Page 27 of Long Shot

Anyone else feel the tension between these two? Wild vibes.

Taylor swallowed the lump in her throat. Clicking into one of the clips, Taylor couldn’t deny it either. Their chemistry – or whatever they wanted to call it – was palpable. The locker room fight probably didn’t help.

It would be a lie to say she hadn’t been a little excited the entire match. Her tight skirt rubbed against her hard clit every time she chased a shot. With hindsight, it was a wonder she managed to make it through the match at all.

But it wasn’t good. If people were picking up on their history, Taylor wasn’t doing a good enough job hiding it.

As if on cue, Taylor’s phone dinged with a text from Kim:

Set up dates for you with Connor Garcia. You both need cover. People are catching on.

It was the most Kim would ever say about her queerness. After she had caught Taylor and Mac in Tay’s room, Kim had placed strict rules on who Taylor could associate with. The words came flying back to Taylor: “It’s for your own good. The world isn’t kind to women player’s like that. It fulfills every stereotype audiences think about us.”

Taylor tried to fight her on it. At the end of the day, Kim had seen the WTA at its worst. When players like Barbara McConnell were forced to change in the hallway to not make the other women uncomfortable. At least, what few players in the league were actually straight.

Shoving another piece of sushi into her mouth, Taylor like-reacted the text and threw her phone on the couch. She leaned back as she chewed, watching as Bette Porter confessed her feelings to Tina for about the fiftieth time.

Taylor couldn’t pull her eyes away. Her heart ached as she watched. Every time she blinked, an image of Mac’s face in the locker room flashed behind her lids.

Looking out the window, Taylor couldn’t help but wonder what Mac was doing in this very same city.

11

Mac

The redeye flighthad really taken it out of Mac. Despite losing in the quarterfinals, Mac decided to take some of her winnings and take her mom and Babs out around Paris for a few days.

They downgraded to a cheaper hotel and spent the last few days of the tournament shopping and sightseeing. Of course, Mac stole away to watch Taylor’s match… for research. But now, as Mac stumbled toward her apartment as the sun rose over Astoria, all she wanted was to be in her bed and go train at the McEnroe Center.

That wouldn’t be happening this morning. While waiting in the airport, Mac had received an email from Tommy. She had been invited for a racket fitting at the flagship store of a major sporting goods company. Their only available slot? 9 am the day her flight landed.

Checking her watch as she walked down 31st Avenue, Mac had just enough time to go home, drop her things, and shower.

She barely made it up her steps, her backpack, racket bag, and suitcase all strapped to her body. But she put the key in thelock, trying to be quiet for her sleeping roommates. They usually got up to train early but Mac wasn’t willing to risk getting a taste of their exhausted anger.

As soon as the door opened, a blow horn bellowed from inside.

Jazz rushed the door and wrapped Mac in a hug. In an announcer’s voice, Jazz hollered, “Grand Slam quarterfinalist, Mackenzie Bennet!”

Beatriz jumped up and down on the couch. “That’s our girl!”

Mac set her bags down, her shoulders dropping with relief. “You guys are sweet. But I didn’t beat Taylor.”

Waving off her confession, Jazz walked Mac to the couch where a stack of protein waffles waited for her. “True, but you made that old bitch Kim worry about you. Happy Pride Month, motherfucker.”

The room erupted with laughter, cut short by a loud bang from the floor below.

“Shit, it’s six am.” Mac giggled. Cutting into the dish, Mac shoved an ungodly amount into her mouth. It wasn’t a fresh Parisian pastry, but it was home and that meant a whole lot more.

Clapping her hands together, Mac wiped her mouth. “So, I got a call about a free racket fitting and I’ve gotta get ready to go. But…”

Before she could even get the sentence out, Beatriz pumped her fists. “Drinks on our rich friend, Mac!”

Jazz joined in. “Rich bitch! Rich bitch!”

Mac rolled her eyes before grabbing her stuff and heading to her room. She tossed the backpack onto her bed, resting the racket bag against her cheap IKEA bed frame. After spending a couple weeks in France, the room felt shockingly bare. In the two years she’d lived in the apartment, Mac only hung up a full-length mirror and Renee Rapp poster.

Wiping the sleep from her eyes, Mac grabbed a clean towel from the closet. It wasn’t as fluffy as the ones room service would bring every morning, but they’d do. Besides, once she could do some laundry, she’d probably use the Roland Garros towels for everything.

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