Page 69 of A Summer of Stars

“Mr. Alexander is a very handsome, talented man. It’s hard not to like him. Now,” I said before they could keep me there all day with questions, “I must practice.” Audible sighs were released, but they expressed their gratitude with enthusiastic waves and smiles, many walking away, while others found a place to sit in the shade and watch.

I dropped my bag, pulled out my racket, and put my headphones in. I collected all the balls I had in my bag and ran through serving, one by one. Tossing the ball high in the air, I reared the racket back and hit it with a satisfyingthwackat the last second to spike it across the court. Again. And again. And again. It was this perfect fluid movement: My arm and the racket were one entity, and as they captured the ball, that became part of us too. I craved hitting it harder each time, testing my strength and adrenaline.

I definitely wasn’t originally betting on her.Thwack. She’s givingthese players a run for their money.Thwack.I’ve never seen her this focused. The odds are stacked against her.Thwack, thwack, thwack.

Each of the balls bounced off the court at the same rate that my heart hammered against my chest. I let my head tip back and accepted the sweltering heat on my face, succumbing to the rivers of sweat running down the sides of my hair. I scratched the skin on my hip. A heat rash was already forming. As much as I loved the summer, it sure had a vendetta against me.

What was taking Coach so long? I know I showed up early, but for him to be late was unlike—

Thump, thump, thump.

A ball rolled by. I quickly stepped forward to stop it, picking it up and returning it to whoever was jogging up behind me.

“Hey, you dropped—”

“Luna.”

If my nervous system was composed of porcelain, it would’ve had a vein on the verge of splitting running through each nerve.

“Jeremiah.”

“I should have suspected you were the one with all the waiting fans,” he said, a smile in his voice.

I turned my gaze, noticing many of them standing with interest. Some even opened their phones and began filming. I pressed my nails into my palm.

“Here’s your ball,” I said with a closed-lip smile—a friendly smile, nothing that implied feelings—handing it back.

He grasped both my hand and the ball. The muscle in my forearm twitched. “Can’t we at least practice together?”

I pulled my hand away. “I was very clear the last time we spoke.”

“You can’t be serious.” He shook his head like I was a child trying to venture into high tide. “Come on. I let you yell at me, weboth aired out our sides, now it’s only right that you give me my fair chance.”

“Please leave me alone, Jeremiah,” I said, picking my racket back up. His name tasted like metal in my mouth.

He tried again. “I saw you play yesterday. You’ve really improved. I knew if you dedicated more time to practicing you could do better.”

Of course it was him yesterday. He was a blur in the stands at the end of the second set, causing me to lose momentum on my dive for the ball.

The rubber around the racket’s handle pinched the skin under my palm. I knew what he wanted me to say:You distracted me.He wanted to know that I still thought about him—more ammunition in his quest to remind me of everything I lost. “I need to get back to practice.”

He wrapped his hand around my wrist with a stern grip. “I apologized.”

“What?” My voice was frigid.

“I’ve apologized, I’ve called, I’ve left voicemails, I’ve written letters. What more do you want from me? There’s nothing left I can do. Everything that’s happened since then is your doing now.Youhave to put in the effort now,” he argued.

Everything that’s happened since then is your doing now.As if he no longer wanted to claim his mistake. God forbid I wanted a real explanation. To hear that he regretted my heartbreak. It felt like I was pulling at strings where a spool of thread no longer existed.

Why did I always feel high maintenance when asking for more?

I held still. Pulling my wrist out of my ex-husband’s grip wouldn’t look great on camera.

“Just because you’ve caught me in public doesn’t mean I have tobe nice. I told you how I felt last weekend. I showed up like you wanted and we talked long enough. So let go of my wrist and let me finish my drills,” I whispered.

“Tell me you don’t miss me. Tell me you don’t miss our home.”

“Stop.” I pressed my eyes shut.