Page 85 of Set to Love

I’ve always thought Orpheus from Hadestown would be the perfect role for Max. But as he works through the pages, Eros slowly replaces Max. By the end of the scene, I don’t just see him in the role. I can’t imagine anyone else playing it.

We eventually hang up with promises to catch up after my first practice.

Later that night, sleep refuses to come. I can’t stop wondering about what tomorrow will bring.

Twenty-One

“Stop. Again,” the raspy voice of the legendary Adala Messer says in an even tone.

She’s leaning against the net post. Her green eyes are tracking the flight of the ball like a hawk. Even in her forties, she still walks with the air of confidence of a seven-time Grand Slam winner.

Drew stands three feet from me on the baseline. He sighs, adjusting his backward baseball cap before stepping forward and placing a hand on my racquet. He shifts my fingers, minutely adjusting my grip. “That was better,” he says. “But you’re still muscling it. You’re trying to kill the ball, Katie. Relax your wrist. Drop the shoulder. Let your legs do the work.”

I don’t answer. My lungs are screaming and my shirt is damp and clinging to my body. I’ve been on court two for the last two hours, and I haven’t played a single point. We’ve spent the entire time dissecting my forehand, which I thought was my best shot. Boy, was I wrong.

“Got it,” I finally wheeze out, wiping sweat from my eyes with the back of my hand.

He signals to Adala to restart the ball machine.

Pop.

I crouch low. My quads are quivering after barely training the last week. I swing, trying to find that fluid motion Drew is talking about, but the ball flies into the net and dies.

“Again,” Adala rasps.

Pop.

Same result.

Pop.

Long. By ten feet.

It’s taking everything in me to not to smash my racquet into the ground.

My shoes squeak against the hard court as I pace a tight circle. Heat crawls up my neck. Not just from the exertion, but from the silence stretching between points. Every second without anyone saying a word feels like another reason for Drew to rethink bringing me here.

I reach for my water bottle and take a long, shaky swig.

“Katie,” Adala says, walking toward the center of the court. There’s a small smirk playing across her lips. “You’re fighting the ghost of how you used to play. Stop worrying about hitting a decent shot. It’s not about results. It’s about form.”

Easier said than done. “I’m trying,” I mutter, staring at my shoes.

“We know,” Drew says. He reaches out, giving my shoulder a quick, firm squeeze. “Breaking a habit is harder than building one from scratch.” He jerks a thumb toward the neighboring court. “Just ask the guy on court one. Took us five months to fix his forehand. He’s one of the most stubborn players on tour.”

“It was closer to four,” a melodic voice corrects.

I lift my chin. Alexander Georgiou is leaning against the divider, wiping his forehead. His wavy caramel hair is damp with sweat, and his brown eyes gleam with amusement. He’s even better looking in person than on Zoe’s poster.

“And ignore Drew,” he says with a lopsided grin. “He and Adala are trying to help you. A year from now, you’ll wonder why today ever felt so hard.”

“Watch it, Alex,” Drew warns, though a smile finally breaks through his coach’s mask. “Don’t go giving away all our trade secrets.”

Alexander holds up his calloused hands in surrender, then looks at me. “I’m Alex. Welcome to the club.”

My brain freezes. The third-best player in the world is shaking my hand. Zoe is going to freak when I tell her. “I’m, uh, Katie. Nice to meet you,” I sputter.

“Okay, okay. Enough break time. We’re on a schedule here.” Adala directs me back toward the baseline. “One more round, Katie. Then we’re heading to the café so we can review all the notes we’ve made.”