When she set foot on a court, it was like the scent triggered her body to relax, her muscles already starting to anticipate moving with the rhythm of play.
She could hear thepopof the balls as they released from the tennis ball launcher, her ears tuning into the difference between some players connecting their racket with the ball outside of the sweet spot and those who were able to hit in the perfect center, a melodiousthwackthat was one of her favorite sounds.
Her fingers twitched against her sides, already anticipating holding her racket; the way her fingers would wrap around the grip, shifting her hand’s placement millimeters at a time to execute the perfect hit.
She prided herself on being a great all-court player, shifting seamlessly between dominating serves and strong baseline ground strokes, between thoughtful net attacks and relentless defense.
Sydney was surprised to see that, late in the morning on a weekday, all of the tennis courts were in use. Closest to the entrance, kids no older than six or seven were spread across twocourts, hitting balls with varying degrees of success. Deeper into the center, there were juniors running sprints, practicing their footwork as they maneuvered with agility around a set of cones.
On the five courts that mirrored the ones she was closest to, small groups of adults looked like they were in lessons, practicing ground strokes, playing doubles, and volleying back and forth.
She noticed then, on the farthest court back, on the side where the juniors played, her old instructor, Brian Chester. It was easy to spot him, even though it had been five years since the last time she’d seen him. He always covered his gray hair with a tennis-ball-colored hat, and at five-foot-eight, he stood only slightly taller than the girl he was talking to at the net.
Sydney was far away, but she clocked the young player at fourteen or fifteen years old, racket slung across her shoulder as she listened intently to Brian’s feedback.
Her curiosity was piqued, seeing Brian in a one-on-one session when the center was obviously bustling, and she headed for the walkway behind the baselines.
Even with more than two million Instagram followers, it wasn’t like she got stopped daily, but it did happen enough that she was conscious of her public image.
Her agent had posted a message on Instagram that Sydney had written regarding her retirement, including that she’d be taking some time off to rest and decide what would come next.
Sara, almost true to her word to give Sydney space, had only reached out once so far, earlier this morning.
Fans are gutted, disappointed to say the least, and they already miss your glowing face and winsome personality. Not to mention that talent! Just thought you’d like to know that everyone wants to know what comes next!
Well, wasn’t that the million-dollar question.
She hadn’t posted since her retirement announcement; hadn’t even looked at the comments. What anyone else thought about it wasn’t her business.
But at Manhaven, where casual tennis players mingled withyoung hopefuls who ate, slept, and breathed the sport, she knew she’d attract more attention.
Securing the baseball cap she’d donned before walking into the center, she only looked toward the courts to make sure she wasn’t walking past them while a point was in play.
Once she reached the last court, she dropped her bag and leaned against the wall.
Brian walked back to about half-court, and instead of using the ball machine, he began to hand-feed tennis balls across the net.
They were practicing slices. His student was positioned at the baseline, but she hadn’t yet looked in Sydney’s direction.
Sydney remembered having that kind of focus, being like a dog with a bone, nothing distracting her from the next hit that was coming her way.
Sydney watched intently. The girl had raw talent, even if she was still rough around the edges. She sometimes moved from the baseline, depending on where Brian hit the ball. Her intuition was spot-on though, always anticipating where the ball was going but lacking the finer skill of returning it perfectly, a thousand tiny variations of every hit that would become second nature with, oh, ten thousand or so more serves.
“You’ll be there soon enough, Jenna. You have the time. Set yourself up for success,” Brian said as his student—Jenna, it would seem—moved toward the net and sliced, though her ball extended beyond the far baseline, out of bounds.
“Got it,” Jenna said, her voice a little winded as she moved back toward the baseline, then turned around and got in her stance again.
“Sydney, what is Jenna doing wrong?” Brian’s eyes had shifted to her, though she was now realizing he’d known for much longer that she was standing there.
Brian’s skill as a coach was that he didn’t miss a thing, on or off the courts. It was hell for a teenager, but it’d made her a better tennis player.
“What, you didn’t think I spotted you the second you steppedinto the center?” he said with a vibrant smile. “Especially when you’re one of the best players I’ve ever had the opportunity to coach?”
Jenna turned around then, her eyes going wide, and her racket almost slipped from her hands.
Sydney gave her a small wave and stepped up to the baseline. She looked down at the familiar sight of the white line millimeters from her sneakers, being careful not to touch it. She loved the rituals of tennis, and even though she wasn’t serving, she still treated that line like it was electrified.
“Okay with you?” she asked, looking at Jenna.
