Chapter 9 #3
He was so confusing, and if she knew what was good for her, she’d just move on. She reached up to touch where his lips had brushed against her cheek, still warm and tingling, and her heart skipped a beat at the mere thought of it.
Yeah, no chance of that.
Sitting in the locker room the next day, Indy twirled her racket. A twist of her wrist had it spinning around fully before coming to rest in her palm again. This was it, her first match at the Classic. Indy’s leg bounced up and down, her toes curling and uncurling in her sneakers.
“How’s that?” the trainer asked, tapping Indy’s wrapped wrist, drawing her from her thoughts. “Range of motion good?”
She flexed her wrist back and forth, the wrap there for some extra support, preventive against the power of her serve being too much for it. “Perfect.”
“Have a good match,” the trainer said as she left the room.
Once she was alone, her stomach clenched and her throat tightened.
There were the nerves. It was actually comforting to feel them.
It had been two years since she’d been out on a court for a real elite-level match.
Plus, this was the first time she’d be out on the court without her mom in the stands.
Anyone would be a little jittery. Indy checked her racket, bouncing the heel of her hand against the crisscrossed strings.
The tension was perfect, not too tight and not too loose, allowing both power and control.
Taking a slow, steady breath, she packed her racket into her bag and mentally ran through the match.
Lara Cronin, the one who tried to bully her off a practice court and most likely the evil bitch who stole her dress for the reception, had a solid overall game.
They’d played against each other a little bit during training.
Good backhand, better forehand, could move well, but not well enough.
The plan was to stick to the power game.
Lara definitely wouldn’t be able to handle her serve.
Indy was prepared. Now all she had to do was execute.
“You ready to go?” a deep Southern drawl asked from outside the doorway.
Slinging her bag onto her shoulder, Indy nodded to Roy. “I’m ready.”
They walked down the long corridor, past the Title Wall, and through another hallway that led to the OBX main court.
The door was braced open. She could hear the buzz of the crowd and the hard-rock music blasting through the speakers.
Lara was already standing at the door, waiting.
Indy was the higher seed and thus had the honor of entering the court last.
The radio clipped to Roy’s belt crackled. “Two minutes.”
“Hang on right here, ladies,” Roy said, pausing at the door.
Indy bounced on the balls of her feet to stay warm and burn off the extra energy flowing through her veins. She’d never felt anything quite like this before, a buzzing through her entire body, almost making her vibrate.
To her right, held in a glass case, was the Classic trophy. It was an old-school brass cup, about the same height as a desk lamp, with two large handles. The tournament was in its fifth year but only had two winners. The names of the previous champions were engraved on the cup.
AMY FITZPATRICK
PENELOPE HARRISON
PENELOPE HARRISON
PENELOPE HARRISON
By the end of the week, her name could be cut into the brass below Penny’s; by the end of the week, she could be the Outer Banks Classic Champion.
The radio crackled again. “Okay, we’re a go.”
Lara entered the court first, the crowd applauding for her. Roy held his hand up, holding Indy back, and her eyes grew wide. It was really loud out there, definitely the loudest she’d ever heard a crowd for one of her matches.
“Good luck,” he said, his hand squeezing her shoulder before he waved her through.
Empty, the OBX main court didn’t seem that big.
Compared to the huge stadiums at the Grand Slams, it was actually very small, but as she stood on the court with every seat taken, music blaring in the background, and the din of people chattering in their seats, to Indy it might as well have been Centre Court at Wimbledon.
All of these people were here to watch her play, to watch her win or lose.
Indy’s heart pounded, mimicking the harsh bass echoing through the speakers. The music was meant to pump up everyone in the stands, but it was sending her pulse rate through the roof.
Glancing into the crowd, Indy noticed that Caroline was courtside, next to the rep from Solaris.
A few rows back, Penny, long past the need to play in a tournament for up-and-comers, sat with Dom and Jack.
Indy was pretty sure she caught Jack looking away from her once her gaze landed on their group.
Infuriating man. Teddy was behind them next to Jasmine.
Her match had been earlier that morning. She’d won easily.
Indy looked elsewhere. She had to take it one match at a time. There wouldn’t be a chance to face down Jasmine unless she won this one and two after it.
She sat down in her chair and pulled the laces of her sneakers tight. She took several deep breaths, trying to block out the noise, but it was almost impossible.
“Players to the center of the court,” the chair umpire said, standing next to the net. A coin flip would decide who served first.
“Heads,” Lara said.
“The call is heads,” the umpire said, and flipped it onto the court. The coin bounced once, spun, and then rattled flat onto the ground. “It is tails. Miss Gaffney?”
“I’ll serve.”
Lara’s face went pale and Indy’s nerves faded.
Her opponent was afraid, and there was nothing more devastating for an athlete than fear.
As they warmed up, Indy made sure to unleash her serve at maximum velocity, paying little attention to where it went. She wanted to nurture the fear, not give Lara the chance to overcome it.
Finally, the chair umpire said, “Play.”
The tennis balls were brand-new. They would fly hard and fast.
Across the net Lara was lined up far behind the baseline, shifting her weight back and forth, waiting. Indy didn’t make her wait any longer.
The serve was perfect, down the center of the court, skidding off the white painted line and past Lara, who flinched but had no chance to return it. Indy smiled, the tension releasing from her body, the rush of adrenaline settling into a comfortable ease.
The match was over before it started.