The sounds become clearer. They must be rallying, because the hits come quicker than in friendly game. It’s the sound of practice.
I round the corner and nearly stumble over the rough stone steps to the court.
Rafe is on the court with his back to me.
Another man stands across from him in backward cap, sending alternating balls across the net so Rafe has to switch from forehand to backhand at a moment’s notice.
He’s strong.
That’s my first observation.
He’s not the fastest, but he’s strong. He returns all the shots the trainer sends his way with practiced ease and determined strides.
His grip shifts are immediate and smooth. From his dominant hand in Eastern on the forehand, to the top hand in Continental for his backhand. His knees bent, eyes on his trainer to anticipate the movements. He’s in black shorts and a white t-shirt, his sneakers white against the clay court.
I hate him a little for how seamless his backhands look.
Of all the fucking things Rafe Montclair is good at, does ithave to bemything? He already has my company, and he has me. I don’t want him to be good at this too.
The anger is as sharp as it is irrational.
But then I see it. He’s asymmetrical. He swings too far on his forehands, his hips and shoulders resting a second too long in the final pose. That means he resets slower than he should when a backhand shot comes.
When I played, I’d notice that in a player during our first points and work hard to exploit it. It’s been years since I thought like that. Years of focusing on other games, ones with far bigger consequences than tennis ever had.
The trainer shoots over the last ball from his basket. Rafe hits it back with an aggressive topspin, and the trainer yells something in Italian. Rafe grins widely.
I’ve never seen that grin.
Never seen anything but tight politeness and barely hidden frustration. He heads to the bench and grabs a water bottle, then calls something back in Italian.
I hate him for that, too. For speaking multiple languages so seamlessly, and for how deep his voice sounds in every one. I hate how hot it is and how he uses it when we argue, knowing I can’t understand what he’s saying.
My hand tightens at my side. I don’t have my tennis racquet.
And for the first time in a long while, I wish I did. Because I know that this, at least, is a game I can win.
The trainer sees me first. He waves a little, and that catches Rafe’s attention. He turns. His smile doesn’t disappear, but it stiffens. Like it’s etched onto his face. I can’t see his eyes behind his sunglasses.
“Paige,” he calls. “Did you come for a lesson?”
I walk down the steps. “I don’t need a lesson.”
“Come now,” he says, and walks toward me. The trainer starts picking up balls. God, the hours I’ve spent doing that. “You’re a professional. There’s always more to learn. And you’re dressed to play.”
“I heard the sounds. Maybe I just wanted to see how good you were.”
“And how good am I?” he asks.
“You take too long to reset after your forehands,” I say.
He runs a hand through his sweaty hair. “Right. And you haven’t played professionally since college.”
“It’s very creepy that you know I don’t play often, by the way,” I say. He had all the resources in the world to investigate me, when all I used was a simple internet search. The power imbalance between us has always been a yawning chasm, but right now, I feel it roar.
“I know many things about you, Paige Wilde,” he says.
“That doesn’t sound serial killerish at all.” I reach for one of the extra tennis racquets that hang from a peg inside the tennis court shed. It’s medium weight. It’ll do. It’s not as good as my own, the one that’s lying neglected in my closet back in Gloucester, in desperate need of restringing. “Don’t tell me you’re friends with Roger Federer, by the way.”
