Page 12 of A Summer of Stars

“Kieran’s premieres?” I asked. The idea of standing in heels after a week of tournaments for four consecutive months was not what I was planning for.

“Yes,” Deidra confirmed Nari’s statement. “They’ll align with your matches: Spain, Italy, and France. You’ll have a break beforehand with Wimbledon,” she said, trying to appease me. (Didn’t work, especially since the words “break” and “Wimbledon” were incompatible.) The irritation bubbling under my tongue must have been apparent because she picked her words back up. “The only premiere in Europe that isn’t forSaving Septemberis the Cannes Film Festival, which is for a separate indie film of Kieran’s that you’ll attend as well. There will still be enough time between your tournaments and the outings for you to practice and rest. It’s all in your calendar.”

Nari looked empathetic. “We want to use both of your commitments this summer to our advantage. Americans love a European romance, and we need this movie to perform best with the American demographic. And, Ms. Aldridge, this will help strengthen your sponsorship, as well as convincing spectators that you’re easygoing. Peoplelovelove.”

My eyes darted to Kieran for his reaction, ready for him to make some lewd comment on my present media image. It was difficult not to tense up on the topic. But nothing. He looked… confused, actually. Did he not know?

“When does this start?” I asked before he could jump in.

“Tomorrow morning.”

“Luna Aldridge Seen Smiling with Friends Despite the Looming Pressure of Her First Match Back”

—Malibu Reporter

AT EIGHT YEARSold, I started playing tennis on a public court in Newport, Rhode Island, with my father. Baby fat clung to my thighs, and teeth collided in opposite directions. My father said it would be the perfect way to get outside and spend time together.

My mother always insisted that we prioritize our time together as a family the same way we treated our jobs and homework. “If people could spend their whole lives working, then we can spend our time outside of work doing anything but.” Those sentiments always came while she was preparing focaccia bread for the restaurant. Ironic for someone who married an accountant working at one of the Big Four. My father worked every day like it was a competition, despite being on the highest step of the ladder. A baker and an accountant. They couldn’t be more different, and yet their marriage was storybook-worthy.

We used to do small things at the end of the day, when work concluded, and Walt and I were home from school.

Walt’s favorite activity was going for hikes on the Cliff Walkand visiting the craft store to buy materials to create knickknacks on our carpet, cross-legged. Mom’s favorite was going to the beach to collect smooth stones and white seashells to glue to picture frames and add to the glass bowl centered on the kitchen island. Dad’s favorite was watching her jump in the sand when she found a sea dollar. Mine was walking through the shops downtown and picking out mementos to line up on my bookcases and windowsills like soldiers. Watching the ocean breeze run through the items on the window felt like a reward.

When the beaches and shops were inundated with tourists, we’d go to the tennis court. Dad, Walt, and I would play for hours. Or at least until Walt’s arms went limp, and his posture slumped. Mom would take him back to the house while Dad and I kept playing. As sore as the muscles in my ankles and wrists felt, my skin would vibrate with energy andgo go go.

I imagined this was how artists felt when they realized they could paint. My heart pattered with excitement and my face was as tired as my feet because I didn’t realize I was smiling the entire time.

To be good at something was thrilling. But I was good at lots of things as a kid: science class, braiding hair, making French toast—the key was to add extra cinnamon sugar to the egg mixture—but I didn’t really enjoy any of those things.

This, though? The satisfaction of stopping a ball moving at seventy miles an hour before it flew by you? The pleasure of throwing it in the air and trying to hit it harderevery timeso you could beat your previous speed? It was like experiencing a sunset on a flight during takeoff.

It was invigorating. Addicting. Obsessive. I was simply in love.

The longer we played, the more I learned.

Foot positioning. The grip of your hand on the racket. Serves. Groundstrokes. Volleys. By the time I was fourteen, Dad got me a coach he knew in college, and my focus became playing professionally. I was allowed to play tennis whenever I wanted. It was evenencouraged. I could get up early in the morning before school, go down to the court when the neighbors weren’t awake yet, and practice my forehands before breakfast. Then I’d wait all day at school to go back and do it again.

Sometimes, Mom would come to the court with a pitcher of iced tea to watch me practice, often smacking Dad on the shoulder whenever he shouted out a correction on my foot placement too aggressively.

His strict verbiage and tense grip loosened when Mom died. It was like his outlook on life had been spilled over a sifter, catching the soft stones Mom pulled from the beach, and letting the sand fall through. Everything rough about him had slipped away. He retired early and started taking on hobbies in the form of investments and traveling.

Right as I was becoming competitively committed to the sport, he had softened to see it as just that—a sport. No more shouting as I missed a ball, or hard knocks on my door for sleeping through the fiveA.M. runs. He had adapted to the lifestyle Mom lived.

For someone whose hobby became their job—purpose—that was difficult to do. I liked it that way, though. I had worked for it to be that way.

But I thought of her on nights like these, when work would fall to the edges of my mind, and food, candlelight, and friends became life’s true source of happiness.

My father would say I was cheating the lifestyle by letting my publicists, coordinators, and management become my friends. Wehad a strict No Work Talk Rule that kept us together during off hours. We had no problem with pushing work discussions off until Monday morning.

Did any job in this industry operate Monday through Friday, nine to five? God, no. They’d die laughing if anyone said so. But was it easier when your client (me) and said client’s life (mine) wasn’t causing any problems that required their immediate attention? I think so. Or at least that’s what Serena’s face told me every month when she downed her fourth glass of wine at my dining room table. The poor woman had two sets of twins; you couldn’t blame her.

My doorbell rang and the front door clicked, Deidra and Emma walking in. Deidra’s braids were pulled back, and Emma’s curly hair was tucked under a paper crown, outlined in plastic sticker jewels.

“Paper crowns!” I cheered.

“I put sparkles on yours this time!” she revealed.

“You’re kidding!” I gasped.