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“I love you too,” I whisper back.

His eyes close briefly.

“But,” I add before he can get too comfortable, squeezing his hand once, “if you ever ignore a life-changing voicemail again, I reserve the right to dump shaved ice directly onto your head.”

Max lets out a startled laugh, loud enough that the couple at the next table glances over. “Honestly,” he says, still laughing slightly, “that’s fair.”

Thirty

I’m standing behind the baseline at Kensington, trying not to vomit directly onto the court.

Rows of spectators have their eyes trained on me as they sip their morning coffees like this is all perfectly relaxing and not the most important point of the match.

“Breathe.” Adala’s voice cuts through the noise as she leans against the courtside barrier beside me.

I force air into my lungs and crouch into position just as my opponent bounces the ball across the net. The scoreboard beside the umpire’s chair stares back at me in unforgiving black numbers: 6-4, 5-7, 5-4.

It’s 40-30. I’m one point away from wrapping this up and going through to the quarterfinals.

My opponent tosses the ball high into the air and rockets it to my backhand side. I don’t think. I react. My instincts take over, and my shoes squeak against the hard court as I lunge sideways, blocking the return back deep down the middle.

The rally starts immediately. And just like it’s been over the past hour and a half, we exchange a series of flat shots.

Forehand. Backhand. Forehand again.

My lungs burn as she drives me farther behind the baseline.

The old Katie would panic here. She’d immediately start thinking about all the ways this match could go wrong and how she shouldn’t even be in this position.

But the new Katie? She stays in the point. One shot at a time.

If I keep playing my opponent’s game, we’ll be hitting the ball back and forth to one another until one of us eventually messes up. One of us has to change the pattern. It might as well be me.

I sprint forward and carve one of my signature drop shots just over the net cord. The second the ball leaves my strings, I know it’s good. My opponent lunges. But she’s too late.

The ball dies.

For half a second, the entire world goes silent. Then applause crashes over the court.

“Game, set, and match, to Keller, six-four, five-seven, six-four.”

My hand flies to my mouth. I’ve done it. Actually done it. I just upset the number-six seed in the tournament.

Adrenaline crashes through me in dizzying waves. Somehow, my legs still carry me forward toward the net for the customary handshake with my opponent before I turn toward the stands.

In my player’s box, I spot Mom and Dad. Dad is attempting to record everything on his phone. Mom keeps lowering it because she wants him to actually watch. I point to my coaches who are sitting beside them and make a heart with my hands.

A few rows over, I look to Theo, Kaori, and Zoe.

Theo and Kaori are clapping politely, with large grins over their faces.

Zoe? Well . . . she’s acting like an American. Which, of course she is.

“That’s my girl!” she yells loud enough for at least three neighboring courts to hear. “Keller, you giant slayer!”

“Must you shout everything?” Theo deadpans.

“Yes,” Zoe replies immediately. “That’s how support works. I’m cheering for Randy, Leon, and Lina too, don’t forget.”