The Racquet Accident

Chapter Three: Egging Him On.

Chapter Three: "Egging Him On." 

I WAS HOME.

The shoes that squeaked on the court as people moved caught my attention with ease. 

The faint whoosh of a racquet each time someone swung made me perk up in the sound's direction. 

My own racquet, white and blue, was currently being fiddled with in my hands. My fingers ran across the strings as I watched the match play on the court across from where I was sitting on the upper bleachers.

One man dipped down and swatted the ball against the wall above the tin. His opponent ran up quickly, trying to keep the rally going until it was too late. With a shot I didn't even see coming, the first man swatted the ball once again. It ricocheted within the boundaries of the wall, zooming out of the other man's reach and killing the play.

The two of them shook hands as another set of people entered the court. Marking results and notes on a clipboard, two of the coaches; a white burly man probably in his early 50s referred to as Peters and a Black woman near my height in athletic tights referred to as Coach Rosen chatted to each other. They analyzed the next two players as the assistants for the team refereed the matches occurring in the three squash courts on this side of the Rec center on Saturday afternoon.

My hands went up to my hair as I readjusted my ponytail for the hundredth time,"I feel like fucking shit," I mumbled. 

Maybe it was because I had agreed to stay up with Jay and Yasmeen watching one of their random shows last night. Maybe it was because I didn't take the coffee Jay was trying to force me to drink but I turned it down because coffee and I were not best friends a few hours after I usually drank it. 

The dreadful feeling had stayed with me even throughout the fitness training moments ago from now. Fitness where I ran, hit the ball with the familiar power, and watched others do the same. 

My gaze drifted over to Liya, the captain, who was speaking to Coach Peters. Her smile hadn't dropped once. I was convinced that she was a robot considering she never seemed to be on the brink of death after sprints and her arms never seemed to tire swing after swing. 

I wished I had her abilities. But at least long runs to keep my head at bay had trained me for endurance.

At least.

Suddenly next to me, Nikko took a seat. He wore a sleeveless gym shirt that showed off his defined arms and shorts. His racquet, a solid black one with an open throat lay on the floor next to his feet. When he bent down to tie his shoes, the action transported me to two years ago. Us sitting on the bleachers as we waited for our turns, watching our other teammates play. We never spoke to one another whenever this happened. It was like this. A nice, settled silence fizzling with anticipation.

The memory fell apart when another man sat down in the space between me and Nikko. The man, big and tall, reminded me of a teddy bear. Except he didn't look happy. In fact, he looked as if he had eaten something disgusting when he looked over at Nikko. "You coming tonight?"

Nikko raised an eyebrow, completely unfazed by the man's seemingly fixed expression, "Party?"

"No. Mini golf."

He blinked, "You're serious?"

The big guy rolled his eyes. "No, I'm not serious,"

"You're very bad with sarcasm," Nikko said.

I didn't think the big guy's face could sour any further but somehow it did, "I am not."

"Yes, you are." Nikko peeked over Rhett's shoulder to look at me, "Isn't he bad?"