First Serves and Second Chances (East Coast Matches #1)

Chapter 1

NATHAN

My skin prickles, beads of sweat trickling down the neck of my polo. Sun floods the courts, bathing the artificial blue surface in a sickly light. I adjust my cap so the peak’s shielding the back of my neck and get ready to return Priestley’s serve.

You can get a decent read on some players. Especially if you practice with them frequently. They have tells. The slightest glance to one part of the court. The miniscule turn of a foot.

But Priestley? Yeah, good luck getting a read on him.

His body gives nothing away. I watch his eyes over the net, trying to gage where he’s looking. Nada.

Blood rushes in my ears at the ball toss. His feet leave the court as he brings the racket down. There’s that thwack as it connects. Priestley’s grunt. A split second to react.

I guess left. I’m wrong. The ball flies past me.

When I glance over the net, Priestley’s wearing that shit-eating grin I’m sure he came out of the womb wearing.

“Better luck next time, Carter,” he shouts across the court.

By the time we finish practice, my polo’s so drenched with sweat, I could wring it out. Priestley’s sweating, but not like a pig, not like me. His sweat’s almost artful. A few beads on his top lip and dappling the back of his neck under the backward cap.

“Good game,” he says as we shake hands over the net.

“Yeah, I’ll get you next time.”

He laughs, throwing his head back and exposing a long, smooth neck.

“I’m just glad you’re on my side,” I say.

Kissing his ass feels better than being a sore loser. And we’re a team here. If Priestley wins, we all win.

He takes his shirt off, exposing the lean muscles of his perfect, tan skin. I look away, heading over to get some water.

When I check my phone, there’s a ton of missed calls, voicemails and messages from my mom, telling me to call her back. What the fuck?

I step away from Priestley to make the call. He may look like he isn’t paying attention, but I know from experience that he’s always taking notes.

“Hey Mom, what’s up? Is everyone okay?”

There’s a split second where every possible scenario runs through my head. I force myself not to panic.

“Everyone’s fine.” Mom says.

“So what’s wrong? Why have you been blowing my phone up?”

She laughs. “Nathan! I was not blowing your phone up. Seriously, sometimes you speak to me like I’m some sorority girl you picked up at a party….”

When she gets worked up like that, her accent comes out—her real one.

“Sorry. You just worried me is all.”

She collects herself and takes a deep breath before continuing. “I was calling to let you know that Joe Flannigan died.”

The sheen of sweat covering every inch of my body turns suddenly cold. Shit, I’m not prepared for this right now. Priestley’s watching me discreetly as he sips his water. I realize I haven’t responded to Mom and try to find the right words to say.

“Nathan, are you still there?”

“Yeah, yeah, sorry, it’s just … I’m in shock.”

“Shock? Nathan, Joe’s been sick since you were a kid. You had to know this was coming at some point?”

“I know, it’s just … I don’t know.” I run a hand over my face, painfully aware of Priestley’s eyes on me. “It kind of started to feel like it’d never happen.”

A little sigh escapes before she speaks. “I know. But it was no kind of life-”

“When’s the funeral?” I cut her off. I want her to stop talking now. Don’t want to think about Joe Flannigan in that hospital bed.

“Next Friday. You don’t have to come if you have class.”

“I’ll make it. I should be there.”

“Okay. We’ll go together. I haven’t seen Theresa in a long time, but.…” she trails off. I get the feeling she’s mostly talking to herself now. Making plans in her head.

“Mom?”

“Yes?”

“Was Evan there? When it happened?”

My face floods the second I say his name. My skin tingling.

There’s a hardness to her voice when she speaks again. “Nathan, I don’t want you getting involved with that boy again. You know what happened last time.”

My stomach clenches. I have to bite my tongue to stop myself from reminding her who’s fault that really was.

“I know, I just … I just wanted to know. I’m not going to get involved with him.”

“Promise me.”

I take a deep breath and promise her.

She sighs. Her nails tapping on the keys of her laptop.

“It says he died at home peacefully, surrounded by his family.” She starts reading straight from the obituary and I imagine her at that waterfall island counter she saw from Hillary Duff’s house on AD Open Door and had to have.

Tapping her acrylic nails on the granite worktop while she reads about a man’s death on her rose gold MacBook Pro.

I stop listening until she says Evan’s name. “ … son Evan and daughter Stacie.”

“Say that part again.”

She lets out an impatient huff and I imagine her slamming the laptop shut, the look on her face telling me she’s done with this nonsense now.

“Nathan, are you okay? I didn’t think this would hit you so hard. You haven’t seen Joe Flannigan for years.”

