13. Will #3
I have two chances left when I actually hit the ball with the stringy part of my racket. The contact still doesn’t feel great on my wrist, and it’s a lot less bouncy than I thought it would be—it’s like hitting a rock with a plank of wood. The ball actually goes somewhere … straight into the net.
“Not bad,” Priestley calls to me from the other side of the court.
Last chance. I ready myself for it. A few of his serves have been slightly slower than the rip-roaring ones I’ve barely flinched at.
I pray for one of those, even though they don’t guarantee I’ll even touch my racket to one.
I guess I’m walking away from here today with a whole new respect for tennis.
I get ready. Watch as Priestley throws the ball in the air. He leans back a little, brings his back leg in close to his front leg and bends them together in a movement that must have been practiced over hundreds of hours until he perfected it.
His feet actually leave the court for a second. A rush of admiration sets me off balance, and when the ball flies across the net, I move to return it … and fall flat on my face.
The car ride home isn’t fun. I don’t even have to look at him to know he’s still grinning like a Cheshire cat.
“You can stop that now.”
“Stop what?” he asks. Gah, that faux innocent tone drives me crazy.
“Can I at least call you Rosie again yet?”
“Not until we get back to Princeton.”
“Fine.”
He chuckles. “You’re such a caveman sometimes.”
I don’t even justify that with a response.
He’s humming to himself, drumming his fingers on his knee.
“Do you have a victory song?” I ask. I’d rather listen to music, even if it is Priestley’s gloating song, than his stupid, tuneless humming.
“A what?”
“You know, a song you play in the locker room when you win?”
“No.”
Did he tense up at that?
“Why not?”
“The guys used to play music in the locker room, but I thought it was a distraction.”
“Wow, you must have been popular.”
When I turn to look at him, he’s definitely tensing his jaw.
“I was keeping us on track,” he mutters.
“Wanna hear my victory song?”
Why am I trying to cheer him up? He just beat me.
“It’s your car.”
Actually, it’s not, but close enough.
I take my phone out of my pocket and press play on a playlist titled, ‘Victory.’
Priestley side-eyes me as the intro to the first song starts to play.
“Fall Out Boy?”
I laugh, feeling suddenly giddy. I must be remembering the adrenaline in the locker room after a big win.
“Can’t believe you actually know who this is,” I say.
“I do listen to music.”
“Like you watch hockey?”
He scowls at me.
“Why this song anyway? What does it have to do with victory?”
“It says ‘light ‘em up.’ That’s what we call scoring on another team in hockey. We lit ‘em up.”
He rolls his eyes so hard I think he’s gonna hurt himself. For some reason, it makes me smile.
Just to piss him off even further, I start singing. Let’s just say I won’t be auditioning for American Idol any time soon.
“And people think tennis players are nerds,” he says when the song ends and a Sia song starts playing. “Enlighten me, why is this one a victory song?”
“Because she says, ‘I’m invincible, I win every single game.’”
“God,” he groans. “How literal. How many concussions did you guys have between you?”
I laugh. A comment like that coming from him might have pissed me off before this weekend, but—even though he’s been a downer most of the time—something has definitely shifted.
As much as he’s tried to hide it, sleeping in the same house as him has shown me that Priestley Rosenthal is actually human.
Not a very fun human, but no doubt a talented one judging by what I just saw on the tennis court.
The most embarrassing part? We weren’t even on the court for twenty minutes before he handed my ass to me on a silver platter.
“I gotta admit, Priestley, you’re one hell of a tennis player.”
His expression gets somber again.
“Tennis is just a hobby for me now.”
“You never considered going pro?”
“Why would I?”
“Because you’re good? Because you obviously like it? Because pro tennis players probably make bank?”
“The top fifty or so in the world make … ‘bank,’ yes.”
“So what? It’s the money thing?”
“No, not that.” He sighs, shifting in his seat.
“It’s too uncertain. I don’t like the idea of my success hanging on a single match, a single point, changing with my ranking from year to year.
If I get a good job in finance, my trajectory can only be an upward one.
For an athlete, at a certain point, your body won’t allow that to happen. Look at Djokovic.”
I only vaguely know who he’s talking about.
Priestley gives me an impatient huff before explaining. “He was untouchable, the greatest in the world, but he’s thirty-seven-years old. Eventually, things start to give out. Now he’s beaten by players who wouldn’t have been fit to lick his shoes a few years ago.”
“Yeah, but no matter what, he’ll always be the GOAT, right? How many of those things did he win in his career?”
“Grand Slams?”
I nod.
“Twenty-four.”
I whistle. “That’s like winning twenty-four Stanley Cups, right?”
“Not unless you have four Stanley Cups a year.”
“Okay, so like five and a half Stanley Cups.” I grin. “The guy’s still a legend. He doesn’t have to do anything more.”
“But he’s Novak Djokovic. Most people aren’t him.”