She ran. She popped the ball up, nearly crashing into the net post. Grant was already there, volleying it back deep.
"Back!"
Emmy scrambled backward, panting hard, lungs burning, but she didn't stop. She chased the ball to the baseline and ripped a forehand.
It sang off the strings, low and fast.
"Yes!" Grant shouted. "That's it!"
He returned it. Emmy returned it.
They fell into a rhythm. Thethwack-grunt-squeakof the game filled the room. Grant was moving her around the court like a puppet—left, right, short, deep—but he wasn't doing it to be cruel. He was pushing her right to the edge, and every time she got there, she dug in and pushed back.
She looked like a woman fighting a swarm of bees. But she was hitting the damn ball.
"Five in a row!" Grant called out.
"Six!" Emmy grunted.
"Seven!" Grant punched a volley back.
"Eight!" Emmy lunged. She lobbed it high.
Going out. Definitely out.
Grant didn't let it go. He chased it down, sprinting back toward the curtain, leaping into the air to hit an overhead smash.
"Nine!" he roared, landing like a cat.
Emmy laughed. She couldn't help it. She ran for the smash, deflecting it just in time. It popped up high, drifting toward the side benches.
"Ten!" Emmy screamed. "Get it!"
Grant sprinted for the wayward ball, diving sideways as it dropped near the metal umpire's chair. He stretched out, racquet fully extended.
He connected. The ball popped up and landed perfectly on Emmy's side.
But Grant didn't pop up.
He slid on the hard surface, his momentum carrying his hand straight into the metal leg of the chair with a sickening scrape.
He landed hard, then gave his left hand a sharp shake, frowning down at it. Pushed himself back to standing effortlessly, rolling his shoulder as he flexed his fingers.
"Grant!"
Emmy dropped her racquet and sprinted across the court. She reached him in three seconds flat, grabbing his arm.
"Oh my god. West is going to kill me. The entire city of Boston is going to kill me."
Grant looked at her, amused by the panic. "Em. I'm right-handed. I've had worse than this at a friendly scrimmage."
"You'rebleeding! You have a game on Sunday!"
She looked down at his hand. His knuckles were scraped raw, the skin peeled back in jagged strips. Blood welling bright and fast, dripping down his finger and onto the pristine court.
The sight of it hit Emmy like a door swinging shut.
The adrenaline that had been sustaining her for the last hour vanished. The room tilted. The edges of her vision went soft.
