said, immediately biting my lip. That’s how everyone described Phoenix’s serves: missiles. They came at you at such a speed that you were lucky if your racquet got anywhere near it. At that moment I missed Phoenix so much that I knew I’d have to call him. He’d want to hear about this girl whose serve was as deadly as his. “Do you think it’d be okay if I videoed her serve?” I asked Brandon. I didn’t think he’d mind, but I wanted to do the right thing.
“That’s a good idea,” he said, pulling out his own phone as if I’d come up with the brightest idea since sliced bread. He rotated it in his hand, then sheepishly said, “Maybe you can send it to me too. I’m not the best with these things.”
“Sure,” I said with a smile.
We applauded every winning shot, at one point so loudly that Taylor sent a fierce glare in our direction. If she noticed me sitting next to her Dad, her expression didn’t show it.
Oblivious. That was the word, that’s how Taylor Frank regarded me. She wasn’t affected or conscious of my presence. And that stung.
“So, are you in any classes with Taylor?” Brandon asked the question as the players changed ends.
I shook my head dismally. “Nah.”
Brandon’s eyebrows raised. “She was wanting to switch some classes. I wasn’t sure how easy that is.”
“Ah, she’d have to see Miss Piatti. But she’d have to do it soon. Like, real soon. What did she want to change?”
“She said she’d like to try photography and—”
“I take photography,” I interrupted in a gush. “I could talk to her, if you like.”
“Sure.” Brandon smiled. “That sounds great. I’ll tell her.”
For the doubles match, Grace’s mother and Mrs. Stephens sat next to Brandon so I shifted away, enjoying watching Taylor play the game. Running for every ball, never giving up on a point. She executed each shot like it would win her a Grand Slam title.
For the first time in months, my love affair with tennis was reignited, the desire to get out there and hit balls, the excitement of sharing all about Covington Prep’s latest tennis star with Phoenix.
I was home alone that night, Mom and Dad and Clay all working late. I heated up my plate of enchiladas and took them to my room. I edited the video of Taylor’s serves and firstly sent it to Brandon. He replied with a thumbs up emoji. I wondered if he would show Taylor. Would she think it was bizarre that I was messaging her father?
I ummed and ahhed before I sent it to Phoenix, worried it might upset him, like would he want to know what was happening here? Though, the longer I avoided contact, the harder it was going to be. I included a short note about how Taylor was the new scholarship recipient who Clay was coaching, that she’d won all her games for the Maroons easily, and it would be good if he got to see her play in person. It was all too formal, like a letter you’d write to your grandmother.
I prayed that I would at least get the thumbs up emoji.
But my phone started buzzing, and not a phone call—Phoenix was video calling me.
I sat down at my desk, and set my phone up on the stand, running my fingers through my hair before accepting his call.
“Hey! Phoe!” Did that sound natural? I was scared it didn’t sound natural. Forced. Fake.
“Hey, Max.”
I didn’t want to look. Afraid I’d see too much, his broken body, sadness in his eyes. And worse, that he’d see my fear, my unease, my awkwardness.
There had been plenty of tears at the hospital upon seeing Phoenix unconscious and after the first visit to him in rehab. Phoenix had looked so small, so helpless, so broken. I’d cried at home, too, in the dark of my room, sick at knowing his outcome would never be good.
“Hey, how are you? How’s it going?” Questions recited automatically, though not requiring an answer. Not wanting an answer. I didn’t want to hear how his bones were healing, or how his lungs were struggling, or that his legs were useless.
