Page 35 of Everything About You
It’s the tiniest, externally imperceptible shift, but it’s just enough to screw with me. The ball is practically gifted to
Noel.
He and Celeste volley it back and forth over the net, and they erupt into laughter when Noel narrowly gains the point.
I’m glad they’re having fun, but I’m a bit frustrated with my gameplay, and we’re only starting.
This should be a well-choreographed dance—my serve should leave them panting, and we should take the first game. We should
easily take a set, really. I’m one of the best tennis players in Citrus Harbor, and I’m serving, so there’s no way I can blame
this on not being brought up on clay courts.
I know it’s friendly and this is only meant to be fun, but Rhodes sends my next serve back with ease and I practically feel an overly competitive demon curling up the back of my neck and whispering in my ear: Shout, get upset, show that you’re bothered because you’re doing so fucking poorly when you should be the best by a mile.
Remaining composed, I prepare to serve again.
I do my breathing exercise quickly, and I am ready to go.
This time, I’m all in.
Maximum power. Maximum precision.
Left foot extended, I toss the ball. It’s like slow motion. I’m off the ground and I slam the ball so hard my right foot nearly
kicks my glute from the unbridled momentum, and it’s like a bubble pops as time resumes normally in an almost cartoonlike
manner, with the ball flashing by like lightning.
It’s a brutal serve, with all the intensity I have to offer.
And Rhodes sends it back.
I slide to my left, barely making a backhand and getting the ball over the net. Noel saves it, and then so does Celeste. Rhodes
sends it back, but without much power, so I have a moment to breathe and calculate my next move as it flies toward me.
With the next few possibilities playing out in my mind, I get ready to send the ball back toward Noel, but my foot slips a
bit more than I anticipate in the clay, and when I swing, it’s short.
They take the point.
When Rhodes and Noel win the first game and we break for water, I know I need to do some breathing exercises and calm down,
because my aggravation is wildly disproportionate to the situation.
I take a squeeze bottle of water and walk away, taking deep breaths in, my chest rising and falling rapidly. I wipe sweat from my forehead and try to relax.
This is meant to be fun. You don’t need to win.
But this is tennis. I should be winning. This shouldn’t be happening.
It’s like instead of some amusing game of enjoyment and levity, I’m right back at every match when I felt this way—when I
felt like I should be better, and I just couldn’t quite crack it. When I could play a greater game, but my muscles would only
operate at ninety percent despite what my mind knew to be true. When I wanted to rip off my own flesh because my body betrayed
me, and I knew it could perform better.
I guess Rhodes was right in that sense—I’m not great at just having fun, after all.
“You all right?”
He’s reaching for me, and I instinctively jerk away as if he’s only an opponent on the court, though I quickly remedy by pretending
to be startled by him.
“Sorry,” I say.
“Bit jumpy?” Rhodes chuckles nervously. “Must say, for someone who hasn’t played much on clay, you’re doing rather well.”
With the squeeze bottle at chest level, I pivot to face him. “And what about you? Never mentioned you’re so good at tennis.”
“I’m not that...” He kicks his toe into the clay, biting his lip. “Right. I’ve played my fair share. Mum and Dad are quite
into tennis.”
“You learned all that from playing with your parents?”
“I’ve taken a few lessons,” he says. “But really, that was mostly luck. Have I done something wrong?”
Grinding my molars and trying to stay rational, I shake my head. “No. Of course not.”
“It’s just that you seem a bit off. Something’s annoyed you, hasn’t it?”
“I’m not annoyed,” I say. “I’m just cooling down from the game.”
Rhodes takes the tiniest step closer to me. “Are you upset that we won the game? Milo, I don’t want to—”
“I’m not upset you won the game.”
“But if you are, and you want me to—”
I hold up my hand. “I don’t want you to do anything differently, Rhodes. We’re playing tennis. So keep playing.”
There’s a terseness and a bite to my words that he absolutely recognizes, and I wish I could take it back, but I know there’s
also a sourness to my expression that I can’t seem to shake. It’s more than a bit irritating that he’s all but offering to
throw in the towel so I can take the win. Like there’s any pride in claiming a victory that was handed to me out of pity.
“Sorry if I’ve said something wrong,” Rhodes offers.
“You haven’t,” I say. “Let’s play our next game.”
So we do, and when Rhodes serves and they take each point like Celeste and I are just stationary decoration on the court,
my temper is unmanageable.
This internal tug-of-war is raging on, and it’s happening in record time.
One hand, I want to appreciate that Rhodes has brought us here. It’s a gorgeous day, and I’ve got basically all my favorite
people together. This is one of the coolest things to ever happen to me.
On the other hand, my competitive compulsions and sensitive ego are being stoked like coals in the belly of a dragon, with no recourse but to cough despite the fiery consequences.
I don’t want to let this part of me win over the part of me that has come to really trust and care for Rhodes, but I’m agitated,
and unfortunately this is difficult to mask, since I tend to wear my emotions on my face.
I’ve never had romantic feelings for an opponent before, and I’ve never had an opponent change from potential date to competition
to friend ? To competition et al. Just trying to recount the sequence of events that got us here is making my head spin more.
When Rhodes and Noel celebrate winning the game, I kind of get how some players submit to blind rage and throw their rackets.
Of course I don’t submit to blind rage, I just head over to the squeeze bottles and try to breathe until we play our next
game.
We lose the set, and then we lose the match.
I know I’m supposed to be having fun. I know I should enjoy it when Rhodes sneaks a few kisses in, but I find it hard to even
look at him without feeling that same sense of fervent animosity I felt the first time we sat together in the back of the
car on the way to Versailles.
Maybe it’s my nature.
There’s one question circling my mind that is haunting, really.
Even on the days when we’re supposed to be the happiest, is it always just going to be a competition?