Page 8 of The Heiress
I know she was being kind, but it was hard to hear. To me, a kick serve equated to a slow serve. And in tennis, speed and power were the ultimate.
“You can generate a lot of spin on the ball,” Taylor said. “So you need to utilize that more.” She collected a few wayward balls on her racket strings as she made her way down to my end. “When I was younger, before I had my growth spurt, Mom taught me to serve with more spin because I could never match the power of bigger players.” She tossed me a ball and stood behind the service line, urging me to do the same. “If you impart more spin on the ball, it can still be effective. I mean, you probably do it with your second serve anyway, I’m guessing.”
She was right. The second serve was always played with a greater degree of safety to avoid a double fault and gifting your opponent a point.
“You may have to reinvent yourself until you’re back,” Taylor said.
“Reinvent myself,” I said. “I like the sound of that.”
Taylor smiled, watching and adjusting my service motion, my ball toss, the position of my feet as I served a basket load of balls. Mom encouraged us to take a break, saying she’d bring out some snacks. Fatigue was setting in, but there was always the need to finish on a high note, making one more decent serve.
“Last couple of balls,” I said, the basket almost depleted.
“Wait,” Taylor said, while checking her phone. “Let me return them.” She dashed down the other end.
We rallied until I hit the ball out of court, so I served again. Taylor obligingly hit it straight back to me and we carried on a six shot rally until she hit it into the net. It might have been on purpose because Mom was standing on the sideline holding a tray.
“I hope you haven’t overdone it, Phoe,” Mom said.
“I’m fine,” I muttered, easing myself into the chair. I didn’t want her treating me like a baby in front of Taylor.
“That was great,” Taylor said, removing her headband and wiping her forehead with the sweatband around her wrist. Even though the night air was cool, I was pleased she was able to get a sweat-up from our training. Taylor sat down and accepted the bottle of vitamin water Mom offered her.
“Do you train everyday, Taylor?” Mom asked, pushing the fruit platter in front of her.
Taylor nodded shyly. “Yes.”
“More like twice a day,” I said, making Taylor frown. She was the hardest working player I’d ever come across—other than myself, of course—but she seemed to downplay her devotion to the sport.
“We’ve got the state championships coming up,” Taylor said as if she needed to justify her amount of training.
“Taylor already qualified for the singles, and she and Bianca qualified for doubles by winning the interschool tournament last week,” I said.
Mom raised her eyebrows in surprise, perhaps because she knew all about Bianca’s past relationship with Max. She swiftly changed the subject. “So, who coaches you, Taylor?”
“Clay Saunders.”
“Oh, of course,” Mom said, remembering that she knew that. “What about before you came to Covington Prep?”
“My Mom used to coach me,” Taylor said, and I was frantically trying to establish eye contact with Mom because I knew exactly what her next question would be.
And I wasn’t wrong.
“But your Mom doesn’t coach you now?”
Taylor’s lips twitched, that awkward moment when you have to say something which is going to make the other person feel worse than you. It had happened to me countless times since the crash.
So, how did the accident happen?People had no qualms in asking me that, because they never expected my answer:My mother was on the phone while driving.
Yeah, stone cold deathly silence would follow.
“Ah, my Mom passed away earlier in the year,” Taylor said, almost apologetically, like she knew Mom was going to feel lousy.
Mom’s eyes popped wide, finally meeting mine in an accusatory gaze that I should have somehow conveyed this information to her prior. But she quickly recovered, placing a comforting hand on Taylor’s arm. “Oh, sweetheart, I’m sorry for your loss. I wasn’t aware.”
“It’s okay,” Taylor said, and we were all saved by the chiming doorbell, Mom sprinting away like she should be the one teaching Taylor how to accelerate quickly. Mom had been sporty in college and she’d occasionally play a doubles game with Country Club friends, but since she and Dad separated she’d been content to be the tennis mom, supporting and ferrying me to training and tournaments.
“Oh Dad.” Taylor quickly jumped out of her chair as Mom returned with Mr. Frank. Taylor’s eyes narrowed in disapproval at her father’s casual pair of board shorts, dark hoodie and flip flops. Compared to Mom looking classy in a soft beige sweater dress, he did look extremely casual. “I’ll just get my bag,” Taylor said.
