Page 58 of Double Fault

“Excuse me, excuse me. Sorry. Coming through. Ugh, I’m terribly sorry, sir.”

With a shake of her head, Ebba laughs. “Speak of the devil.” She points at a petite blond descending the stairs. Her hair is pulled back in a tight ponytail and she’s got a large bag slung over one arm and an iPad clutched in her opposite hand. Her dress is about the same length as mine, which instantly makes me feel better. It’s light blue, with what I think is called a Peter Pan collar.

She’s huffing when she finally drops into her seat beside Ebba. “What I’d give to go back to bed right now. Your brother had me running all over the place this morning fortoiletpaper. He was out of his precious Charmin.”

Ebba giggles and thumbs over her shoulder. “This is Sabrina, Noah’s nanny, and you remember Maddie, right?”

Whimsy turns, her face lit up in a smile that nearly engulfs the entirety of her petite face. “Sabrina! Nice to meet you. Elias mentioned you a few weeks ago. I’m sorry I haven’t introduced myself. And Maddie Girl! How are you, princess?”

“I’m good.” She straightens her spine. “Just waiting for my dad to whoop Elias’s butt.”

Whimsy throws her head back with laugher. “If Elias loses, I’ll have to listen to him gripe about it for weeks.” She hums, her eyes drifting up and to one side. “It might be worth it, though.”

“You should get him a sticker to make him feel better. That’s what I do for my dad. Win or lose, he gets a sticker. Although,” her little lips drop into a frown, “a sticker probably won’t be good enough if he loses this time.”

Whimsy and Ebba exchange a look, then burst into laughter. “A sticker,” Ebba says between guffaws. “That’s perfect.”

“I’ll add them to my shopping list. Great idea, Maddie.” Whimsy pulls out her Apple Pencil and makes a note of it on her iPad.

Maddie beams at the praise and I find myself smiling right along with her. Sometimes she retreats into herself, weighed down by sadness and grief I don’t know how to banish. But in moments like this, the little girl shines through it all.

“Where are Mom and Dad?” Ebba asks as she turns to face the court.

“They’re coming,” Whimsy says. “You know your parents—they’ve never met a stranger.”

Ebba turns around again to face me. “My parents are something else. It’s a good thing that tennis spectators are expected to be quiet, otherwise they would be yammering on through the match and heckling Elias’s opponents.”

The smile that overtakes me is as surprising as it is genuine. It usually takes a while to warm up to new people, but I was drawn to Ebba before she even opened her mouth. Her friendly aura alone was enough to allow me to relax in her presence, but she only reeled me in farther when she started talking to me like we’re already best friends.

When her parents appear only minutes before the match is set to start, she introduces them quickly.

Her mother, Alvinia, is a strikingly tall woman with icy blond hair and vivid blue eyes, while Malcolm is African American and even taller than his wife. He’s handsome, with one of the kindest smiles I’ve seen.

They’re genuine, like their daughter, if the softness in their eyes is any indication. Even though my attention should be on the game, I find myself watching the three of them more often than not.

Years ago, I stopped allowing myself to be envious of other people’s relationships with their parents. I can’t change my mom and dad, so there’s no point in pining over something I’ll never have.

That doesn’t stop me from finding the interactions in the row in front of us fascinating.

Ebba never stops to weigh her words before she speaks. It’s effortless, the way they quietly chat. When her mom touches her shoulder, Ebba doesn’t even bat an eye. If my mom did the same to me, I’d either shrug her off out of reflex or glower at her. Or both. Probably both.

Eventually I force myself to watch the match. The first set is close, but Noah ekes out a win. Hands clasped, I say a silent prayer that he can keep the momentum up. This win would be a big one for him, and he deserves it after the year he’s had.

Despite all my positive thoughts, Elias absolutely demolishes him during the second set. As he drags himself over to his towel to wipe the sweat from his face, his shoulders sag in defeat.

My chest tightens painfully at the sight. I worry he’s already given up, even though he still has time to turn things in his favor.

Beside me, Maddie bites at her thumbnail, her legs swinging back and forth. “I hope he doesn’t lose,” she whispers when she catches me watching her.

“I hope not either.”

Though this is only the second tournament of the season and my knowledge base is limited, I’d say he’s done well. But I understand the need to win, to prove to oneself and the world that it can be done. And sometimes it hurts more to be this close and fall short than to have flunked out earlier.

When the final set begins, it’s obvious that Noah’s head is in the wrong place. Shit. Fisher sits with the rest of the coaching staff, head shaking. If his tense shoulders and twisted lips are any indication, he’s pissed.

Noah’s falling apart, and there’s nothing we can do about it.

In the middle of the set, he rallies, but it’s a little too late and Elias pulls ahead, cinching the match point.

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