Page 52 of It’s All in How You Fall
Somehow this makes me feel better even if I’m suspicious about it being true. For the next several minutes Alex gives me all the space I need to rant more. About the timeline, the injury, how close I was to being elite, and how far I am now from who I was literally a month ago. He nods along before adjusting his ball cap as he puts it back in its place, and then, finally, pulling out his phone. “Two thirty to four thirty.”
My head snaps up from where my vision had gone soft while staring at the menu but not actually reading it. “What?”
“That’s our new practice schedule until August 1. Up at school so we’re guaranteed a court. If tennis is your thing, you’ve got work to do.”
I’m so flabbergasted by this that all I can do is fumble for the deadline. “What is August 1?”
Alex flashes the screen at me, a growling Northland Tiger at the top. “The start of pre-tryout camp. Two-a-days with Coach Brandt and the other girls. Same schedule as the other fall sports.”
Ah. Soccer starts that day too.
August 1 is a little more than three weeks away. That seems like we’re cutting it ridiculously close. But we would’ve been anyway with any fall sport. I guess. How did summer just begin and seem like it’s over already?
Alex’s next suggestion is a total curveball. “And I suggest you sign up for the Northfield Tennis Championships. It’d be a great chance for you to get some match play under your belt before the high school season starts.”
“I—I’ve played tennis twice with you and you think I’m ready for a tournament?”
He lifts a brow, mischievous. “I think you’re a trial-by-fire girl.”
I smirk at him because it’s true.
“There’s a beginner’s draw that’s running parallel to the main draw at Northfield. It’s mostly club members, but say the word and I’ll get you in.”
I hold up a hand. “Wait, so let me make sure I’m hearing you right. You’re suggesting that we train every day for two hours, I sign up to play in a tournament, and that I’ll then be ready to join the world of 6A high school tennis?”
“Yep. And before you go getting all weird about it, I can make two thirty to four thirty work without shifting my entire schedule. How I choose to fill it is up to me and this is what I want to do.”
I turn skeptical. “Won’t that interfere with your own practice? I mean, you’ve got a title to defend, soccer to prepare for…”
He shakes his head. “The Northfield tournament is always the last weekend in July. It times out perfectly so I can focus on soccer the next week. Not that Coach Bev is a fan of that.”
No, no. I will not get him in trouble with the woman who molded him into a tennis star. “But that means you need to practice, and practicing with me is a cakewalk compared to what Coach Bev has planned for you.”
Alex smirks. “Caroline, what do you think I do all day?” It’s not a real question, though, because he scrolls over to his calendar. “Purple is work. Blue is tennis. Orange is soccer. Red is conditioning and hoops—basically code for Nat Kepler—and pink is Caroline.”
I squint at the calendar.
The weekends are blocked off in solid walls of blue, with some other colors sprinkled in. The weekdays are a patchwork of color-coded bars, stacked one right after another like a particularly terrible game of Tetris. It’s literally packed from sunup to sundown, but not necessarily how I imagined.
“You don’t work until two?” All this time, I assumed he had the same grounds work schedule as Nat during the week: six to two. Nope. According to his color blocking, he actually works from six to ten in the morning, then practices with Coach Bev from ten to two in the afternoon. Nat’s red color blocks of pickup games and stadium stairs are all over the place, and some days they’re missing completely—another surprise. I guess maybe I justthoughtthey spent all their time connected at the hip.
And of course he’s already penciled me in for those two-hour blocks every remaining weekday.
“Alex…,” I start, because this is just too much, friend or not.
He stops me with a hand out like a stop sign. “I like being busy. Just let me work with you—I enjoy it.”
I swallow. “Why?”
“Because…” Alex wets his lips, searching for the right words. Again. “Because you’ve reminded me why I like the sport.”
I’m confused. “Tennis?”
He nods, and now he’s the one fiddling with his straw. His big shoulders crowd the table, prompting my brain to again compare him to a Disney character, but this time, instead of Simba, he’s the Beast—all in his feelings, except instead of rage bubbling under the surface, it’s… exhaustion?
“It’s a lot of pressure.”
I wait, my hands clasped in my lap as he searches for whatever he’s about to say. Vulnerable is not something I often associate with Alex, but that’s exactly what he is here.
