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My heart rate was well and truly elevated before Coach put us through some warmup drills, and my chest was on the verge of bursting as we ran sprints forward and backward and sideways. Not because of the exercise, but because self doubt engulfed me. It was only the thought of Mom and Dad that kept me from storming off. Mom wanted this for me; Dad had sacrificed his career for this. I couldn’t fall apart at my first training session.
But unfortunately, that’s what happened.
Coach Stephens paired up Bianca and me. Last season, Bianca had played Number 3 singles, and with the top two seniors now at college, she’d been promoted to team captain, and Mrs. Stephens wanted to check who would play at Number 1. From a perusal of Bianca’s results, I knew she was a good player, but I was quietly confident I could beat her.
And yet, I found myself down 0-3 in the first set. Her serves were nothing spectacular, but so far she hadn’t missed, while I’d served two double faults in my first game. My ball toss had gone wobbly, my arm had gone tight and my feet felt like they were encased in blocks of concrete.
At the changeover, I sat on my chair, my eyes closed as I sipped on my water bottle. On the outside I might have looked calmed, but I was scolding myself internally. More than scolding, I was a ball of raging fury—
Why can’t you serve, you stupid girl!
Just put the ball in the box!
Look how big it is—all that space and you’re missing it!
You don’t deserve this scholarship!
A girl with eyelash extensions is beating you!
The beeping sound at the side of the court signaled time to return to the court. I stood up, dismayed to see that a group of kids had congregated on the grandstand behind our court. As we passed each other, Bianca knocked my arm, offering an insincere apology.
“Uh, sorry, Taylor,” she said, her phoney smile making me seethe. Picking up the balls to serve, I saw that Bianca had gone to the back of the court to chat to the crowd of spectators. Rousing applause erupted from her friends, making me step back from the service line.
Compose yourself,I implored myself, waiting until the cheers had died down. Turning around to bounce the ball on the strings of the racquet, I looked up to see Max strolling up to the fence behind me. He was wearing his school uniform, his blazer casually slung over his shoulder. My first thought was that he was mad that I hadn’t shown up in the cafeteria, but there was a trace of a smile on his face, followed by a discreet thumbs up signal.
Apparently that was all I needed to remember why I’d been given the tennis scholarship to Covington Prep.
I aced Bianca Holbrun on the next point and ended up running away with the game. Yep, my nerves dissipated, and I won the next nine games, the score 6-3, 6-0. The crowd were now clapping my winning shots—down the line, cross court, volleys. I played the way Mom had coached me.
Coach Stephens was on the court as quickly as my last shot glided past Bianca, who was hopelessly caught out of position.
Bianca and I touched racquets over the net and both muttered, “Good game,” at the same time, neither of us making eye contact.
“Fabulous!” Coach praised both of us for an entertaining match and told us to rehydrate and come down to the end court where the two freshmen were battling it out. I took my time, hoping Bianca would walk off first. As I unzipped my tennis bag, I was relieved to see her stalking off toward the gate. The spectators had quickly dispersed, and Addison and Jorja were playing on the adjacent court, so she was on her own.
The sound of a slow clap made me look up.
“Pretty comprehensive win there.” Max was headed toward me, now wearing his blazer.
The resurgence of my rapid heartbeat caused me to grab my water bottle. Clearly my fitness levels were not where they should be. My heart rate should be slowing down, not speeding up!
“Thanks,” I mumbled, my racquet refusing to fit back in my bag.
“I mean, that was outstanding,” he said. “There’s no doubt you’ll play number one.”
“That’s up to the coach,” I said modestly, trying to keep my focus off of him. There was something about his tie loosened around his neck that made my nerves return with a vengeance. My zipper stuck and tugging it violently didn’t release it. What a time for my bag to break!
“Here, let me.” Max’s hand covered mine, gently pushing it away. As if he was an expert in zip repairs, he realigned it, closing the bag with ease. “There you go.” He picked it up, holding it out for me to slip over my shoulders.
“Oh. Thanks.” I shrugged it on to my back and sipped on my stainless steel bottle. Luckily he couldn’t see that I had no water left.
“You didn’t make it to the cafeteria?” He asked so nicely that I immediately regretted letting him down.
“Uh, well, by the time I showered and stuff...” My voice trailed off to a murmur, “time was running out.”
Max flashed a smile like he didn’t believe me at all. He held the gate open for me to walk through.
“Thanks,” I said, careful to keep my distance, aware of my sweaty clothes.
