Drop Shot (Off Court #1)

Chapter 1

one

Nothing says I’m sorry for ending things like a consolation burger from the players’ restaurant.

To be fair, I think we both would’ve preferred The Copper Table, but neither of us finished our strategy sessions in time for that.

Plus, Nicola, my roommate, best friend, and—soon-to-be former—doubles partner, is going to try to pay for my meal to make up for what she’s about to tell me and, because I’m me, I won’t let her.

I’d much rather not allow her to pay for a burger from here than a risotto from our favorite but infrequently visited (because oh my god, is it expensive) restaurant.

Especially now that one of my main streams of income is about to disappear right as I was getting my financial footing.

Like she’s read my mind, Nic looks at her food before her gaze meets mine, her dark steely-gray eyes cataloging my every facial twitch.

“I’m sorry my session ran long. We can go into town tomorrow,” she says, the subtlest of Greek accents curving her words.

Sundays are our easy days. Morning stretching, yoga, more stretching, physiotherapy, and then actual free time, which is rare, even during the offseason.

It’s odd hearing her apologize though. She so rarely does. The fact that this is now her second time in an hour confirms my suspicions.

Nicola is the kind of person who will glare you into submission if you so much as imply she could be wrong about something.

The kind of person—and I can’t say this with any great deal of certainty, but it’s something I know in my bones—who could turn something as useless as a pillow into a weapon if you piss her off.

The one our friend group sends into the fray when we want something badly enough—like a specific court at the facility or a table at a bar—that we’re willing to look the other way while she works her unorthodox methods.

In short, I’m equal parts in love with and terrified of her.

Her dark, laminated brows furrow, and I realize I haven’t responded. Twirling a strand of my damp blonde hair around a finger, I push my lips into a smile, radiating positivity. “It’s totally fine. I went late too, and I’m in the mood for a burger anyway.”

Say it, I plead. Just say it already.

Nic simply nods, taking a bite. Waiting on my own food, I look around the familiar restaurant.

Low-hanging pendant lights cast a soft glow over the polished wooden tables, and a small bar made of dark reclaimed wood sits off to one side, its shelves stocked with liquor and glassware.

My eyes fall to the only other table that’s occupied this evening, where Austin is doing a poor job of pretending he’s not eavesdropping.

His light brown hair is a mess from his shower and his blue eyes are narrowed, fixated on his table while he leans toward us so far, he may topple off his stool.

I clear my throat, and his head snaps up.

Nic follows my gaze, and when she rolls her eyes at him, he smiles, bringing his tray over and settling into the seat beside mine.

“I’ve been summoned.” There’s a tinge of worry in his tone, like he knows he needs to handle this situation with care.

Handle me with care, though I’ve told him plenty of times I’m going to be fine.

Our waitress drops off my Baja California burger and fries, and Austin nudges me with his elbow.

“Did you manage to crack the ice queen?”

Nic glares at him, obviously not a fan of the nickname. “Not only did I not summon you, but nobody invited you to dinner, Austin.”

“Actually, Delilah did,” he answers, inclining his head in my direction.

I shake my head, smile widening. “Actually, Delilah did not. I told you I was meeting Nic for dinner at the players’ restaurant, and you decided that meant you should come.”

“Potato, potahto.” He tosses a fry into his mouth. “I heard a ‘sorry’ and figured that was my cue to bring in the comedy.”

A couple of whoops behind the bar pull our attention to one of the many large television screens lining two of the walls.

Unsurprisingly, they’re all turned to coverage of the Women’s Tennis Association Finals, the last tournament of the year.

Only the seven women with the highest number of points for the season are invited, plus the highest ranked of the four Grand Slam winners if she’s not already in the top seven.

One of those eight players? Anya Morozov.

There’s a reason I made sure Nic was on the other side of the table, facing a wall blissfully devoid of TVs.

She’s been trying to break into the top ten for months, and seeing the person she loathes the most heading into the final round of the tournament has been grating on her.

