“I’m sorry,” I say as Ben edges cautiously closer.
“Hey, it’s okay. We’ve got this, okay? No matter what happens here today, you’re awesome.”
My heart swells. Hearing someone say that even when I’m playing badly is like honey being dripped into my ears.
I want to win this, for him, for this stupid school, those stupid frat boys who accepted me, weird accent and cocky demeanor and all. That bunch of guys who smiled at me holding their friend’s hand.
We narrowly lose the next game on Stanford’s serve, but when it’s time to serve again, we’re better. I’m calmer and Ben serves two aces to bring the score to 1-3. It’s a scramble, we don’t manage to break Stanford’s serve and we lose the first set. But in the second, we’re ready to claw our way back.
We take the second set to a tie-break. Ben serves up another ace masterclass to clinch us the second set and bring us into a third.
Kingsley is on his feet in the stands and the roar of the—albeit tiny—crowd has my adrenaline pumping.
The third set goes by in a blur. It feels so good to be out there playing with Ben that I barely notice the scoreboard. Yes, I want to win. And yes, I absolutely want to impressRichard Kingsley. But what I want in the moment, more than anything, is to enjoy it.
I admire Ben as he plays clutch in every game. His cheeks flushed and his hair mussed. His Princeton t-shirt stuck to his shoulders with sweat. When we slap hands after every point, his eyes are glowing and his hand is clammy. I want to pull him in and kiss him. But we have to be professional. No kissing on the court. I’ll save that for when I win Wimbledon and run up into the stands to … no, Ben won’t be there then.
We are swallowed up by our teammates as we make our way back to the baseline victorious. I try to keep the smile on my face as the realization that this might be it for my college career—and my time with Ben—slowly sinks in.
Richard Kingsley sticksaround to watch my singles match and a couple of others.
Did he see anything he liked? Did I play well enough to impress him? Did I do enough to pull it back after a clumsy start?
We’re tied with Stanford when it comes to the last two singles matches. Despite playing some of their best tennis, Archer and Nate fall in their matches and we lose the tournament 5-7.
We’re commiserating in the locker room, congratulating ourselves on giving it our best shot when Coach Sanchez comes in and asks to speak to Ben outside.
My stomach drops, but then I remind myself that he’s the captain, it’s probably press duties or something. The guys talk amongst themselves about why they think Ben has been pulled away.
“Ben was on fire out there today,” Archer says. “I saw theway Kingsley was watching during his match. Maybe he wants to sign him?”
“Ben doesn’t want to play pro,” Nate says, reminding me why I don’t need to worry.
But it’s too late. I’ve taken my eye off the ball. I came here to shine. To stand out. To be the best player in the ITA and I got distracted. I couldn’t even be the best player on my own team. I was too busy fucking the best player on my team, and getting all starry-eyed over him while I was at it.
BEN
“Richard Kingsley wants to speak tome?” I ask.
Coach’s grin widens. “Yes, that’s what I said.”
“But … I’m not going to play after graduation. He should speak to Elias, he’s the future superstar.”
“He didn’t ask to speak to Elias. Ben, he wantsyou.”
There’s a flutter of joy at that statement before I push it down and my heart sinks. What’s Elias going to think? He’s going to be so disappointed.
“I thought you and Nate were starting your tennis business next year?”
“We are.”
“So …” Coach looks at me like I’ve lost a few brain cells. “Wouldn’t it be a good idea to start building contacts? Like one of the most influential pro coaches on the tour?”
“Oh, yeah, of course.”
Coach pats me on the shoulder, leading me away from the locker room toward where Richard Kingsley is talking on his phone. He raises his hand in greeting before telling whoever he was talking to he has to go.
“Ben Harris,” he says, holding his hand out for me to shake.
