Page 1 of Long Shot

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Mac

A thundering crackfilled the empty court as Mackenzie slammed the tennis ball over the net. She’d exerted every ounce of force she could muster into the play, tensing her abs and driving from her hips. It would be impossible for her opponent to return. But when it landed just outside the singles’s line, Mac’s head dropped. Using her free hand, she flicked sweat from her forehead.

“I’m guessing you already know what you did wrong?” A familiar voice and footsteps approached from behind her.

Nodding, Mac groaned. “Yeah. Not enough follow-through.”

Barbara winked. “You gotta keep that arm up.”

Mac swung the racket by her side listlessly, letting the graphite drag against the acrylic court of the John McEnroe Tennis Academy.

“Distracted?” Babs grabbed a sweat towel from the front pocket of her joggers, holding it out for Mac.

Meeting her gaze and taking the towel, Mackenzie shrugged. Barbara hadn’t always been able to read her like a book, but afew years of coaching had made it nearly impossible for Mac to avoid her knowing eyes.

Babs patted her on the back. “Look, the first Open is coming up. Qualifying is still our first hurdle. Worrying about anything beyond that is useless until you’re actually in the tournament.”

“No pressure.” Mac rolled her eyes as she twirled the tennis racket in her hands. Her entire body tensed at the thought, but she tried to steady her breathing. With any luck, the French Open would be the first time Mac actually made it past the qualifying round.

“You know what BJK would say.” Babs eyed Mackenzie.

In unison, the player and the coach recited, “Pressure is a privilege.”

After giving Mac a pat on the back, Babs walked off the court and took her seat in the creaky bleachers. From across the court, Mac’s training partner got into position to serve a few practice shots. With a nod, Mac signaled her readiness. Milliseconds later, the ball was speeding toward her.

Turning her muscular, lean body, Mac sucked in as much air as her lungs would hold. Her strong, calloused fingers gripped the neck of her racket. With a tremendous grunt, Mac met the ball with the strings of her racket. A loudcrackresounded through the indoor courts, drawing the eyes of other practicing players. When the ball landed inside the lines on the far back corner, Mac pumped her fists.

That’s more like it.

A few hours later, Babs finally dismissed Mackenzie to the locker room. Covered in sweat, Mac pushed open the women’s lockerroom door. Somehow it was more bustling inside than it was on the courts.

“Hey, Mackenzie,” One player nodded in Mac’s direction as she changed shirts.

Smiling back, Mac waved. “Lina, you looked good out there.” A Belgian player training in New York, Lina was preparing to make her debut in the U.S. Open in August. Luckily, that meant Mac didn’t have to worry about competition with her until the Summer.

Biting her lip, the TV playing Sports Central caught Mac’s eyes.

An anchor in a dark blue blazer laughed. “I mean, look at Taylor Young’s form here. No one, and I meanno one, is going to be able to take this prodigy out of the game this season.”

Mac watched the clip of Taylor’s training session. Her form was good. No… not just good: near perfect. There was hardly a hair out of place on her head. And it filled Mac with rage.

Ripping open her duffel bag, Mac gathered her shower caddy.

The anchor continued, “And we see no sign of a boyfriend in Taylor Young’s corner. So, gentlemen, keep your eyes out for this little lady.”

The entire locker room exploded with a collective retch.

“Grow up.” Lina rolled her eyes.

Mac laughed. “Seriously, these guys need to get a life.” Trying to hide her knowing smirk, Mac headed toward the showers. All the hosts on those shows tried to set up these professional women players with some random dude in a bar. It was always gross. But Mac knew something the rest of these players had only heard whispers of.That only matters if she ever feels like she can be herself without destroying her parents legacy, though.

Walking down the corridor toward the showers, Mac’s eyes caught on a black and white shot of Kimberly Young smashing a ball across the grass courts at Wimbledon. Mac sighed as she shook her head.

From behind her, a familiar voice grumbled in her ears. “We can only dream of being half as good as Kim Parker.”

Mac nodded as she turned to meet the gaze of her friend, Jazz. “You know, I think we might have it in us.”

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