Chapter 27 Jaden #2
“You scared all of us. But we’re still here.” She pulls my hand up and presses a bright-green ball into my palm. “Now kick his ass.”
I smirk, however insincere it may be, and I have to admit the rise it seems to give my friend does make my heart swell.
“I’ll be right here, like the ball girl. And if you feel like you need a break, we’ll take a break. If you want to just stop because it’s . . . well, a lot, we’ll stop. Nobody’s trying to hurt you, J. We love you.”
I sniffle, trying to keep my roller-coaster emotions in check, and nod.
“I love you,” I tell her. She squeezes my arm, then shuffles backward several steps and flattens her back against the green padded wall.
I turn slowly and take in the view, trying to reconcile everything it meant to me once with what it symbolizes now.
This is still the greatest college court in the country.
It’s where my hero won her final college match before going pro.
It’s where I pictured myself doing the same.
I battle against the snapshots from my memories of that day, the frames that try to interrupt.
The brightness that flashed before my eyes just before I hit the concrete.
The acrid smell of rubbing alcohol and the sharp prick of a needle in my finger to test my glucose.
The blurred vision, and the spinning world that wouldn’t let my eyes find him.
Him.
Bryson.
The sheer terror on his face.
“One second,” I say, turning my back to him and his sister and Ashton, who are sitting just above him in the stands. I close my eyes after meeting Taryn’s gaze and breathe out slowly.
“It’s just a tennis court. Concrete, lines, and a net. The racket in my hand is mine. It knows my hand. I know these strings. This place is where I belong. I can do this.”
For just a moment, I hear it—a thousand voices cheering my name, rooting me on. When I open my eyes, they’re gone. But they were there. My dream is still there, fighting. Bryson is fighting.
It’s my turn to fight too.
I turn around and start to bounce on my feet. The heaviness is there, but the more I move, the lighter they feel. Muscle memory will carry me. I lift my head and pause my steps long enough to stare my opponent right in the eyes.
“Ready?”
This time, his smirk is real. I just hope he can maintain it, that I can maintain this feeling. All I need to do is win. Just once, and then I can decide for sure. I’m either done, or I’m going to keep fighting. I beat Bryson, which should be easy, then I beat Adrianne. Then . . . everyone.
“Serve,” Bryson says.
I bounce the ball three times, then hold it to the head of my racket, my focus zeroing in on the ball and nothing else.
I breathe out through tight lips and arch as I toss the ball in the air.
My racket slices through it, spinning it and sending it just over the net, catching the inside of the line for an ace that nearly clips Bryson’s knee.
“Whoo whoo!” Ashton shouts, whistling with his fingers. My lip inches up, and I’m not certain if it was the feeling in my arm or the praise that has me feeling the inklings of a spark. Perhaps both.
“Go on. Do that again. I dare you,” Bryson taunts.
I move to the other side of the baseline, my hands still buzzing with a mix of fear and energy.
“I can do this,” I say in a hushed voice that maybe Taryn can hear, but no one else. She’s heard me talk to myself plenty.
I bounce the ball three times, just like before, then pause with it pressed against the racket head.
Exhale.
I toss the ball, but the minute I look up, my chest is gripped with an icelike panic, so I let it fall to the ground.
“Are you okay?” Taryn says.
I wave her away without turning around. I don’t want to say it out loud, but if I can’t own this court against Bryson, then I really am done.
It was one thing to feel ready to quit off the court, but standing right here—in the place where I imagined greatness—and falling short? That would be a sign from the universe.
“Bad toss,” I lie, regrouping and bouncing the ball just like before. I lift my gaze to meet Bryson’s, and from seventy-eight feet away, I can still read the worry in his eyes.
“Bad toss,” I say, louder.
He doesn’t react, not even a nod. He knows it’s a lie. But he’s going to let me sell the others on it.
I close my eyes and begin my routine again, three bounces and the ball pressed to the head.
Toss.
I swing hard, my angle a little off, and I miss nailing inside the baseline by about a foot.
“Fault!” Ashton shouts.
I chuckle, and it’s the first time I’ve laughed in days.
“Did you have to google that?” I tease.
“Fault!” he shouts again, this time pointing at me, then holding his arms over his head and striking one wrist with the other.
“That’s a personal foul, asshat!” I bark at him.
“Hey, she knows football,” Ashton says, clapping excitedly while Bryson shakes his head.
The levity on the court would normally annoy me.
I take every game seriously, even the ones that don’t count for anything more than a plastic figurine with a tangled parachute.
I assume that’s what’s at stake with this, since Bryson was forced to burn his favor on getting me out here in the first place.
Maybe that’s a positive outcome from falling apart completely, though. Perhaps the universe is gracing me with the ability to ease up on myself, on everyone, when I’m out here.
I bounce the ball a few extra times, changing up my routine while I mull over that last thought, then hold the ball to the edge of my racket as I lift my gaze and stare at Bryson’s body.
I can beat him easily. Even out of practice and shattered as I am.
I should beat him. But can I manage to take an entire set without him getting as much as a single return?
My upper lip twitches just before I toss the ball and slice it over the net, serving him the tennis equivalent of a changeup. His arm slashes through the air, his timing way off, and he sends the ball into the seats. I snicker.
“I saw that,” Bryson says.
“What?” I say, my voice stronger than it’s been in days. My feet are solid under me suddenly, and the tingling that’s been teasing my arms and neck seems to have subsided.
This feels right. It feels good.
It feels like home.
“You’re enjoying this,” Bryson says.
Everyone can hear him, and the weight of admitting that I am in front of witnesses pins me to the ground for a breath. My body rushes with heat, and I’m not sure if it’s adrenaline or if I’m embarrassed to admit that Bryson’s right. And then it hits me.
Who cares if he is?
“A little,” I say. It’s a lie. I’m beginning to revel in it.
I manage to sweep through my serve, then break Bryson’s without letting him earn a single point.
By the third game, I need to pause for water and to blot my forehead with the towel.
I’m working up a good sweat. Part of that is from everything I’ve been through, but also I’m working hard.
I’m not full strength, but I can taste it.
I can feel the boiling desire to win creep into my belly.
Bryson lucks out on a return in our third game, and losing the challenge I made to myself fuels me to play him harder.
We play a total of five games, and other than scoring a few lucky points made on my serving errors, Bryson goes down in flames.
I’m breathing harder than I was the last time I played like this, and Bryson isn’t a real competitor, which shows me how much work I have in front of me if I decide to continue playing.
But the thrill is there. He was right. This game is a part of me.
The only question left is: Do I need it?