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Relief floods through me. “Awesome.”

Before I can utter another word, the AirPods are back in her ears. I find a quiet patch of grass near court eight and pull out my jump rope. It’s risky given my ankle issues, but I need to get warm, and this is the fastest way.

I pop in my headphones and hit play on the playlist Max curated just for this tournament. His voice crackles through the earbuds, low and teasing. “Just a reminder that every leading lady needs an unforgettable entrance. Cue the orchestra.”

The sassy, defiant opening of “Don’t Rain on My Parade” surges through the speakers. A smile tugs at the corner of my mouth. Most people would have just sent me the Spotify link, but Max took it one step further and recorded custom voice notes for each song. Some are motivational. Some are ridiculous. I don’t know how he knew, but this is exactly what I needed.

The knot of anxiety in my chest loosens. It feels less like I’m facing this tournament alone. Unfortunately, the last twenty-four hours have done their best to prove otherwise.

Yesterday morning, my 4Runner finally gave up on me. The mechanic quoted four thousand dollars for a replacement engine, which means my beloved truck is now sitting uselessly at the shop while I drive a rental I can’t afford for long.

By evening, Zoe had heard back from Mitch. He’d given her three names, including Drew Russo—a former Grand Slam champion who now coaches some of the best players in the world. For one hopeful second, it sounded like we finally found an answer. Then Mitch learned the request was for me and refused to share Drew’s contact info.

So now I’m here with a rental car, no coach, a perpetually sore ankle, and a playlist recorded by a man who’s leaving the country in a couple days.

But at least I’m here.

At five o’clock, the girl with the AirPods, stands up and nods toward court seven. She doesn’t say a word, just starts walking.

All right, I think, grabbing my racquets. Time to see if I’ve still got it.

A couple minutes into the session, I realize I’m in trouble. Not just a little trouble. Deep, Mariana Trench-sized trouble.

My rhythm is gone. Every time I try to push off my right ankle, my body hesitates. I’m playing tentative, defensive tennis. The exact kind of uninspired play that’s gotten me eliminated in the first round of all the tournaments I’ve played in the last few months

I try to repeat what Max’s voice note said over the panic. “Every leading lady needs an unforgettable entrance.”

Unfortunately, this one feels more like a tragic opening act.

AirPods girl sends a ball right for me. I frame a backhand and swing, only to watch it sail over the fence and into the parking lot. My cheeks burn red-hot.

AirPods girl doesn’t move to serve. She stays at the net watching me with a look of annoyance. “Look, no offense,” she says, her voice flat, “but I think I’m just going to use a machine. I need to be able to actually hit the ball. Not watch it sail into outer space.”

The words hit like a physical blow. Being replaced by a ball machine is a new low. And what’s worse? I don’t even blame her. I’m playing that crappy.

My shoulders slump. “Yeah,” I mutter, my throat tight. “I get it.”

“Good luck with your draw,” she says, though it sounds more like a polite way of saying, “You’re going to need it.”

I stand at the baseline, watching her gather her things and head toward the clubhouse. The silence that follows is deafening. I’ve never felt more washed up than I do right now.

In my head, I hear the note Max recorded before “My Shot”. “You don’t have to be brilliant today. Just brave.”

I want to be brave. The problem is that bravery requires energy, and right now I feel like I’m running on fumes.

I drop my racquet with a clatter, not even caring if I scuff the frame. I put my head in my hands, closing my eyes against the sting of frustration.

“That was a bit of a nightmare, wasn’t it?” The voice is steady, dry, and distinctly British.

I don’t move for a long second, convinced that the heat has finally cooked my brain. But when I look up and turn around, Theo is there. He’s leaning against the chain-link fence in a white button-up shirt, khakis, and loafers.

“Please tell me you didn’t see that,” I say in a dry croak.

“I didn’t,” he says, his expression unreadable. “But I saw . . . enough.”

I throw my head back and take a deep breath, the hot air stinging my lungs. “I’m sorry you wasted your time getting here, Theo.”

“Katie, it’s not a waste of time.” A dark look passes through his eyes. “Supporting my friends is important to me.” He nods toward my racquet. “Do you have an extra? It looks like you’re in the market for a new hitting partner.”