Page 19 of Drop Shot
My mom giggles as my dad heads toward the kitchen. “Men are so sensitive. He acts like I didn’t marry him and have kids with him.” My eyes flicker upstairs and my mom, like always, senses what I want. “Let me grab a tray of fresh lemonade for you to take upstairs. Yeah?”
“Thanks, Mom.” I give her a grateful smile.
My mom is probably my best friend in the entire world. She can be a bit exuberant and over the top, but her heart is always in the right place.
“No problem.”
In the kitchen, I help her fill the glasses with ice and her signature homemade lemonade with white and blue striped straws and matching umbrellas. I smile as I stroke one of the umbrellas. I thought they were the cutest thing as a little girl and she used to add them to all my drinks so I would feel special.
If I ever have kids, I want to be a mom like her—a mother who goes out of her way for her kids, who does both the little and big things to make them feel important.
I load the drinks onto a tray and take them upstairs to Juniper’s room.
The outside of her door boasts an assortment of stickers around a plaque with her name. I giggle when I notice a variety of the stickers are One Direction related. The band is Junie’s latest obsession after binging a bunch of their videos on YouTube. She’s always asking us when the next album is coming because she refuses to believe they’re actually broken up.
She doesn’t quite grasp the fact that whileshejust discovered them, the world has known about them much longer.
I give a light knock on the door that’s partially open.
Inside, I hear Juniper heave one of her signature dramatic sighs. “I told you she’d find us.”
Elias chuckles. “We could hide in the closet.”
Junie giggles in answer and there’s shuffling inside. “She’ll never find us,” I hear Junie whisper to him. Well, what she considers a whisper. “Come in,” she hollers out to me.
Shaking my head, I push the door open the rest of the way.
Inside, her room is the same as always. Beige carpet. An eclectic mix of posters that don’t seem to match her butterfly covered quilt. Her room is splashed with random articles of clothing that make me smile because it reminds me of when I was a teenager. My room was always covered with my clothes like pieces of confetti forgotten on the floor.
“Junie Bug, I thought for sure I heard you in here,” I say, setting the tray down on her bed. “And to think I brought this yummy fresh lemonade up here to share with you. I guess I’ll just have to drink it all.”
I’ve no more than picked up my glass, then she comes tumbling out of the closet with a cry of, “No! Don’t touch my lemonade.”
Elias peeks around the edge of her closet door with a mischievous grin. Him and my sister together are a lethal combination because the shenanigans they can get into are limitless.
I arch a brow at him. “What would Tennis Today say if they saw you hiding in a closet?” I quip.
Elias shakes his head clearly trying not to smile. He rubs his fingers over his lips to hide anything that might poke through.
“You’re terrible.”
I shrug. “I mean, they seem to think since you don’t date that you must be gay.”
It’s actually pretty disgusting to me that a magazine about asportcares so much about any players sexuality. It’s pretty funny too considering Elias isn’t shy about hiding his conquests and anyone that knows him knows he’s not the type to hide anything. If he were gay he’d be loud and proud about it. He was one of the first players to openly speak out in support when a fellow US doubles player came out as gay.
“Elias, come on,” Junie encourages, scooping up her own glass of lemonade. “My mom makes the best homemade lemonade. Just you wait. It’ll blow your mind.”
“The best?” he asks, stepping fully out of the closet and sliding the door shut behind him. “I definitely have to try it then.”
Junie grabs the remaining glass since I’ve already claimed mine and hands it to Elias. She wears an eager grin, waiting for him to take a sip.
He does, eyes widening with impressed glee. “That is some damn good lemonade.”
Juniper laughs. “Told ya. Our mom makes all kinds of good stuff.”
“Is that so?” he arches a brow in my direction. “Like what?”
“She makes pretty much everything from scratch. Bread, pasta, you name it and she has an entire garden I’m sure she’ll force you to see before we leave,” I explain.
