Page 38 of The Rebel (Covington Prep: The Girls We Love #7)

PARIS

Match point.

I crouched into ready position, my stance wide, torso gently swaying. He’d served out wide on the last deuce court, so I anticipated he’d go down the tee this time, my body slightly veering to my backhand side.

I got it wrong. Like I had too many times this week. And last week. And the week before.

The ball landed on the side line and spun away from me so that I’d need a ten foot handle to reach it.

“Game, set and match to Hugo Hombre, 7-5, 6-3,” the umpire announced for the entire stadium to hear. I approached the net, watching as Hombre jogged joyously up to me. With a customary hand shake and patting of one another’s shoulder, I offered my congratulations.

Be gracious in defeat. That was one of the many things Mom had ingrained in me. Always show good sportsmanship.

I smiled as I shook the umpire’s hand, returning to my seat to pack up my bag. I jammed in the rackets, drink bottles, towels, electrolyte sachets and bananas that I hadn’t needed. I daren’t look up toward the seats where Mom and Dad were sitting. Because if I did I might cry.

I took my time in the locker room—Mom couldn’t come in here and Dad wouldn’t because his role was backup to Mom. He didn’t involve himself in the actual tennis, in analyzing the play.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this. This European tour was to be a stepping stone to proving I had what it takes to be on the professional circuit.

After my wild card entry into the US Open, there was pressure to perform, to show that I deserved my place and that I had what it takes to be on this stage.

I should have been winning these tournaments, but so far making it to the second round had been my biggest achievement. Big deal.

The dream was turning into a nightmare.

I couldn’t figure it out. There was no reason that I should be failing.

Sure, the countries were new, the court surfaces were different but not so much that I couldn’t adapt.

I’d had a great spell at the academy in Florida, learning so much from the coaches.

I’d been eager to get on the road, to experience the life of a traveling tennis player.

Yet, somehow I was a failure.

I couldn’t string together points, couldn’t fully focus, couldn’t make adjustments on court. I’d flounder, I’d panic, I’d play stupid shots and forget my game plan.

Was it burn-out? Was I doomed, had I passed my peak already?

Was I not cut out for this next level of tennis?

If I couldn’t win matches I didn’t get points, and if I didn’t get points I didn’t get into tournaments, and if I didn’t play tournaments my sponsors would drop me.

I could see the headlines already—Paris Reid, failed tennis star at the age of 19, spent his whole life preparing for this but couldn’t step up to the big time, a one-hit wonder known only for winning a first round match in the US Open as a wild card.

Was that going to be the pinnacle of my success?

“Hey, hard luck, man. Next time.” One of the players knuckle bumped me as I took the dreaded step toward the door.

“Sure.” I nodded, appreciating his support.

The tennis community was like that, my competitors were also my supporters, on court we battled, off court we bantered.

But now my heart thumped at the thought of seeing my parents.

Dad, not so much, but Mom was likely to be disappointed.

And not just disappointed, but crushed. She’d given everything for this, for me to live my dream and this was how I was repaying her—by losing, letting her down. I was a dud, a failure.

I shook my head, my damp hair spraying around and took a deep breath of courage. I’d need it...time to face the music.

I wasn’t wrong. Mom held a kind face until we got back to the apartment where, as expected, she let rip.

“You went soft!” she yelled. “You were dabbing at the ball, scared to hit through it.”

“I was trying to!” I shouted back in retaliation.

“Your arm was weak. And you stood back behind the baseline. Defensive the entire time.”

“You don’t think I was trying to come forward?” My sarcasm was thick. “You don’t think I wanted to attack?”

“It’s like your feet were stuck in concrete. There was no footwork,” Mom griped. “Your movement was awful.”

“Well, I told you I don’t like the soft bananas. They’re too mushy and make me gag.”

“Really?” Mom gasped in astonishment. “You’re going to blame the bananas for your lack of footwork?

Paris, a banana is a banana. It didn’t make you lose!

” She rolled her eyes in utter bewilderment as if she couldn’t believe the excuses I was offering, then pointed to her head.

“It’s what’s up here. That’s what wins games. ”

“Shhhhh,” Dad interrupted with a gentle and diplomatic hush. “Let’s just talk in normal voices, eh? Don’t want to upset our neighbors.”