A twinge of guilt surfaces, because that’s not exactly true. More lies. “I know. I’m fine. I just … I guess.…” It brought back memories. “Nothing. It’s been a long morning.”

“You know … ” There’s a long pause and I imagine her biting her lip, grasping for the right words to say. “ … at least he’s at peace now.”

“I’d better get to class Mom. I’ll see you next week.”

Priestley’s on me as soon as I hang up the phone.

“Has something happened?”

I focus on putting my racket back in my bag so I don’t have to look directly at him. “The father of an old friend passed away.”

“Oh, I’m sorry for your loss.” He pats me on the shoulder with that practiced sincerity people of his breeding are taught from a young age.

“Thanks.”

Barely a beat passes before he adds, “You’re not going to miss any tennis are you?”

“No matches,” I assure him. “But I need to go to the funeral next Friday.”

“What about practice? And class?”

“I’ll speak to Coach Sanchez, and my professors. I’m sure they’ll understand.” Translation—it’s not your call to make.

He nods, but I can tell he doesn’t understand. I’m not even sure I understand. Joe Flannigan was not my father. But he sure as hell was there for me more than my own dad was.

“We’re coming up to the start of the Ivy. It’s not ideal to be missing practice at a time like this. We have responsibilities. Sometimes people in our positions have to make sacrifices.”

I nod before walking away, letting him know I heard him. But I don’t have the mental energy to placate him more than that.

I can’t focus during class and I’m still zoned out at lunch. It’s only when I’m standing in line at the cafeteria and someone taps me on the shoulder that I remember where I am.

Mira’s staring up at me with her big brown eyes, not a strand of her gorgeous black bangs out of place. Somehow she looks perfect despite the fact she’s just come straight from tennis practice, too.

“Hey, how are you?”

I want to tell her she can stop this charade of having to say hi and ask me how I am every time we bump into each other. It’s been nearly a year since she broke up with me, I’m not mad at her, not anymore.

“I’m fine, how are you?”

She frowns. “You don’t look fine, are you sure? Do you need to talk?”

I feel like screaming, God, Mira, why do you have to be so nice? It would be so much easier if she was an asshole to me. Then maybe my mom would stop asking about her every time I go home.

“I’m okay.” I run a hand over my face. “Just tired.”

She cocks her head and keeps her focus firmly on me, and I know she isn’t going to let me off the hook that easily. I sigh.

“I found out someone back home passed away.”

She grabs my arm. “Oh my god, Nate, I’m so sorry. Who was it?”

I shuffle forward with my tray as the line moves. “You remember I told you about that guy who was dying when I was in school?”

“I think so. The father of an old friend of yours, right?”

“That’s the one.”

Mira swallows. I try not to watch her as she searches for the right thing to say. She clears her throat before she speaks again. “I’m sorry,” she says, the hand on my arm giving a squeeze. “At least he’s at peace now.”

“That’s what my mom said.” I flinch from her touch and try to ignore the look of hurt on her face.

“Well, it’s true,” she says, her voice quiet.

I shuffle forward in the line again and Mira follows me.

“People are going to think you’re cutting,” I say.

She glances behind her, brushing off the side-eyes she’s getting from a couple of girls.

“If you ever need to talk, I’m here for you. You know that, right? Just because we’re not dating anymore-”

“I know.” I say it a little sharper than I’d meant and she flinches again. “Thank you,” I add. “I appreciate it.”

I get my food and take a seat with the guys from the team. Mira takes the seat on Mark’s left and he kisses her as she sits down. I look away.

Priestley clears his throat. “Nathan, you’ll be at the party tonight?”

It’s like one of those questions with only one answer my stepdad is always asking me. The instinct to say, “Yes, sir” pops up before I push it down again.

“Uh, yeah, ‘course.”

“Good man.” He slaps me on the shoulder.

“If you don’t feel up to it … ” Mira starts.

I bite my lip to stop myself from telling her to mind her own business. She stopped having to look out for me when she dumped me for someone I thought was a friend.

“Why? What’s happened?” Ben asks. He looks so sincere, I can’t be mad at him for asking.

“Nothing. Just the father of an old friend died.” I’m getting so sick of saying it. But maybe it’ll lose its bite the more I do?

“Oh my god, man, I’m so sorry.”

Ben puts his hand on my arm and gives it a little squeeze. Little pink blotches appear on his cheeks and he lets it drop.

“Thanks, but it’s fine, honestly. He’d been sick for a long time.”

“Exactly,” Priestley says. “Everyone stop babying him.”

I am not ready for this party tonight. I take a quick nap and shower to try and give myself an energy boost.