“I’ll do it,” said the girl suddenly standing behind us.
We all turned to face her. With her hair chopped real short, her knees skinned from diving for the ball one too many times, and the boys clothing she always wore she could easily pass for one.
“You gonna jump off this?” I taunted, pointing to the ledge. I didn’t believe she’d go through with it.
Maren walked right up to the edge of the cliff, took one look at the lake, and nodded. Without a moment’s hesitation, she stripped off her t-shirt to reveal a tank top and toed off her beat-up Nikes.
Looking back on it, I deserved every minute of the ass whooping my father gave me when I got home. Maren was around ten at the time. I had no idea how strong a swimmer she was. She could’ve easily gotten hurt––if not worse.
“Can you swim?” My tone stunk of contempt even though I was secretly impressed with her courage.
“I’m an okay swimmer,” she replied, ignoring my ongoing shitty treatment of her.
“You two bitches can meet us at the bottom with our stuff,” I told my friends. Dane and J shared a look of doubt before returning to glare at me.
“Ready?” I had to ask, expecting her to back out at the last minute. Instead, she looked me dead in the eyes, stepped up, and took my hand like it was the most natural thing to do. Like she’d done it a million times before. I remember staring at it, thinking how small it looked in mine.
“I count to three and we go on jump.”
She stared back and nodded, her unblinking green eyes filled with undisguised awe.
“Last chance––you sure?”
“On jump,” she repeated, licking her lips, the first sign that she was nervous.
With those two words, I closed my fingers tightly around her small hand and started counting. And on jump, hand in hand, we stepped off that ledge together, grinning like fools.
It only took me another decade to figure out that was the day I fell for Maren Murphy.
Chapter One
Maren
“Advantage, Williams,” the umpire calls.
Sweat beads on my forehead, leaks down my temples and cheeks. I wipe it away with the back of my wristband but there’s more where that came from. After three hours of playing, everything is soaked in sweat. Shirt, hair, headband. I can feel my feet squishing in my sneakers.
My thighs burn like I’ve been playing with dumbbells strapped to my ankles. My shoulders ache. The hundred percent humidity and heat are as heavy and dense as cement in my lungs. It’s almost impossible to breathe.
Clear history…clear history…shake it off.
The low hum of the packed stadium breaks into my thoughts. My eyes dart to the stands of Arthur Ashe Stadium, to where my boyfriend sits next to my manager. Mirrored shades shielding his eyes, Oliver uncrosses his arms and pumps a fist, urging me on.
“Quiet, please.”
I check my racket strings, take my place behind the line, squat, and sway left to right. I rotate my racket exactly once in both directions. I’m superstitious. Always have been. I’ve gone through the same routine since winning my first pro match and this isn’t just any match. This is the match I’ve been waiting for all year––all my life frankly.
Exhaling my frustration, I close my eyes briefly and dig deep, searching for a spark, trying to summon what’s left of my energy.
Visualize the win…visualize the win…see the ball hit your racket…visualize the win…you can do this.
The crowd quiets. My opponent bounces the ball twice, throws it up in the air, and everything else falls away. My field of vision narrows, reduces to a single florescent yellow object. She reaches into the clear blue sky and nails the serve, her loud grunt echoing throughout the stadium.
My mind shuts down and my muscles react, the millions of hours I’ve devoted to the game of tennis boiling down to this singular moment. It’s what I live for, sacrifice for, what gives me purpose and drive. This is what I was born to do.
As the ball barrels toward me, I know I’m late. This game is measured in fractions of seconds and inches and right now they are not measuring up. Call it an instinct, a gift––whatever. I’m late to react and I know it.
Time slows down as I dive for the ball and still it isn’t enough. Tennis racket stretched out, I watch it miss the strings, clips the frame, and sail past me.
Thud.
The sound of the ball hitting the padded wall is not one I ever want to hear. The crowd roars, exploding out of their seats. The hard court makes contact with my wrist, my hipbone, and lastly my face. I scream but no sound comes out.
All I feel is pain. So much agonizing pain branches through me it edges out every other sense. I lie on the hard court reeling, curling myself into a fetal position as I fight back the sting of tears, the darkness eating me up.