Each swing carried more force, as though I could burn the anxiety out of my system if I hit hard enough. My fingers ached from gripping too tightly, but I kept going, swing after swing after swing, until the machine stopped.
But the tightness in my chest didn’t ease. I turned to the ground, raised my racket above my head, and slammed it down onto the hard court.
Again.
And again.
The sharp crack of graphite splintering echoed through the space. The strings, once tight and full of potential, now sagged. My racket lay in pieces, shattered, useless. I stared down at the broken handle in my hand before tossing it into the pile of wreckage.
“Is it bad if I say that was kind of hot?” Chloe said, her voice teasing.
I turned, catching the small, hesitant smile on her lips, the concern still clear in her eyes. Without a word, I crossed the distance and collapsed beside her on the ground, letting my body fall back onto the cool surface of the court.
“That’s the second time I’ve done that,” I admitted between breaths, my lungs still burning as I tried to calm the storm inside me.
“Well, you handled it like a real pro,” she replied.
I shot her a sarcastic look. “Thanks.”
“Do you feel any better?”
I hesitated, the question hanging in the air. The tension in my chest had eased slightly, but the weight of what was ahead still loomed.
“I think so.”
“Then at least its sacrifice wasn’t in vain.” She smiled, her tone light.
“RIP racket.”
Her laughter was like oxygen, filling the empty spaces in my chest and softening the edges of my anxiety. “Time of death: one thirty-two a.m.”
I pushed myself upright, glancing at her. “It’s that late?”
She waved her hand dismissively. “I wouldn’t worry. The match isn’t until the evening.”
I hummed, unconvinced. At least one of us wasn’t stressed. “I don’t feel tired yet.”
“After all that?”
“I feel like I could run laps and still be fueled by this weird, jittery energy.”
She pointed around the court. “Then go run laps.”
Like I said, she’d make a mean coach. Evil, almost.
“But I don’t want to,” I whined, pouting.
She raised an eyebrow, alookforming on her face. “Do you have any alternative suggestions?”
I hummed to myself for a moment, pretending I didn’t already have my answer locked and loaded.
With a flirty grin, I asked, “Ever made out on a tennis court?”
A full smile broke across her face, like sunshine breaking through clouds. She shot to her feet, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “You’ll have to catch me first.”
I was up in an instant, chasing after her. Chloe glanced over her shoulder, her long hair whipping across her face, but her smilepeeked through, bright and unrestrained. She was so achingly beautiful, it hurt to let even a sliver of distance remain between us.
She dodged my lunge with ease, faking right before darting left. My feet slipped against the court as I lost balance. By the time I’d scrambled upright, Chloe was already across the net, a triumphant laugh spilling from her lips.
