Chapter 2
THE LUNCH CROWD HAD EMPTIED OUT OF DEUCE BY THE time Jasmine arrived.
She scanned the nearly empty tables for her parents.
She’d been in such a hurry that morning, she hadn’t thought much about their lunch invite, but now it struck her just how weird it was that they’d asked to meet at the club restaurant when she could have walked across the beach and had lunch at their home.
Instead, they’d insisted upon the decent but generic buffet and, most importantly, the waitstaff—witnesses.
As she rounded the corner, it all became clear.
The man from the French Open final party, the one who’d been talking about the dozens of universities that would love to have her lead their teams to the NCAA championships, was seated at the table with her parents.
She caught her own reflection in the window: an OBX T-shirt and jean shorts; her long dark hair, nearly black thanks to her shower, pulled up at the top of her head in a messy bun.
She wasn’t exactly dressed for a business meeting, but if they were ambushing her, that wasn’t her fault.
Her father and the man stood, politely waiting for her to sit down and join them.
She did, plastering a smile across her face, the same smile she wore whenever she met any of her parents’ friends, the ones who expected her to be something.
Because that’s what happens when you’re the only child of two tennis greats; people expect it of you, too.
“Jasmine, you remember Felix Wolner from Backcourt Management?” her dad asked.
“Of course, Mr. Wolner. Sorry, I didn’t know you’d be joining us for lunch,” Jasmine said, her smile turning saccharine.
“It’s Felix’s last day in town, and he mentioned that he never got a chance to finish speaking with you at the party,” her mom said with raised eyebrows, matching the sarcastic expression.
Jasmine had learned from the best.
Shrugging, she said, “Well, it was a party to watch the final, and since no one else was, I thought I’d catch the last bit of the match, just to keep up appearances.”
“It was amazing, wasn’t it?” Felix cut in. “Everyone had written Russell off as finished. Nice to see he had more tennis in him.”
“Not so amazing,” Jasmine said. “He worked his ass off and he got results. It’s simple.”
“His physical gifts are tremendous, though, you have to agree. That kind of natural talent? That’s what makes a great pro.”
“Natural talent will only get you so far,” Jasmine retorted. The conversation had long ceased to be about Alex Russell. “And all the talent in the world is worthless if you don’t work at it.” She took a sip of her water, satisfied she’d won a point…
“Precisely,” Felix said, and Jasmine nearly choked on an ice cube.
“You agree?” she asked, setting her glass down and looking over at her parents. She hadn’t expected that. At all.
“I do,” he said, eyeing her father. “Some players are ready at as young as sixteen”—he gestured to her mother—“others seventeen or eighteen, and then others perhaps not until they’re twenty or so.
Women tend to hit their physical peak a little earlier than men, but not all of them.
More recently, with new training techniques, we’re finding twenty-five to twenty-eight to be the optimal age for a professional tennis player, though really, it’s up to the individual. ”
Damn it. She’d walked right into that one. “So, what are you saying?” she asked, tired of beating around the bush.
“Your parents asked me to talk to you, Jasmine, because this is what I do. I look at all the young tennis talent the world has to offer and I assess their abilities, figure out where they belong in the scheme of things so they have the best careers they can.”
“That’s Dom’s job,” she countered, disliking how much sense he was making.
“Dom’s job is to make you into the best tennis player he can.
From what I can see in your recent play, in my professional opinion, he’s succeeded.
Now schools like Harvard, Duke, UNC, Stanford, and most of the SEC and Big Ten are all lining up to have you lead their teams for the next four years.
And they’d like to give you a world-class education in return. ”
“And that’s the best player I can be?” She threw up her hands and looked her dad in the eye.
“That’s what you’re saying, right? That right now the best player I can be is a college athlete?
I disagree. I’ve been around tennis my entire life, Mr. Wolner.
Indy and I just played against the best doubles team in the world, we forced them into a tiebreak, and in a couple of weeks, I’m going to Wimbledon.
Don’t you guys get it? This is happening now.
College is great for some people, but that’s not what I want. ”
“Jasmine, mija, we’re just trying to show you all the options,” her mom said, reaching across the table for her hand, but Jasmine yanked it away, standing up.
