Page 95 of Set to Love

“That was supposed to be my shot, wasn’t it?” Alex says, blinking at the spot where the ball landed.

Adala sighs. “You’re the one who wanted to play back and me at the net.”

“Nice one.” Drew smiles and offers me a fist bump.

I bump his fist, doing my best to look composed. Inside, though, I’m doing high-kicks and cartwheeling. I just hit a clean winner past not just one, but two Grand Slam champions!

We play out the rest of the tie-break in a blur of heavy hitting and genuine laughter. I’m not just a passenger anymore. I’m driving the points. When Adala finally calls the session, my spirits soar. I’m gassed, but feel so alive.

“One week left, Keller. You’ve made some real progress,” Adala says with a rare nod. “Things are definitely heading in the right direction. We’ll go over the details Monday.”

“Nice work, kid,” Alex adds, offering me a high-five. I take it, my palm stinging in the best way. “I’ll have to keep you in mind for a mixed-doubles event if you keep playing like that.”

“Thanks,” I say. Alex Georgiou just suggested I’d make a decent mixed-doubles partner. I might be riding this high for the rest of the weekend.

“What’d you do to my student, Alex?” Drew interjects, his tone surprisingly playful.

“Nothing,” Alex laughs, slinging his bag over his shoulder. “Just recognizing talent when I see it.”

“Well, whatever it was, don’t let it go to your head, Keller,” Drew says, but there’s unmistakable pride in his voice.

Leaving the club, I head for the Central Line. The Friday evening rush is in full swing. Normally, the crowd would set my nerves on edge, but tonight I just lean against the carriage door and let the motion of the train settle me.

For the first time since arriving, London no longer feels temporary. Or like some reckless gamble I’ll eventually have to undo. It feels like the beginning of something special.

I check the address on my phone one more time as I walk past the Cambridge Theatre. The crowd for the evening performance of Matilda is already starting to swell. A sea of parents and excited kids mill around the entrance. I have to be close now.

Max

18 Mercer St, Soho. Studio 4. Closest to the Covent Garden Tube stop.

Max

It looks like an office building, if that helps.

I snort at the last part. In this part of London, that could mean anything from a crumbling Victorian brick warehouse to something that’s all glass and steel. There’s nothing uniform about Soho. I guess the best thing to do is just keep walking until I spot the number.

The last few days we’ve been stealing whatever time we can—late-night dinners, walks through the park, quick coffees between my training sessions and his rehearsals. With his final callback only days away, our schedules have become almost impossible to line up.

I’m relieved it’s almost the weekend. We both need a breather, even if “rest” means helping Max run lines and song lyrics. With his callback on Tuesday, I’ll take whatever time together I can get.

I spot the sign for Cucumber Studios—a nondescript beige facade squeezed between a boutique coffee shop and a tailor. Before heading in, I duck into the Mediterranean place on the corner. I grab two containers of grilled chicken, lemon rice, and roasted vegetables. After today’s lunch check-in, I have a feeling he still hasn’t taken a proper break.

Our texts looked something like this:

Katie

I hope you’re leaving the studio for lunch.

Max

I will once I run this one more time.

Katie

No more times. The Tundra Queen says now. And call me so I have visual proof.

Max