“Humble is for people who win by accident, who only do it once. Anyway, what do I know?”
“More than me, apparently. You try doing the same thing, essentially, twenty times, and see if you have gracious words available. Or would you like to try finding paparazzi hiding in your garden? Outing your sister without her permission? I mean, I could go on.”
“It’s not like there’s no good side. Like all the coaches wanting to throw over their people to come work for you.”
“Which is also kinda shitty, since it costs you friends,” I pointed out. “I know which I’d rather have, and now I have the same coach I always wanted and no friend. I’m not saying it’s not privileged as hell, but that doesn’t always make it fair. Or easy.”
“Come on, let’s get hitting,” Toni said, bouncing from foot to foot to keep warm. The space was a little cool, but we’d be glad of that in ten minutes when we were sweating. “I mean, if you can handle it.”
“Oh, I can handle schooling you again, yeah.” I took my place at the baseline, posture bowing and bending to a natural receiving position. I shifted my weight from my heels to the balls of my feet, the tension moving to my calves, ready to propel me in the right direction. It was all so automatic, but the way Toni watched me, I felt conscious of every move and flex.
She plucked a ball from her pocket, palmed it and bounced it once, twice against the hard ground with its almost plastic veneer. God, I hated indoor courts. Why did I come looking for one?
Serving was an art form in its own right, and I always knew from my own initial toss of the ball whether it would be a good one or not. I could spot the signs in others too. If the height and weight of the ball in the air was just right, if the arm arcing up to meet it was fluid enough in its movement, and if the whoosh of air was just loud enough.
The tell, though, as a poker player might call it, was in the moment of contact. I’d been around my fellow pros in other sports for long enough to know the same was true in baseball, in cricket, in any sport requiring the application of a solid object to some kind of projectile.
When it hits right, you hear it.
Unfortunately, I was so busy paying attention to the sweet kiss of ball against racquet that I didn’t leave myself time to react. Not that it would have mattered, because the cheeky little shit served an ace at me. It went whizzing past me like it had been launched by NASA. Who started a rally with an unreturnable strike across the bows?
Antonia Cortes Ruiz, apparently.
“Very funny,” I called across the net. “For that, I’m taking next serve.”
Toni shrugged, but she was grinning. She’d dressed with some thought, despite the late hour. I had thrown on the first shorts and tee I could find, nothing matching. Her runner’s vest was a deep teal, cut away to show off those impressive arms and shoulders. She was lanky for a female player; the most successful were usually more compact and able to centre their power. Hers was more of a runner’s build, but with glossy black hair pulled up in a high ponytail and cycling shorts to round out the look. She definitely looked more ready for a track event than a tennis court.
Leading by example, I rolled right into a friendlier serve, already in motion as Toni met it with a double-handed backhand that packed one hell of a punch.
We were off to the races then, hitting big and hard, making each other run for it. The huge room echoed with each smack of the ball, each solid bounce against the smooth floor overlapping with the squeak of our rubber soles as we darted around and slid to make the next shot.
Toni almost caught me out with a hefty shot to my weak side, one that a less nimble player would have no hope of getting to. But I had been in motion since the ball was hit, seeing the trajectory as though marked by neon lines through the air between us. I launched myself at the ball, connecting on the backhand well enough to drop the shot barely an inch over the net, leaving Toni stranded at the back of the court.
“Not bad,” she called across, picking herself up. “And Elin?”
“Yeah?”
“You didn’t lose a friend.”
I picked myself up as Toni picked up another couple of tennis balls, shoving one in the waistband of her shorts since there were no pockets. It exposed a flash of sculpted hipbone that gave me a considerable moment to pause and let my gaze linger. I was no stranger to fit, toned women on a daily basis, but every so often, something exceptional knocked me out. Toni noticed me staring, and I forced myself not to look away.
I started the play again, because the world couldn’t be allowed to intrude when I was lost in the rhythm of a rally. I hit with everything I had, and Toni returned with the same vigour. We were warming up properly, showing off when we could. Every time a ball flew outside the lines or bounced off a wall, a new one was fired across the net in its place. Relentless, and a hell of a lot of fun.
When was the last time I had played like this? Like tennis was just a game and the world didn’t hinge on the outcome of a particular point? I was ashamed to admit I couldn’t remember. Not that I got a chance to dwell, with Toni aiming a pile driver of a forehand almost directly at my chest. Reshaping myself, I enjoyed the fluid way my body reacted without any conscious thought on my part. Instead of twinging with aches and pains, I returned the
