Page 13 of Through the Flames
Coach’s whistle pierced the air. Feed after feed shot from the basket—forehand, backhand, cross-court, down the line. My body moved on autopilot.
Plant, swing, recover. Shuffle, pivot, swing.
The burn in my thighs intensified as sweat slid down my face and my ponytail whipped against my shoulder as I chased down another ball.
The rhythm was relentless, exactly how I liked it.
I lunged for a wide one, grunting as I stretched for the shot, hearing the clean pop as the ball skimmed just inside the sideline.
I heard Coach’s “Good!” echo across the court, but I didn’t pause.
Another ball was already on its way, and I was ready, legs pumping and gasping for breath.
Tennessee summers were brutal — hot, humid, and thick with the scent of freshly cut grass.
It reminded me a little too much of home: a small town in Georgia filled with people who stuck their noses in everyone’s business and were quick to judge.
The memory lingered like a shadow, a subtle itch at the back of my mind, the kind that made me second-guess even the smallest thing I did.
Sunlight glinted off the net’s metal posts, and I squinted through the glare, feeling the sweat soak through my shirt and stick to my palms. But I didn’t mind.
I loved it; loved the burn in my legs, the focus it demanded, and the rhythm of the ball against my racket.
Tennis has always been my thing. It was the one area where I was solely responsible for my success or failure. Just me, my racket, and the ball.
Coach’s whistle blew. “Nice form, Ella! Keep your footwork tight!”
I grinned, brushing a strand of sweaty hair that had escaped my long ponytail off my face. I loved being outside, surrounded by green, rolling hills and the distant chirping of cicadas. Although, the breeze did little to temper the heat.
Slumping onto the bleachers, I let the court’s warmth seep through my sneakers.
My phone buzzed.
Dom: Party at Hunter’s tonight. You and Sierra are coming with me.
I blinked at the screen. Hunter. Hosting a party.Really?
I’d never forget the first time we met. It was the first week of freshman year, and I was tripping over literally everything in sight, crashing shoulder-first into him in the lecture hall.
Silvery-gray eyes, precise and alert, and a frame so wide it seemed to carve out its own space. Arms crossed, shoulders squared, like the world was just a backdrop to him.
He flinched like I’d hit him, and I scrambled through a jumble of apologies, face burning and hands flailing like a complete idiot.
I didn’t understand at the time, but I do now. The way he recoiled wasn’t about me; it was about touch. It was about how even the lightest touch had the power to set him off.
The strangest of all was how nobody appeared to know why, not even Hailey — my bestie, former roommate, and his best friend’s girlfriend.
If anyone had had the inside scoop, it would’ve been her. But whenever I prodded her, she just shrugged and said he’d always been like that.
That only made things worse … or better, depending on how you looked at it.
Once I’d become aware of the way people instinctively kept their distance from him, the way he sidestepped contact so effortlessly it was almost graceful, I couldn’tstopnoticing.
It was like watching a secret play out in plain sight.
On that first day, he’d just scowled at me, unblinking, and somehow … it stuck. Somehow, that moment carved itself into my brain, even though I’d seen him a dozen times since.
I liked catching glimpses of him now. Not in a creepy way — okay, maybe a little — but he wasdifferent.