Mom and I quietened but the stare-off continued.

Usually I valued her analysis of the game, pointing out all the things I’d done wrong—or well—but I was beating myself up enough as it was.

I knew I’d been stuck behind the baseline, which meant none of my shots had any penetration and my opponent had been able to hit winners.

And after my serve was broken in the second set, I had yielded to what I referred to as patter tennis, just keeping balls in play, not hitting through the ball, desperate to stay in the point, not my natural game.

“Tomorrow’s another day,” Dad noted.

Mom huffed and picked up her laptop, sighing in annoyance, exasperation, disgust—probably all of the above.

I went over to the kitchen, opening the pantry door and perusing the contents.

I’d downed a small energy bar and a protein shake in the locker room but I needed something more substantial now.

Something comforting, like a peanut butter sandwich.

“Where’s the peanut butter?” I asked, placing the loaf of bread on the counter.

“Peanut butter?” Dad asked. “I don’t think we have any. We didn’t bring it from France.”

“Well, you went shopping yesterday, didn’t you?”

“There’s cans of tuna there,” Mom called. “Make a tuna sandwich.”

“I don’t feel like a tuna sandwich,” I drawled through gritted teeth, my frustration levels rising. How was I supposed to perform at my optimum when I didn’t have the proper recovery food?

“Hey, we’ll be going out for dinner—,” Dad started to say but Mom drew in a sharp and loud inhale and exclaimed, “Oh my goodness! Look at this.”

Dad raced over to the couch where she was sitting and I took a plain slice of bread and stuffed it in my mouth—yeah, mainly as a show of petulance. If I choked on it, it would be their fault.

“I got an email from Principal Portman. Vali’s art work has been selected for the spring exhibition.”

I stood behind the couch, peering over their shoulders at the laptop.

Mom clicked a file and a picture filled the screen, a picture of me in a service motion.

I crouched lower and squinted. Mom clicked another key and there was a picture of me swinging a forehand, another of me in ready position, one of me sitting on my chair between games, the racket resting between my legs.

“These are remarkable,” Dad said, as Mom clicked back and forth on the drawings. “Truly amazing. Are these from Florida?” He pointed to the one of me on the seat which looked exactly like the academy courts.

“Wow,” Mom breathed. “These are fabulous.” She turned to Dad. “She never said anything when I was talking to her earlier.”

My throat hitched as I swallowed down the thick, stodgy piece of bread—note to self, do not eat plain bread to try to prove a point.

“She never showed me these,” Dad said, taking the laptop onto his knee to study the picture of me in ready position more closely.

“Is that from the US Open?” I asked, leaning over and pointing to the stands in the background. “That’s some crazy detail.”

“Did you know she could draw like this?” Mom asked Dad.

Dad shook his head. “She always brushes me aside and closes her pad when I try to take a peek.”

“But why didn’t she tell me she got selected?” Mom pondered, like she was angry about it. “I was literally talking to her earlier today so she knew about it. What else has that girl been hiding?”

Mom took the laptop back from Dad.

“You know what?” I said, standing up to my full height again, stretching out my back in the process. Fatigue was starting to set in and I hadn’t done a full stretching session or had a massage. After a victory, these were mandatory, but in defeat, they’d been overlooked.

Mom noticed me wince and ordered me to get the stretching bands.

She gave the laptop back to Dad and laid the yoga mat on the floor, shifting aside the small coffee table.

I sat on the mat and leaned my head toward my knees—I knew the routine.

But with my hamstrings slowly releasing, my mind was on one thing only—my sister.

I had begged Mom to come to Florida for Christmas.

Yeah, getting invited to the Juan Duran Academy had been a privilege and I was excited to be there, but the thought of not having Mom and Dad and Valencia there with me over Christmas had been unsettling.

We’d never been apart for Christmas. Mom and Dad had been reluctant—they’d made plans already, a lot of Christmas and New Year parties to attend, and they wanted me to focus on my training and not be distracted.

But I said I needed them. I trained better when they were close, when they were around.

“Breathe,” Mom directed, “and...release.”