She rubbed at her eyes, trying to clear her head, before sitting up and letting the towel fall around her shoulders. Reaching into her bag, she pulled out a sports drink. She needed to replenish the electrolytes she’d lost in the last—she glanced at the match clock in the corner of the court—twenty-three minutes. Twenty-three pathetic minutes and she was already down a set. It was the nerves; she couldn’t shake them.
It began in the locker room. Teddy stopped by and wished her luck as she got her wrist taped. After he left, followed bythe trainer, the pre-match jitters showed up, butterflies in her stomach—anticipation, not anxiety.
Then she heard the voices carrying down the tunnel from the locker room across the hall—Teddy’s and Jasmine’s voices. They were fighting about their friendship and a hookup andher. Everything suddenly made sense; Jasmine was in love with Teddy.
Indy refused to blame herself. She wasn’t interested and it wasn’t her problem that Jasmine liked him. Yet, she couldn’t help feeling a little guilty, and that jangled her nerves more. Then Roy was at the door and they were walking onto the court, louder than earlier in the week, the heavy bass of the music pounding out from the speakers, pulsing through her chest, and the crowd buzzing with excitement. This match wasn’t about beating Jasmine Randazzo or winning the Classic; it was about proving to herself that she belonged here. She caught sight of Caroline and Mr. Franklin from Solaris Beachwear in the stands. When Dom called her and Jasmine to the center of the court for the coin toss, her hands had started to shake.
They were still sitting together now, but Solaris Beachwear wouldn’t want anything to do with her after this display. Maybe Caroline wouldn’t either, and that would be the only positive thing about her performance so far.
Nothing was working.
Her serve was a mess and her rally strokes were out of control. Also, there was no denying it. Jasmine Randazzo was flat-out awesome. She could track down almost any shot, her quick feet eating up the court like a roadrunner. She also had the uncanny ability to force mistakes. Indy didn’tknow how she did it. The point would be rolling along and then, out of nowhere, her ball would find the net or spin wide.
Indy’s grip on her racket tightened, the urge to slam it into the ground again rushing through her as she sat, leg bouncing, waiting for the second set to begin. She held in the frustration and closed her eyes.
She had to stop it. Dom wouldn’t have brought her to OBX if he didn’t think she could hack it. He wouldn’t have ranked her fourth if he didn’t think she could win. And up until the day she died, her mother had believed in her. If she couldn’t conjure up any faith in herself, she could at least believe intheirbelief. Her leg stopped shaking and the tightness in her neck and shoulders ebbed away.
Forcing her eyes open, she stared at the scoreboard. The match was best of three. She still had time to fix this. She would serve to start the second set. Goal one, win that first game. The question was, how?
She had to change it up. Like Coach D’Amato taught her on her first day with her Einsteins, doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result wasn’t going to work. It was time to try something new.
Maybe serve and volley. She’d been focusing on her footwork since she got to OBX, but despite that, she still wasn’t totally comfortable up at the net, where footwork was the most important thing. The idea did have one major advantage, though. It would shock the hell out of her opponent. What was the worst that could happen? She was already losing, halfway to a crushing defeat. Anything was better than what she’d suffered through in the first set.
“Time,” the chair ump said through his microphone.
She glanced over at Jasmine, who was digging through her bag, probably confident she’d already won the match, maybe thinking about the party her parents would throw to celebrate the victory.
Indy leapt to her feet. This set would be better than the first, and that started with better body language. Sometimes standing up tall and lifting your chin could help make a long, uphill battle seem a little easier.
Jasmine took her time, examining her racket as she walked to her side of the court. Indy was ready and waiting at the baseline.
Finally, the other girl was ready to receive, twirling her racket in her hands, bent at the waist, a few steps into the backcourt.
Indy slammed a serve, and as it left her racket, she raced forward, careful not to get too close to the net. Jasmine blocked it back easily, but Indy was right there waiting. The ball touched the strings at the perfect angle, and with a quick flick of her wrist she hit a short volley winner while Jasmine stood stunned behind the baseline.
“Fifteen–love.”
Indy turned to the ball girl, signaling for her towel. The heat was still crushing the court. Wiping her face and her arms, she didn’t look back. She didn’t need to see Jasmine’s face. She could imagine the expression, mouth agape, holding her racket down at her knees, one hand propped on her hip, wondering where the hell that came from.
A murmur spread through the crowd. Indy had theirattention. Now she had to get them on her side. She just had to show them she had a chance.
She’d confused Jasmine with the last point. Tennis was a game of adjustments, but it was tough to adjust on the fly. If she piggybacked that serve and volley with another, Jasmine probably wouldn’t be ready for it.
Indy fired a bullet up the T again, Jasmine returned it the same way, and again Indy raced up the court to meet it, slicing another volley beyond Jasmine’s reach.
“Yes,” she said, her voice echoing through the court, as the crowd was still quiet, respectful of the silence necessary to play the game.
“Thirty–love.”
Their eyes met and she almost smiled at the hard expression on Jasmine’s face.
Now it was time to switch it up. Jasmine would think she knew what was coming. She’d be ready to attack Indy’s serve and volley, the same way she’d attacked her power game in the first set. Indy fired a serve and Jasmine returned it, but this time she stayed back at the baseline as Jasmine took a few hesitant steps in, anticipating a volley. Instead, Indy wound up and shot a forehand past her, skimming it off the white line for a clean winner.
“Forty–love.”
The crowd cheered the point—not indifferent and polite applause, but loud voices engaging in the match. They were rooting for her, acknowledging her trying after such an awful showing in the first set. Tennis fans were all alike, and what they wanted was very simple: more tennis. If Indy wonthis set, the match would go to a deciding third, and that’s what they wanted to see.
“Quiet, please,” the umpire said. The crowd noise faded to a soft hum, but the buzz was there, like electricity flowing through the air. As Indy ran her towel over her forehead, she let that energy wash over her, drawing it into her. She looked back over the net. Jasmine was ready, but the confusion was written across her face; she was clearly wondering how this had all gone so wrong. Indy had her. Now all she had to do was execute.
