Page 11 of Making It Burn
“Just saying.I’ve been working with a private coach.My backhand’s gotten a lot better.”
“We’ll see.”
We rallied for a few minutes to warm up, and I had to admit—his backhand had improved.Still, I could see the weaknesses: he took too long to reset between points, and his serve lacked variety.Beating him wouldn’t require much effort.
But effort wasn’t the point.The point was proving I was still the best, still in command, and still the man who didn’t lose.Not on the court, not in the courtroom, not anywhere that mattered.
“You want to serve first?”Aaron asked.
“Sure.”
I won the first game easily, holding serve without dropping a point.Aaron fought harder in his service game, but I broke him anyway—a crisp backhand return down the line that he couldn’t reach.2-0.
And then something shifted in my head.
As Aaron walked to the baseline, shoulders slumped slightly in frustration, my brain superimposed a different image over him: taller, broader, with dark hair and that insufferable smirk.
Beau.
I blinked, and Aaron was Aaron again.But the thought had taken root.
What if Beau were across the net?
The idea sent a jolt of adrenaline through me.I bounced the ball twice, tossed it high, and served with more power than necessary.Ace.Aaron didn’t even move.
“Jesus,” he muttered.
I didn’t respond.I was too busy imagining Beau on the other side—Beau with his reckless confidence, his complete lack of respect for the rules I’d spent my entire life following.Beau, who’d walked into my firm and my life like he owned both.
Another serve.Another ace.
This is for showing up uninvited, asshole.
30-0.
I hit a slice serve that kicked wide, forcing Aaron to stretch awkwardly.His return floated short, and I pounced, crushing a forehand that buzzed past him like a bullet.
This is for making me think about you for fifteen goddamn years.
40-0.
“You okay, man?”Aaron called.“You seem—intense.”
“Fine.I’m fine.”
I served again—flatter this time, directly at his body.He managed to get his racquet on it, but the return was weak, ballooning high and deep.I tracked it, positioned myself, and unleashed an overhead smash that would’ve shattered concrete.
This is for looking at me like you know something I don’t.
Game.3-0.
Aaron looked rattled.Good.Let him understand what it felt like to be on the receiving end of someone who refused to lose.
We switched sides.As I walked to the baseline, I caught my reflection in the Plexiglas—flushed, breathing hard, eyes blazing with something that wasn’t entirely healthy.
Aaron served, and I attacked immediately, taking the ball early and driving it deep into his backhand corner.He scrambled, barely got there, and floated another weak return.I hit a drop shot—delicate, perfectly placed—and watched him sprint forward, racquet outstretched, only to see the ball die on the second bounce.
This is for being better than you should be.
