When it happened, she wanted to be ready.
And when she’d finally accepted that it wouldn’t happen, she knew, deep down, that there was a small part of her that still held out hope. It was where the resentment festered, tucked away from the light but finding a way to bloom in the darkness, fed with a lifetime of unresolved wounds that she hadn’t found a way to heal.
Reese looked over at her father, who only acknowledged the conversation happening on her court if it was Stan’s voice echoing across the net.
She held the tennis ball in her fingertips, launching it precisely above her, right arm coming down to connect her racket and hit it across the court to where Brynn waited to return it.
The serve was hard but inaccurate, hitting the court outside of the service box.
She appreciated that Brynn didn’t yell ‘fault,’ the two feet beyond the white line where the ball touched down making it obvious the serve was no good.
“Quick timeout,” Sydney said, throwing her hands up into the ‘T’ symbol and already jogging back toward Reese. Quickly, she was at her side, and she wiped a stray tendril from her ponytail. “Mind if I give you a piece of advice?”
Reese nodded, trying to quell the frustration that was bubbling up. “Yeah, go for it.”
“Strength is good. Anger, not so much,” Sydney said, sympathy written across her features. “You look like you want to murder the ball right now.”
“I’m pretending it’s my father,” Reese responded seriously as she pulled a new ball from the pocket in her skirt.
Sydney turned away from the Fitzpatricks so that she was standing between their view of the conversation and Reese. “Did he flip you the bird or something when you were serving?” she asked, joking but tentatively concerned.
Reese wasn’t in the mood for it, but she also wasn’t going to take her frustration out on Sydney, who she knew was just trying to help calm her down.
“Weird time to have this conversation,” Reese said as she nodded past Sydney, acknowledging they were in the middle of a match, “but I’m realizing I’m not as over all of my family stuff as I may have believed.”
Soft, searching eyes met hers. “In my experience, things like that come in waves. I’ve thought at least a dozen times during this match about my retirement and how my best tennis days are behind me.”
Reese’s eyebrows drifted upward in surprise. “I’d never have known that. You look so… free.”
Sydney shrugged, but she reached out and put her hand on Reese’s forearm, her fingertips warm from their game. “Tennis is ninety percent a mental game. I’m free when I focus on what’s right in front of me. On how the ball feels in my hand. How the court smells. How the sun feels against my skin. How enjoyable it is to watch you hit an impressive shot. I make myself believe that nothing else exists except what’s happening at this moment.”
“So you’re avoiding reality?” Reese said sarcastically.
But Sydney only smiled. “Maybe. But I can either have a shitty game and then be in a bad mood after it, along with also having the same problems I already had before, or I can enjoy myself and then decide when I want to handle the other things that were throwing my concentration.”
Reese looked at her dubiously, but instead of focusing on her anger, she focused on enjoying the softness of Sydney’s hand, how its warmth permeated into her own skin and calmed her racing nerves.
“When it comes down to it, humans are both incredibly complex and incredibly simple. We have these big brains, but at the end of the day, we mostly use them to fight or fuck or feel.”
She could categorically say that she hadn’t expected Sydney to say that, so she let out a surprised laugh, her eyes going wide.
“So, what do you say?” Sydney coaxed, her earnest stare mapping across Reese’s features like she was trying to anticipate Reese’s response.
And Reese herself didn’t know what it would be until she leaned her shoulder into Sydney’s, bumping gently against her as she rolled her eyes good-naturedly. “You make a compelling case, King.”
“Damn straight,” Sydney said, her eyes alight as she beamed a bright smile in Reese’s direction. Leaning down, she whispered to Reese, and her lips sent chills running up her spine when they grazed the edge of her ear. “Now, let’s go show them who’s in charge, babe.”
They’d won the match, unsurprisingly.
Reese had held her own, but Sydney, even playing at half-speed, was a force to be reckoned with.
And she’d given Reese a pep talk that was both comforting and electrifying, which had been sorely needed.
They wrapped up by shaking hands at the net before Stan clapped everyone on the back and pulled them in for what Reese could only describe as a ‘group hug.’
“What a match,” he said, seemingly thrilled to have lost. “I’d love to do that again sometime soon.”
“Sounds like a plan,” Sydney said excitedly, moving toward the side of the court, where she placed her racket back in her bag.
