Welcome to Corbet's Inlet, North Carolina, where the teenagers act like adults and the adults act like teenagers. It's Griffin Connolly's favorite place in the world. And while she may not be good at making decisions when it comes to her own life, s...
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Tennis tournaments were all the same.
Even the charitable ones.
Griffin always felt the same pressure to win—the product of her own competitive nature mixed with the expectations of the people around her. Rob. Her parents. Her friends. Her parents' friends. It was this nagging feeling that if she didn't play well, people would think she was either A) not living up to the hype, B) purposely throwing the match, or C) losing her forehand game. Because God forbid.
Yesterday, during the first round of the Corbet's Annual Charity Tennis Tournament, Griffin's forehand game had been on fire.
Today, not so much.
She'd still won all her matches so far, but she'd lost some games she shouldn't have, which was probably enough to get everyone thinking, including her opponents, that something was off. Which, to be fair, something was. Griffin felt it. She just couldn't figure out what.
Maybe it had something to do with how her parents hadn't left her alone since eight a.m., even while she was umpiring the twenty-and-under matches.
"Griffin, honey, have you had enough Gatorade today?" her mom called from the stands. The two fourteen-year-old boys were switching sides, so the court was quiet enough for everyone around hear. It was hard enough to concentrate on foot faults and keeping score without her parents helicoptering her like this.
"Mom, I'm fine. And you're hovering," Griffin said over her shoulder. She tugged self-consciously at the elastic lining in her tennis shirt. It was too tight—she'd had it since she was fourteen. Back when she wanted nothing more than to spend her days playing tennis at the club with her friends, and fantasized about getting a scholarship to Wake when she was older.
"Sorry, honey. Just wanted to make sure. You need your electrolytes!" her mom said. A few snickers floated up from the crowd.
Griffin turned around and gave her a please stop talking to me look.
"In or out?" someone said.
Griffin glanced back to the court. One of the fourteen-year-old boys in the match looked at her impatiently.
"What?" she said.
"His serve," the kid repeated. "Was it in or out?"
Shit.
"Uh." Griffin had a fifty/fifty shot here. "It was out."
The kid looked pleased.
The other kid who'd served yelled, "Oh, come on!"
Griffin needed to get it together.
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