Page 50 of Break Points and Face Offs

“Like this.” He crouches low and holds his racket with both hands, like he’s getting ready to catch something with it.

I try to copy him, adjusting my crouch until his face untwists from that expression.

He nods. “Better.”

“Yeah?”

“It’ll do. Good luck,” he says, slapping me on the back.

Once he has a ball in his hand, it becomes real. If I lose here, Priestley will be in charge, and I will have made it that way. Poor Peter. Priestley’s gonna give him hell. No, I haven’t lost yet. Focus. You can do this, you can⁠—

Oh, shit.

The ball already flew past me and I didn’t even flinch.

“I wasn’t ready.”

“You were in position to receive my serve.”

“Well, I wasn’t mentally ready.”

He shakes his head. “I’ll give you that one. Next time, if you’re not ready, you need to hold your hand up so I know.”

I nod.

This time, I pay attention.

I watch him bounce the ball a couple of times on the court before throwing it above his head. He brings the racket behind him before moving it in a smooth arc over his head. I don’t see the rest, it all happens in a flash. This time I at least flinch, but my feet haven’t even moved from their spot. Holy shit, he’s fast.

“That’s one,” Priestley calls over the net. “Unless you’d like to contest that one, too?”

I bite my tongue. “Nah, you’re good.” Too good.

It goes on like that for the next few serves. Me, watching him like a hawk. Him, serving so fast I barely move from my spot.

Shit, this is a lot harder than I thought it was gonna be.

Hitting targets with a hockey stick was so much easier than this. Priestley had to know that. Looks like he got me again.

On the sixth serve, I manage to actually touch the ball with the edge of my racket. It makes a horrible thump sound and plops exactly nowhere. The impact sends a shot through my wrist. Not pain exactly, but discomfort for sure. I shake my hand, trying to loosen it back up.

I expect Priestley to look smug, but he’s staring at me with concern.

“Don’t grip your racket like that,” he shouts over the net. “You’ll hurt your wrist.”

He holds his arm up to demonstrate. “Hold it like this.”

I nod and adjust my grip before getting ready for his next serve.

I still don’t manage to touch my racket to it this time, but I do move better. I’ve realized way too late that it’d take me years to master this skill. At this point, I’m just trying to embarrass myself as little as possible.

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.