Page 35 of Summer After Summer

“Which I’ll be leaving as soon as I help my father clear out the house and settle in somewhere else.”

He releases me, a look of confusion passing over his face. “I thought you loved it here.”

“I did.”

“What changed?”

“Life, Fred. You’ve been living yours and I’ve been living mine, and you don’t know me anymore, okay? And I don’t know you.”

“And you want to keep it that way.”

“I think it’s best.”

“All right, then.” His voice sounds sad, but I know that’s wishful thinking.

Fred doesn’t want to be in my life—he’s made that perfectly clear. He just doesn’t like scenes.

“Thanks for the lift.”

“When I see you on court, I’ll keep my distance.”

“On court?”

“At the club. Don’t you play there every morning?”

A lump forms in my throat because I don’t. I haven’t played in years. But I don’t want to tell him that. I don’t want to give him an inch into the person I am now because I can’t stand it—not again.

So instead, I open the door and leap down onto the gravel path. I close it firmly behind me, and since I know he’s going to wait until he sees me inside, I run into the night and slip into the house before the first tear falls.

“Hey, Coach,” I say the next morning as I poke my head through the door of his office.

“Well, well, well. Olivia Taylor, as I live and breathe.” Coach Matt walks toward me with his arms extended.

Matteo Fernandez was a long-time journeyman on the Association of Tennis Professionals tour in the seventies who never quite lived up to his potential. Sidelined by injuries and self-doubt, he retired early and took on the coaching position at the club, shepherding the next generation of players through his no-nonsense regime. During the summer months, we played outside on the grass courts, and in the fall we moved to the indoor facility, alternating between hard courts and clay. The program had produced three junior champions, two lower-level tour players, and me, “the best of all of them,” he used to say.

He pulls me into a bear hug, his thin frame pressing against mine, then releases me. His face is lined from years in the sun, and there’s almost no hair under his ball cap, but otherwise, he looks the same: six feet, on the thin side, with strong forearms and legs.

“You looking to hit?” he asks, motioning to my tennis whites.

I pulled them out of a drawer early this morning, wondering if they’d still fit. They did, and so I wandered over here in a haze, asking myself what I was doing.

“You looking to get beat?”

“Confidence! Love it. You have a racquet?”

“I don’t.”

“I can rustle one up for you.”

“Thanks, Coach.”

He checks his watch. “Perfect timing. The others will be arriving shortly.”

“The others?”

“The team. I assume you want to go through the whole routine?”

The whole routine is three hours of warmups, hitting drills, serving, then playing a match. “Sure, let’s do it. Only, go easy on me, okay? It’s been a while.”

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