“No? What were you like?” she asked, relieved he was as willing as she was to push past any lingering awkwardness from that moment in Penny’s room.
Jack huffed out a short laugh. “Relaxed. Tennis was something I did for fun.”
“At Harvard, right?” He tilted his head, leaving the question unasked. “The day we met you were wearing a Harvard tennis shirt,” she explained, leaving out the part that she googled him and found an old Harvard roster from four years before with his name on it.
“Right, well yeah, four years at Harvard, before law school.”
“Law school? Impressive.”
He laughed again, his eyes crinkling as he did. “What? Not, ‘Why didn’t you go pro, Jack?’”
Indy smiled and shrugged. “I assume you weren’t good enough.”
Jaw dropping, but the smile not leaving his eyes, he nodded. “You’re right. I wasn’t.” Then slowly his laughter faded, and with it so did the ease surrounding them. His shoulders straightened and his entire body stiffened as he looked past her. Indy turned, but all she saw behind her was Teddy anda few other OBX guys. When she faced him again, he said, “I… I better go. Good luck tomorrow. I know you’re going to do well.”
“Thank you,” she whispered, off-balance again at his sudden but now predictable shutdown.
He finished his drink and placed the glass back down on the bar. Then he leaned down and brushed a kiss against her cheek. “Good night.”
He was so confusing, and if she knew what was good for her, she’d just move on. She reached up to touch where his lips had brushed against her cheek, still warm and tingling, and her heart skipped a beat at the mere thought of it.
Yeah, no chance of that.
Sitting in the locker room the next day, Indy twirled her racket. A twist of her wrist had it spinning around fully before coming to rest in her palm again. This was it, her first match at the Classic. Indy’s leg bounced up and down, her toes curling and uncurling in her sneakers.
“How’s that?” the trainer asked, tapping Indy’s wrapped wrist, drawing her from her thoughts. “Range of motion good?”
She flexed her wrist back and forth, the wrap there for some extra support, preventive against the power of her serve being too much for it. “Perfect.”
“Have a good match,” the trainer said as she left the room.
Once she was alone, her stomach clenched and her throattightened. There were the nerves. It was actually comforting to feel them. It had been two years since she’d been out on a court for a real elite-level match. Plus, this was the first time she’d be out on the court without her mom in the stands. Anyone would be a little jittery. Indy checked her racket, bouncing the heel of her hand against the crisscrossed strings. The tension was perfect, not too tight and not too loose, allowing both power and control.
Taking a slow, steady breath, she packed her racket into her bag and mentally ran through the match. Lara Cronin, the one who tried to bully her off a practice court and most likely the evil bitch who stole her dress for the reception, had a solid overall game. They’d played against each other a little bit during training. Good backhand, better forehand, could move well, but not well enough. The plan was to stick to the power game. Lara definitely wouldn’t be able to handle her serve. Indy was prepared. Now all she had to do was execute.
“You ready to go?” a deep Southern drawl asked from outside the doorway.
Slinging her bag onto her shoulder, Indy nodded to Roy. “I’m ready.”
They walked down the long corridor, past the Title Wall, and through another hallway that led to the OBX main court. The door was braced open. She could hear the buzz of the crowd and the hard-rock music blasting through the speakers. Lara was already standing at the door, waiting. Indy was the higher seed and thus had the honor of entering the court last.
The radio clipped to Roy’s belt crackled. “Two minutes.”
“Hang on right here, ladies,” Roy said, pausing at the door.
Indy bounced on the balls of her feet to stay warm and burn off the extra energy flowing through her veins. She’d never felt anything quite like this before, a buzzing through her entire body, almost making her vibrate.
To her right, held in a glass case, was the Classic trophy. It was an old-school brass cup, about the same height as a desk lamp, with two large handles. The tournament was in its fifth year but only had two winners. The names of the previous champions were engraved on the cup.
AMYFITZPATRICK
PENELOPEHARRISON
PENELOPEHARRISON
PENELOPEHARRISON
By the end of the week, her name could be cut into the brass below Penny’s; by the end of the week, she could be the Outer Banks Classic Champion.
