Page 70 of Set to Love

The receptionist directed me to court four. I take a breath, trying to ignore the itchy, restrictive tape that’s strapped around my ankle.

On the far side of the court is a girl who can’t be more than eighteen. She has jet-black hair pulled into a long braid under a blue visor. She’s sitting on a bench recording a Snapchat on her phone.

“Hi, are you Victoria?” I ask, entering through the gate.

“Yeah, that’s me,” she says, looking up. Her voice is flat, but still professional.

I offer a small smile, trying to look as if I belong here. “I’m Katie. Your hitting partner for the morning.”

She looks me up and down. Her gaze lingers on my beat-up sneakers and my taped ankle. She doesn’t look overly impressed. No surprise.

“The clinic director assigned me to you,” I add.

That seems to satisfy her. She shrugs, turns toward a hopper, and pulls out a handful of balls. I do the same, trying to steady my breathing. It’s been seven days since Coral Bay. I just hope I don’t have a repeat of the warm-up from hell I had with Elena.

Victoria starts with what are supposed to be easy forehands, but my movements are sluggish and response times slow.

“Sorry!” I shout, mortified as I watch another ball sail over the fence and into the neighboring court.

Pull yourself together, I snap at myself.

Victoria, to her credit, says nothing. She just walks back to the baseline.

The next half hour passes in a blur of pure frustration. I manage a few decent rallies, but they’re followed by atrocious mishits. Shots I can usually hit in my sleep are flying into the net or soaring ten feet wide.

I’m at the point where I feel like a neon sign is flashing “FRAUD” over my head. I want to drop my racquet, run off the court, and hide in the clubhouse. I’m not just rusty. I’m embarrassingly bad.

I sneak a look toward the sidelines as we break for a quick water. To my immense relief, Andrew hasn’t wandered over to our court yet. All morning he’s been drifting from group to group, stopping to offer quick corrections before moving on again. It’s still just the two of us. I take a long, shaky breath and try to drown out all the negative thoughts.

“Are you from Orlando?” I ask, trying to break the ice.

“San Diego,” Victoria says, her eyes already glued to her phone as she fires off a few texts.

“Nice,” I say. “That’s a long trip.”

She shrugs. “Not really. I split time between California and Florida. My coach wanted me training here for the summer.”

That sounds infinitely more impressive than my current arrangement of borrowed couches and rental cars.

Victoria’s already returned her attention to her phone, the brief moment of connection over.

“Do you, uh, want to move onto some rallying?” I ask.

“Sure,” she says, dropping her phone into her bag and grabbing her racquet.

I walk to the baseline and take my position. Bouncing the ball slowly, I toss it up, and for the first time all morning, it goes exactly where I want it to. The serve slices over the net and lands right against the center line of the service box.

Finally.

The victory is short-lived. Victoria fires a deep, aggressive return, followed by a series of shots that force me around the court. That frantic feeling that I need to hit harder and harder to keep up comes creeping back in.

Stop it, I tell myself, my jaw tightening. You know you’re outmatched. You have to play smarter.

I force myself to slow down. Instead of trying to blast winners past her like I did against Gina, I focus on control. I give myself a little more time between shots and aim lower, making Victoria bend and scramble instead of letting her attack.

It works. For the first time today, she looks uncomfortable.

That’s when it clicks. I stop trying to overpower her and start treating the rally like a chess match. Nothing flashy. Just smart tennis.