She’s kept relatively quiet about it in practice and at home, but after spending nearly every day of the last year with her, I can read her like a book.

Even in November, when the season is all but over, the players’ restaurant at the Morozov Tennis Academy insists on having tennis on every screen. Because if you’re on the WTA or the men’s ATP tours, you have to eat, breathe, and sleep tennis.

But watching reruns of Anya beating the number three in the world is in no way going to make Nic feel better. Her expression sours as she turns back to her food, swinging her wavy chestnut-brown hair over her shoulder and angrily biting into her burger.

Brightly, I say, “She’s playing Emilia Kessler in the finals.

” The world’s number one is on an insane win streak, and while I consider Anya a friend, I’m not sure I believe anyone stands a chance against Emilia with the way she’s playing right now.

“Anya’s never beaten her, and she’s unlikely to this time either.

I doubt she’ll end up winning the whole tournament. ”

Nic nods but continues chewing indignantly. Hoping to serve as a conduit for redirecting the conversation away from Anya, I continue, “This is the time, Nic. This is the season you dominate. Don’t worry about the finals. I know you’ll be there in no time.”

Austin, ever the instigator, offers, “If it helps, at least she was gone a few more days than she would have otherwise been. You got an extra Anya-free week.”

Nic’s eyes narrow. She takes a second to finish chewing and swallowing, which is arguably scarier than if she’d simply snapped at him. “How is that supposed to help? I’ve been working my ass off for years and I’m barely twenty-sixth, and yet she cruises her way into the finals.”

“Cruising” is a bit of a stretch. We all know that. Anya’s parents own the facility we train at, and as world-famous tennis players themselves, there’s plenty of pressure on the youngest Morozov. But I certainly won’t be the one to correct Nic.

Austin holds up his hands. “If! I said if it helps.”

I shoot him a look, which hopefully reads equal parts What are you doing? and also Sorry, you know how she gets. While I have about three jokes on the tip of my tongue, I recognize now’s not the time.

A smile lighting up Austin’s face tells me he knows exactly what he’s doing. He’s been in my life since elementary school, and while he might not be my brother by blood, he tries hard to annoy me and my closest friends like one.

He knocks a knuckle beside my tray and changes the subject. “Don’t forget Matteo is going to start training here Tuesday.”

“Oh yes. The scariest man on the men’s tour is taking you away from me,” I joke.

The press have not-so-lovingly dubbed him “Matteo the Malignant Narcissist” for his behavior on and off the court, but I know better than anyone not to judge others without having the full picture.

Matteo and Austin began playing doubles this year and have been doing well.

Since mixed doubles is only played at a select few tournaments, as opposed to men’s and women’s doubles played at nearly all tour events, my and Austin’s practices won’t be as high priority as theirs.

Nic lets out a quiet, mirthless chuckle. “‘The scariest man on the men’s tour.’”

“He’s not that bad.” Austin says and then shrugs at her incredulous stare. “I’ve had fun playing with him.”

She scoffs. “I’m sure it helps that he’s ranked eleven and outmaneuvers half the other doubles teams.”

Austin smirks. “It definitely helps.”

They begin arguing the merits of riding coattails to championships while I finish my food. I’m just glad Nic is feeling good enough to bicker with Austin as they often do.

After irritating her to the point that she turns her body to face away from him, Nic finally gives me a subtle grimace—one I know means the consolation speech is coming. Too bad my burger is long gone.

She keeps it brief. Straight to the point. “My team and I have decided I need to take some time away from doubles.” And then, “I’m sorry, Del.”

With her trying to win a major and break into the highest level of tennis, focusing exclusively on singles is a logical choice.

I was distraught when she mentioned the possibility of it late one night while we watched (well, I watched, she scorned) reality TV reruns on our couch, but I’ve had a few days to come to terms with it.

When she asked to get dinner out instead of eating at home like we typically do, I knew it was coming.

