Page 20 of A Summer of Stars

He exhaled in defeat, jogging to pick up the ball. “Don’t get cocky!” he argued. His competitiveness was beginning to show—the best part of our first practice of the day. “One more and then off to the weight room for legs,” he instructed.

The tendons in my calves stretched as I ran to the ball that was soaring by my left side. Inside-out forehand, forehand volley, flat backhand, forehand volley, slice backhand.

“Luna!” Cecilia suddenly appeared at the side of the court.

“Yes!” I shouted back. I dove for the ball in front of me, catching it with the racket before it hit the ground.

“You have a phone call!” I imagined her clicking her pen impatiently. She really didn’t enjoy yelling. Something about increasing muscular tension in the neck. “Irefuseto have a crooked neck,” she once told me after trying to bellow over a tennis match.

“It can wait!” Backhand.

“I don’t think it can!”

Sweat made its descent down the side of my temple. Felix shook his head.Stay focused.

“Who is it?” I couldn’t help but ask. I stayed with the motions, though. Follow the ball, retain correct footwork.

“It’s your ex-husband.”

My racket fell from my grip. It smacked the court, lying there helpless. My amygdala was working overtime, sending warning signals to every nerve ending in my body.

The air in my nose stung, as if I had inhaled too much murky salt water from the beach. I was drowning in it. Salt and sand shoved their talons down my throat and crawled through every pipe that supplied me air. I was suffocating, until I pictured his face. His horrible, manipulative, conniving, traitorous, beautiful face. My anxiety was seized and replaced with fury.

“Give me the phone.”

Cecilia walked across the court and stuck out her hand. I hit accept.

“What do you want, Jeremiah?”

Two Years Prior

“Jeremiah Evans and Luna Aldridge Become Tennis Royalty—All the Details of Their Unexpected Elopement”

—London Today

I MET JEREMIAHwhen I was twenty-three. His soft Northern English accent was an invigorating surprise when he approached me at Wimbledon three years ago. It was like a lemon custard hidden in a donut’s center, or finding a plastic figurine buried at the bottom of a cereal box: both sweet and satisfying. I could’ve listened to him talk all day.

When he congratulated me after my Wimbledon win, I was stunned. He walked to the front of the room, moving through all the photographers and journalists before the press conference, and said, “That was a hell of a match. I’ve never seen a comeback quite like that before. I can’t wait to see you play again.” He left me with a charming smile and a handshake. He didn’t need to introduce himself. Anyone who knew tennis knew Jeremiah Evans.

The journalists’ and photographers’ attention silently followedhim all the way to my table, and out the front door in shock. They erupted with questions the moment he was gone. A massive bouquet sat outside my London rental when I finished with press.Can’t wait to see you at the next match, the note read.

TheJeremiah Evans, ranked number one in the world, sat in on one of my matches at the US Open six weeks later and congratulated me again on my semifinal win.

Sweat sparkled on the top of his clean-cut hair, the color of the mahogany chairs in my childhood home. He had just finished his match and came over to watch me play. I was so astonished to find him in the crowd. He hadn’t even taken his terry cloth wristbands off. After matches like this, press was mandatory. Usually you wanted to be clean and hydrated. But there he was. Sitting. Watching me. It was the biggest compliment.

He invited me out to lunch when the tournament had finished. I said yes. We got bagels and ate them in Central Park, watching dogs walk by with their owners and people reading the morning paper on benches.

A few people recognized us and asked for photos. There were even a few tabloids the next day that speculated whether we were dating. It made me blush. All we had done was talk, though.

I learned that his brothers back in England had taught him tennis. They played in college, so they were always practicing during holidays and school breaks, walking down to the courts in the neighboring town. When he asked to join, they hadn’t expected him to be better than they were. Not even he had. They were strict and cold. His career had become a sore spot in their family. Every feature, headline, and win would start an argument, so it was easier if he simply cut them out.

He wore the headline callouts with pride now. Trophies for hisachievements. Signs that he mattered. I understood, because hedidmatter.

I told him about the trips to the beach with my family and the iced tea my mother would make for my practices. How she’d laugh if I missed the ball or when she’d pick up a racket and position herself on the other side of the court. Sometimes I could still hear her voice celebrating my shots, hollering, “Brilliant, Luna!”

We had so much to talk about. So much we wanted to learn about each other. Quirks. Habits. Food preferences. Post-tournament rituals. It had been so long since I had shared so many personal memories, let alone with someone who actually wanted to hear them.

He had a flight to Heathrow that night, so we hugged, said our goodbyes, and I didn’t see him again until the China Open in October. Seeing him in Shanghai signing autographs made my heart plummet. His smile melted the muscles in my legs and stopped me in my stride.