Page 53

I stare at the screen as the bubbles turn blue. A few days ago, we were hunting for shark teeth and getting sunburned. Now I’m back in full-on tennis mode.

Right now, I bet Max is somewhere backstage stretching or running lines under his breath. His phone won’t come out again until after the show.

As I’m slipping my phone back into my bag, another text from Zoe pops up.

Zoe

Slight problem . . . I’m still an hour away.

Zoe

Accident on I-95.

Zoe

I’m sorry. I know I promised I’d hit with you.

Katie

It’s fine.

Katie

Traffic is unpredictable.

Zoe

Make sure you do a full warm-up. Don’t take any chances.

Katie

Yes, Mom.

Zoe

*Heart emoji*

I sigh and shift the strap of my racquet bag higher on my shoulder, scanning for a familiar face I might be able to practice with. At this level, you either:

A) Travel with someone.

B) Already know half the draw.

C) Or start awkwardly asking strangers if they want to hit.

Today, I’m going to have to go with option C.

Walking a little farther down the path, I hover near court six until there’s a break in the rally. “Hey,” I call softly through the fence. “Either of you need a warm-up partner?”

One girl shakes her head and looks at me as if I’m dumb. “Already got one.” She points to the girl across the net.

I blame my tired brain. “Gotcha.” I laugh. She ignores me and resumes play.

I continue down the path. Near court seven, I spy a girl who looks to be about my age, stretching alone. She’s got her AirPods in and no coach in sight. I vaguely recognize her. She’s ranked just above me. And if I remember correctly, she has a solid backhand and a heavy serve.

I stand across from her and wave. She pulls an earbud out. “Hey. Do you need a hitting partner?” I ask.

Her eyes rake over me. That silent ranking calculation we all do. “Sure,” she says. “Twenty minutes? I’ve got court seven at five.”