Page 91 of Set to Love

“Here we go,” Drew says, and the balls start coming.

He feeds me a series of deep cross-court shots. Yesterday, I was meeting them with a clean, aggressive rhythm. But now, as I scramble to keep up, the mechanics we spent the entire session building have disappeared.

I swing, and the ball sails three feet past the baseline. I try to compensate on the next one by swinging harder, but it only flies outside the lines even wider. The more I fight my own fatigue, the more the court seems to shrink.

“Come on, Katie, pull yourself together,” Drew says, calling a halt to the drill. He walks toward the net, tapping his temple. “I know you’re tired, but this is exactly when the technique has to hold. You’re getting careless.” He shakes his head. “Think about yesterday. Don’t give away cheap points just because you’re uncomfortable.”

My ears prickle with shame.

“Let’s run the sequence again,” he calls out, already wheeling a fresh hopper of balls into position. “Stay on your toes this time. And concentrate.”

The next set of drills are a slow-motion disaster. My rhythm continues to disintegrate. I swing blindly, willing the ball to land anywhere on Drew’s side of the net. I don’t care where, as long as it’s not in the rafters or over the fence. My breath comes out in ragged, ugly gasps.

Finally, I stop and brace my hands against my knees, staring at the ground while my lungs burn. I’m exhausted, sore, and dangerously close to tears.

“Stop,” Drew says.

I hear his footsteps as he walks toward me, but I can’t bring myself to look up. I’m just waiting for him to tell me how much this court time costs, or better yet, that I’m clearly not worth the time he’s investing in me.

“You’re obsessing over a mistake you made at the beginning of practice,” he says. I blink back sweat and slowly lift my chin. He’s standing there with his arms crossed, watching me. “You have to let it go and move on to the ball that’s in front of you.”

“But I’m not . . . I don’t even know what’s happening,” I say, and despite my best efforts to stay professional, an ugly sob escapes. The sound seems to surprise me as much as it does him. “Nothing I’m doing is working. My body isn’t listening to me.” I wipe my eyes with the back of my hand, but the tears keep coming.

Drew steps closer, placing a steadying hand on my shoulder. “Your body is doing exactly what it’s supposed to, Katie,” he says, his voice losing its edge. “It’s telling you it’s tired. You’re trying to force a pace that your muscles can’t match right now, and you’re panicking because of it.”

He studies me for a beat. “This isn’t about that last forehand. I didn’t invite you here to be perfect. I asked you to come to London because you’re a grinder. I’ve seen you make adjustments under pressure before, and that’s exactly what you need to do right now.” He looks me directly in the eyes. “Anybody can hit a clean forehand on fresh legs. That’s not what we’re training for. Matches are won when you’re exhausted—when your lungs are burning, your legs are heavy, and your brain is screaming at you to panic. That’s when your technique has to hold. That’s why I put you through the conditioning test first. I needed to see what happened when fatigue showed up.”

My chest tightens.

“Right now, you’re trying to force perfect tennis instead of trusting your foundation. So we’re stripping it back.” He gestures toward the baseline. “Forget the footwork. Forget the swing path. Just hit the ball. Don’t worry about where it lands—just feel the contact.”

I swipe a final time at my eyes, feeling pathetic but strangely appreciative of his bluntness. I move back to the line. My legs are still heavy, but the voice in my head telling me I’m playing like garbage is quieting down.

Drew feeds me a ball. It’s a simple waist-high toss. I don’t try to do anything fancy with it, just step in and let the racquet do the work. The ball catches the sweet spot with a hollow thwack—the first clean sound I’ve heard all hour—and lands right in the center of the opposite court.

It’s just one shot. A singular correct movement in a sea of errors. But it feels like a life raft.

“There,” Drew says, a small nod marking the breakthrough. “That’s it. Whenever the wheels start to fall off, don’t reach for something new. Return to what you can trust. Back to basics. Let’s do it again.”

And we do. For the rest of the session, we don’t chase lines or power. We just chase that sound.

The locker room is silent, save for the hum of the ventilation and the distant, rhythmic thwack of balls from the courts I just escaped.

I’m slumped on a bench, my head hanging between my knees, watching sweat drip off my nose and onto the tile. I should be using my break time to stretch and refuel, but the simple act of unlacing my sneakers is too much. My fingers are clumsy. My quads tremble whenever I move. They’ve officially resigned from service.

Looking at my reflection in the row of stainless-steel lockers, I can see I’m a total wreck. My hair is matted. My face is flushed a patchy, angry red, and my eyes are still a little bloodshot from my mid-practice meltdown. I look less like a professional athlete and more like some sort of wild sprite that just crawled out of a hedge.

I reach for my phone in the side pocket of my bag to text Max—I’d promised to let him know how the morning went—but as I wake the screen, a message from him is already waiting.

Max

Thinking of you, K. I hope you’re absolutely crushing it.

I hesitate. How can I word how rubbish my session just went? That I literally cried?

Katie

It was definitely a reality check. But I’m still standing.