“This isn’t an option for me, and if you can’t understand that, maybe you should stay out of it.”
“Stay out of it?” her dad asked, the idea clearly a foreign concept. Maybe that was her fault. She’d let them hold on to control of her career for too long.
“Yes. I’m going to Wimbledon, and it’s going to be amazing, and if you can’t support that, if you can’t get behind it, then maybe you should just stay home.”
She didn’t stay to watch her parents’ reactions; she didn’t even know if she meant the words that spilled out, so she just kept walking.
She made it to the video analysis room almost an hour early, determined to put everything that had just happened out of her head.
The only way to prove her parents wrong would be to win in London.
Indy would be there soon, and Dom would insist they go over the day’s training footage, but something about the way Wolner had spoken about her recent performance was eating away at her.
She’d played really well at the OBX Classic up until the last set, and at the French Open she’d been at the top of her game during her doubles match.
Was there something he’d seen during that match that made him sure she belonged in the NCAA?
Or was he just full of shit and wanting a cut of the NIL money she was sure to make playing in college?
She was just about to pull up the footage when Indy came flying through the door. “Hey, you’re early.”
Indy ran her hand through her hair, her long blond curls spilling over one shoulder. “Yeah, I—uh—finished lunch and figured I’d get a head start, but I guess great minds think alike.”
Jasmine scoffed, unable to keep the grin off her face. “Please. Did you finish lunch early or did you skip lunch for some dessert?”
Indy collapsed into the chair next to her, bumping her shoulder roughly. “Shut up. It was so bad, a bunch of junior boys nearly saw us.”
Jasmine smirked at her friend. For a second, Jasmine considered telling Indy what had happened at lunch, but her gut twisted at the idea.
It had been too long since she’d had a close friend, someone she could trust enough to tell something like that, especially another player.
She’d been burned before and more than once.
Her partner’s physical talents were the kind guys like Felix Wolner drooled over, but from a distance. There was no way Indy would be asked to waste four years of her prime at college, not when she could match her serve up against the best players in the world and come out on top.
Indy would be nice about it, but she wouldn’t understand, not really. So instead, Jasmine said, “Seriously, though, you guys should be careful.”
There were a lot of people who would love to have that kind of information on Indy, mostly the catty assholes she’d put to shame the day she stepped on the OBX courts.
Jasmine had been one of them, and there was a time when stumbling upon Jack Harrison and Indiana Gaffney wrapped up in each other’s arms, mouths fused together, would have had the more devious parts of her mind whirling.
“I know…” Indy said, trailing off. “Let’s just get this done, okay? If we can get it out of the way, I can still grab something to eat before my session with Dom.”
“Right, and what was it again that got in the way before?” Jasmine said, tongue between her teeth, the reminder enough to make Indy flush.
“In the way of what?” Dom’s voice carried from the back of the room.
“Nothing,” they said together, glancing at each other before dissolving into laughter.
Dom strode in, shaking his head. “And to think, just a few weeks ago, you two nearly beat the living shit out of each other on the practice court. The good old days. Can you get yourselves under control long enough to analyze this?”
Jasmine pressed her lips together and then said, “Let’s do this.”
“Absolutely,” Indy agreed, but as soon as Dom’s back was to them to turn on the monitor, she dug her elbow into Jasmine’s side. Jasmine promptly elbowed her back but then pulled her tablet out of her bag so she could take notes.
“Okay, ladies, let’s take a look,” their coach said, settling in beside them and starting the video.
Their hitting session today had been relatively normal, facing two talented junior boys who could serve the ball hard and cover a lot of ground but who hadn’t proved too much of a challenge.
Dom sped through most of the video, making small corrections on their decision-making: Try a forehand rather than a slice backhand, don’t hesitate on an overhead volley, mix in a few slice serves out and away. Plus a few physical mistakes.
Indy had a tendency to overplay a volley at the net with too much wrist action.
Jasmine was always out on her front foot on her backhand, her shoulder flying out before the ball had fully contacted the racket, a problem she’d been working on for years but had never quite figured out.
She doodled BACKHANDS in big bold letters across her screen, coloring each letter in as Dom explained an issue with Indy’s footwork at the net.