Page 22 of Long Shot

Once her mom left, put her hair up in a tight bun and threw a tube of SPF 100 sunscreen into her bag. This match with Taylor could go on for hours, and a sunburn would only make it worse.

With her bag packed, Mac walked down to the lobby and out of the hotel. Before she knew it, a cab was dropping her off at the players' entrance to Court Suzanne Lenglen. Inside, the typically calm hallway was bustling with life.

Reporters lined the entrance, and as soon as they noticed Mac, their cameras started flashing. Startled, Mac offered a polite wave and a smile as she navigated through the crowd.

“Ms. Bennett, how are you feeling this morning?” an American journalist called out.

Mac struggled to locate the reporter amid the incessant flash of the cameras. “Good. Ready for another match.”

A French radio host shouted over the noise. “How do you feel facing off against your former friend?”

Mac stumbled, nearly stopping in her tracks. The question felt like a knife being slowly pressed into her gut. It never stopped hurting how inaccurate the word “friend” really was. Mac pursed her lips and shrugged. “The courts will decide.”

Before they could ask anything else, Mac brushed past the reporters toward the training room. She pushed open the door to find Babs leaning against the bench press. “How’d you like the star treatment?”

“They’re pushy.” Mac tossed her bag on the ground, ready to work.

Babs spent the next two hours getting Mac stretched and warmed up. Practicing form, they talked through some strategy as they worked.

Thirty minutes before the match was set to begin, Babs stood tall. “You’re ready. Just remember, she’s young, and she’s not as tired as you; expect her to hit the balls you think she can’t.”

Mac nodded, grabbing her bag and heading toward the door. She had to secure her gear in the locker room before heading out to the court.

Just before she could walk out of the door, Babs raised a finger. “Half of this match starts in that locker room. Don’t give her a goddamn inch.”

A sly smirk crept onto Mac’s face. “You know I won’t.”

She marched out of the training room and down the hall to the locker room. The door swung open to an eerily quiet space. At this point, only one woman’s match was happening at a time. Most of the players who had entered the Open had been eliminated.

Without a word, Mac walked straight to her locker. She set her bag on the bench at the center of the aisle, checking over her shoulder as she unpacked. Pulling out the tube of sunscreen, she massaged enough onto her body to hopefully last her the match. After she was done, she walked to the bathroom and washed her hands thoroughly. She hadn’t come this far just to lose her grip on the racket.

It wasn’t until she was tossing the bottle back into her bag that she heard the squeak of sneakers on the polished cement floors behind her.

When Mac lifted her head to look, Taylor Young was striding down the aisle of lockers toward her. Without a word, Taylor brushed past Mac and began entering the code on her combination lock. Her locker was about four spots to the left on the opposite wall of Mac’s, but Mac’s skin burned as if Taylor was right on top of her.

Mac peeked over her shoulder, trying to get a glimpse into her opponent’s locker. It was already stocked with recovery drinks, protein bars, and fresh socks.

Whipping her head around, Taylor glared at Mac. “Can I help you?”

Mac shrugged and turned back to her own locker. “Nope. Just glad to see the princess taken care of. Do you think Coach-Mommy Kim will still pack your lunch box when you lose?”

There was a second of silence before Mac heard the locker slam. Taylor moved quickly, effortlessly climbing over the center bench to tower just a few inches from Mac’s face. The brim of Mac’s cap nearly touched Taylor’s forehead.

Her chest heaved as she stared down at Mac.

Is that pain in her eyes?Mac tried to hide her confusion as Taylor glowered down at her.

But after a moment of silence, Taylor simply laughed in Mac’s face, her warm breath tickling Mac’s skin. “Enjoy your seven minutes. When we’re done here, everyone will remember who the true champion is.”

Taylor lingered near Mac’s face, her familiar vanilla scent overriding any response Mac could muster. A memory flashed through Mac’s mind: Taylor, wrapped up in sheets, resting her head on Mac’s chest. A knock at the door. Kim’s fury. The yelling. Taylor’s humiliation.

Mac’s heart raced as the impulse to hide clawed its way back to the front of her mind. But she resisted, tensing her jaw and lifting her chin to meet Taylor’s gaze. All she wanted to do was rub it in Taylor’s face – that no matter how hard the Youngs tried to ruin her life, Mac got to be who she truly was.

But she couldn’t stomach it. It would hurt Taylor too much. She was here for herself, not to tear down a trapped bird.

Taylor pulled away first, snatching her racket bag from the bench and heading to the door. Rolling her neck from side to side, Mac followed suit.

As she reached the locker room door, Mac pushed past Taylor.

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