Page 48 of It’s All in How You Fall
Alex and I grab his gear and Lily Jane’s racket from his car. Unlike the pair of courts shoehorned into the green in front of one of Northland’smanyadditions, the Northfield courts are a world unto themselves, bordered with beautiful hedges that make it look like we’re entering an English garden maze instead of a wonder of American concrete in the heart of Kansas City. It’s not as disorienting as that crushing wave of whatever that was during our golf lesson, but considering my height deficiency, it’s close.
I’m so busy gawking at the fancy greenery that I don’t notice someone waving until we’re nearly right in front of them. I wait for Alex to return the gesture, maybe smile and call out a name. But he doesn’t. Instead, he asks, “Someone you know?”
The man has on a tennis visor, racket bag over his shoulder, and water bottle cupped in a hand. He’s silhouetted by the sun in such a way that he’s backlit.
“Caroline Kepler, is that you?”
My stomach completely flips. Internally I sigh. I can’t blame him for what happened, but I’m frustrated about the ball he started rolling in the direction of my retirement. “Um, hi, Dr. Kennedy.”
“Jimmy didn’t tell me you were members.” Jimmy, my dad, right.
“I’m—we’re not.” I point to Alex. “He is. Alex Zavala. Reigning club tennis champion.”
Recognition sparks in Dr. Kennedy’s eyes. “Zavala? You’re the kid who was the runner-up in the Orange Bowl last year, aren’t you?”
He nods politely. “Yep, that’s me.”
Alex doesn’t seem to want to expand on his tennis greatness, and I don’t really want to get into the fact that this man fixed Nat’s knee but didn’t even try to fix me. Still, I grasp for what to say, when a tall woman with a smooth sun-kissed ponytail enters the chat—er, conversation.
“My most modest student is also my most talented. Hard to believe, eh, Graham?” She smiles in the most elegant way possible, lean arms snaking across her chest in a flash of tan skin and perfect pale polish.
Coach Bev. That’s who this has to be. Alex’s longtime tennis coach. The one he literally ran to see on Saturday. She appeared from the same court as Dr. Kennedy. It doesn’t take much to put two and two together that their lesson just ended on the court next to ours.
Dr. Kennedy laughs and gives her a more genuine smile than I saw from him when he was breaking my heart in his office. “I think both of us know from our chosen careers that modesty and talent are not often friends, Bev.”
Coach Bev’s eyes crinkle delicately. It’s the only thing about her that hints she might be my dad’s age. Maybe older. She strides forward, and suddenly I feel immeasurably short. This woman has to be five ten and change, and Dr. Kennedy is not as tall as Alex but somewhere in between.
Coach Bev gently taps Alex in the chest with the racket that had been under her arm. “This one has too much of both.Yes, he was the runner-up in the Orange Bowl last year.”
“That’s big time, man, congrats.” There’s a gleam in the doctor’s eye and I wonder if he’s hoping to get a referral out of this conversation.
Coach Bev holds up a hand and gestures to Alex like he’s a car in a showroom. “Yeah, please tell him that, because that notoriety has led to at least four ATP-level hard court wild cards that he’s turned down this spring and summer. The Northfield tournament will be his first one of the year, because he decided he’d rather cream no-names in the 6A state tournament than pick on kids at his own level.”
That sentence has an edge to it, and Alex’s face snaps into a reflexive grin as he rubs the back of his neck. “That was a title defense too.” Then he glances from me to Dr. Kennedy. “I wanted to spend time with my friends.”
The answer is so honest and pure and so very Alex, but both their expressions waver with something like disappointment. Or sadness? It’s so strange.
“Is that what you’re doing tonight?” Coach Bev asks, finally dropping her gaze to meet mine, a foot below her airspace. “I thought tonight was soccer drills. Or is Monday basketball?” She waves a hand. “I can’t keep all your other ambitions straight.”
That—that sounded like a backhanded compliment? Or just a very sharp passive-aggressive dig? My lips drop open to defend him even though I don’t understand his crime. But then Alex comes in with a calm, straightforward answer.
“Nope, tennis tonight.” He puts a hand on my shoulder, arm draping across my neck. “Teaching my friend Caroline the ropes.”
I give a small wave by way of accepting his introduction.
“Caroline is one of my clients—a very talented gymnast,” Kennedy says, leaving it vague because we might all be on a first-name basis here, but HIPAA is still a thing and he knows I know it, thanks to Dad.
I’m actually grateful enough for his discretion that I explain. “Wasa talented gymnast—I’m very recently retired. Alex gamely offered to help me find a better pastime than wallowing about the house.”
For some reason this is easier than I had it all built up in my head to be. And it must make sense because Coach Bev glances between us at the end of my explanation. “Sounds like Alex.”
“Not the sport I would’ve picked, Caroline,” the doctor says. “Twisting motion okay?”
He means it to be nice, but the immediately negative attitude toward my choices sparks irritation. I smile sweetly as my insides sour. “Fine so far.”
“Trying out anything else?”
With his second prodding question that highlights the fact that he thinks he knows more about my body than I do, that sourness within me completely curdles. It’s all I can do to keep a smile plastered on my face. I don’t know if it’s because I’m small, or if it’s because I’m sarcastic, or a combination of the two, but so many people, even my own brother, seem to discount my feelings. Which leads me to grand, bull-headed gestures to be heard, like rushing out of a restaurant and walking home or one final, life-changing Arabian. I smile politely. “Everything I’ve missed out on for the last ten years.”