I do well enough. My sponsorships cover my tennis clothes and rackets.

My winnings from playing singles are just enough to pay my siblings’ insurance, books, food, rent, utilities, and whatever else they might need, along with my own apartment expenses, travel, coaching, academy fees, and the hundreds of other things I seem to have to pay nowadays.

Losing my doubles income isn’t ideal, especially if I falter at all during the season.

Shoulder injury flare-ups here and there have cost me hundreds of thousands of potential dollars in tournaments I’ve had to pull out of, but I’m on the mend.

I worked hard to get into the top one hundred despite the injury.

I might not be swimming in money, but I’ve been taking care of myself and my family for years.

My whole life, really. This is no different.

It would be nice if, for once, I could be in a place where I didn’t have to worry about my family’s survival. If I could enjoy tennis, free from all the financial stressors of daily life. But if I take my eye off the ball for a second…

One day, if I keep my head down and continue working hard, if the twins get the scholarships they seem on their way to getting, maybe I’ll be able to afford a week or two off, drink in hand, my butt nestled in a floatie, drifting around a pool in the Orlando winter.

Or better yet, on a trip out of the country like Sahar and Harper and almost every other player on tour takes each year.

It’s that image that brings a genuine smile to my face. “It’s really okay, Nic. You have to do this. You have plenty of majors in you; we all know it. It makes perfect sense.”

Still, she looks worried. Or as worried as Nic can look. “Are you sure you’ll be good?”

She means financially. After all, she’s the one person since Maya—my previous doubles partner, who left the tour because of an injury—to actually see how stretched thin I sometimes feel trying to make sure I’m handling everything myself.

Nic watched me battle tears when the rent for our tiny apartment across the street from the academy increased.

Sat with me as I bit my lip so hard it bled so I wouldn’t cry when Chase crashed the car he and my two other siblings share, leaving me to pay for the repairs.

Offered to help pay, to the sounds of my vehement refusals, when Finn broke his arm during football practice.

“Of course I will. I’ll miss playing with you, obviously,” I say, emphasizing the last word with a meaningful look in her direction.

“We had a great year. But it’s not like we won’t be training together all the time.

” And while we’re rarely at the apartment at the same time outside of the offseason, we are still roommates.

She nods. “It’ll be different though. Weird not being on court with you.”

“If it helps, at least this means you only have to see Anya in singles,” Austin chimes in.

“Stop saying ‘if it helps.’ And stop trying to help. Why are you here again?” Nic asks, shoving Austin’s tray down the table.

He moves it back with ease, tossing another fry into his mouth. “I bring the comedic relief you guys need after baring your souls to each other,” he responds around it.

Ignoring him, I reach across the table, careful not to touch Nic but providing her with the option if she wants it.

She takes my hand reluctantly, like it’s more for my benefit than her own.

Which, knowing her and her aversion to physical contact, it is.

“Truly. I think this is great. It’ll give me time to focus on my singles too.

And if I keep doing as well as I have been, or better than I have been, I’ll be set.

It’s been a fun ride, and it’s not like we won’t ever play doubles again.

You have to do this.” I squeeze her hand softly, then let go.

“Next season is your season. The season of Nicola,” I say with a hand flourish above my head, as if the words will appear there in garish flashing letters. “I have no doubt about that. You’re going to kick ass, and I’m going to cheer you on the whole time.”

“Okay, I just…don’t want you to be upset.”

“Me? Upset? I don’t even have the software for that.”

Austin laughs and Nic smiles softly, knowing it’s true. When we get ready to leave, Nic tries to pay for my food, as expected. I slap my card down with a smile, knowing this is the last time I’ll eat out for a while.

And when we walk back to our apartment side by side, losing Austin somewhere between the CrossFit center and the indoor training pool, I grin and pretend I’m lying on the beach on the Amalfi Coast with Sahar and Harper, secure in the knowledge that no matter how much time I take off or how much money I spend enjoying myself, my family and I will be fine.