Chapter 1
Alex
My friends yell encouragement from the side of the tennis court. They’re clenching their fists like extras from a gym video.
“Focus, Alex!”
“You can do this.”
“The next game is crucial!”
Clearly. If we lose the next game, we lose the whole match. I appreciate the support, even if it is Captain Obvious.
“We’ll get the next one,” I say to my partner, Áine.
She nods like a jaded soldier. Across the net, asshole Dane and his partner Mia are smug and in control. They’re totally focused: they don’t want to lose to a middle-aged woman and the boy with glitter-painted nails: i.e. me. This is just a “friendly” club game, but there’s something at stake. The coach is watching, and the team who wins gets to take part in an exhibition match soon.
Dane gives me an icy, intimidating stare which I refuse to acknowledge. I turn my back on his Abercrombie and Fitch-looking ass. He’s looking annoyingly good today, bundled up in gray marl with his blond hair tousled from running around. His blue eyes are the perfect shade to pull off the aforementioned icy stare with Daniel Craig intensity. Meanwhile I’m wearing an oversized sparkly rock band sweater and my usual yoga pants, thermal today in honor of the freezing weather. I always wear yoga pants, mostly to annoy the men at the club who wear the same shapeless black T-shirts every week. They stopped laughing when I started beating them. Dane knows not to underestimate me, either. Our record against each other in singles is almost exactly fifty-fifty, which pisses both of us off equally. It’s the only thing we can agree on.
The ball whizzes past me, making me jump. Mia served when Áine wasn’t looking.
“I wasn’t ready,” Áine yells from the baseline.
“Game moves at the server’s pace,” Mia calls back in an annoying singsong voice.
Technically it’s true, but it’s still a dick move. Raging, I retreat to the baseline to await Mia’s serve. Áine goes forward to the service line to take up defensive position. This time Mia sendsa slice on a first serve, expecting to take me by surprise, but nothing surprises me about her tactics anymore. I’m ready. I drill the ball back crosscourt and hard, right at Dane’s ankles. It lands between his tennis shoes. He isn’t fast enough to react. He’s six two, a few inches taller than me and much more built. Height is both an advantage and a disadvantage on the tennis court. Tall people have better reach and longer strides, but they struggle to get down fast enough to low shots. The miss makes him look stupid, which I like. My friends whoop and cheer. Dane and Mia’s posse of hangers-on look annoyed. The coach, Malachi, has an impassive face as usual, but I know he’s impressed.
I jump up and down on the spot, keeping my legs moving, keeping my muscles loose. It’s one set to Mia and Dane, and five-three to them in the second set. Fifteen all. Áine and I can still do this. I know Dane’s game well. He knows mine, too. He has a heavy topspin forehand, which means I have to take the ball early to overpower the spin. I prefer a flat forehand, which is riskier with less margin for error, but allows me to get more of my power into the shots.
We win the next point, Áine getting revenge on Mia’s serve. Then Mia commits a rare double fault. I hear Dane hiss something nasty at her. She snipes back. Áine and I can exploit their tendency to fall out. It’s now forty-fifteen to us. If we win the next point, we win the game, bringing the score to five-four in favor of Mia and Dane. Mia steps up to serve to Áine again. She misses the first serve and avoids Dane’s furious gaze. Then she sends her second serve gently over the net, playing too safe, making sure she keeps the ball in play. Áine is on it with the ruthlessness of a hawk. She puts away the return with precision. We win the game. Áine and I high-five while Dane and Mia ignore each other, both pissed off.
Then it’s my turn to serve. I might not be as strong as Dane, but my serve technique is better. This is one of my favorite things about tennis. It isn’t all about brute strength. I could never beat Dane at boxing or wrestling or probably even thumb war, but I can beat him at tennis. You can’t get most of your body strength into the shots because of physics. I tried to explain it to Dane once when I made the mistake of actually making conversation with the knuckle head and he yawned pointedly. But it’s true. My superior serve technique is always going to win.
I take my service game easily, with two aces, bringing us to five games each. Dane now looks like he’s sucking a lemon. Things are heading for a tie-break. It’s Dane’s turn to serve. He’s nervous. I can tell by his posture, that hunch in his broad shoulders. He didn’t expect our comeback, and he’s fuming about losing control. Hehatesbeing out of control. Even so, he wins the first couple of points with decent serves. Then I make a silly mistake, letting them get to forty-love. Áine doesn’t utter a word of blame, but I’m hating myself as we get ready for the next serve. Áine and I manage to fight back to forty-thirty thanks to a good forehand by me and Áine’s sneaky drop shot. Then Dane serves an epic, one of his best ever. An ace. They take the game. It’s six-five, the coach is smiling like a mentor—Dane’smentor, not mine—and I’m fuming, digging my Christmas-themed nails with little penguin faces into the handle of my racket.
Áine’s turn to serve. She gets us to thirty-love ahead. Then forty-love. If we win the next point, we’ll head into a tie break for the set. But Dane and Mia fight back, bringing it back to forty-thirty with a blistering backhand from Dane. Even as I curse him I can’t help noticing the powerful grace in the lines of his body as he holds the pose and admires his shot down the line. Asshole thinks he’s at Wimbledon. Then Mia wins the next point, and it’s deuce. Áine’s next serve is hammered back right at her feet, the exact same move I used on Dane earlier. Mia andDane’s advantage. He shoots me an arrogant stare as they take up position for the next serve.
Match point to them. I keep breathing, keep my legs loose, stay on my toes. Áine serves and the return zips back so fast I hold my breath. But she counters with a great shot about six inches inside the baseline. Which should bring us back to deuce: another reprieve.
But Dane looks me right in the eyes, and yells, “Out!”
“What the fuck?” I yell.
From the sidelines Malachi yells, “Alex, language. You know we just had a complaint about that from another club member.”
For fuck’s sake… who cares about language? Dane just blatantly cheated. At club level, calling the lines runs on an honor system. You make the calls on your own side of the court and trust your opponent to do the same for you. Dane doesn’t usually cheat. He may be an asshole but he’s not that much of an asshole. He mustreallywant this exhibition match. Áine comes to my side, hands on her hips, rage on her face. Dane holds his nerve. The only sign that he’s under pressure is a slight reddening of his pale cheeks. It’s hardly noticeable under the flush from the cold.
“Game, set and match to Mia and Dane,” Malachi says.
Mia and Dane hug while Áine looks gutted and my friends descend into annoyed muttering. It’s impossible to tell if the coach saw Dane’s treachery and is ignoring it, or if he’s really unaware. My heart pounds with anger but I won’t throw a tantrum. I refuse to be the overdramatic guy with the painted nails and eyeliner. I stride to the net and hold out a hand first to Mia and then to Dane.
“Well played.” I look him right in the eye.
He looks away.
Chapter 2
Alex
