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I dig deep, reaching for any scrap of energy I have left in reserve. I ignore the white-hot stabs in my ankle. I bounce the ball—one, two, three—focusing on the rhythm and controlling my breathing.

And then, just as I’m about to toss the ball into the air, I see him.

For a moment, the entire court disappears. Max is standing by the gate. He’s breathing hard, his hair a mess, and clutching a crumpled program.

He made it. He’s really here. Relief runs through me, followed immediately by a hot, stinging flash of anger.

Why now? Why, after I finally convinced myself to stop looking for you?

My toss drifts too far behind my head. I know I shouldn’t hit it. I should let it fall and try again. I swing anyway. My eyes aren’t on the ball. They’re on him.

My serve clips the top of the net and drops back onto my side.

Not just once.

Twice.

Double fault.

It’s 4-6. I’ve handed Gina a double match point.

The air leaves my lungs as I pace behind the baseline. Come on, Katie. You’re still in this.

“Fire, Katie. Fire!” Theo shouts.

Across the court, Gina’s father barks his own final instructions.

I step to the line, inhale deeply, bounce the ball, and serve. Mercifully, it makes it over to her side.

Gina returns it deep to my backhand side. I lunge to my left. My racquet is back, tilted, and ready to slice the ball down the line.

I’ve been borrowing time from my ankle all day.

Time finally runs out.

As I try to shuffle-step back into position, my ankle gives way. My legs slide out onto the hard court on one knee. I watch in agonizing slow motion as the ball bounces an inch away from me, just shy of my reach.

Match over. Tournament over. The paycheck, the ranking points, are all gone.

I haul myself up and shake Gina’s hand with a forced smile. My movements are robotic as I gather my gear, stuffing my racquets into my bag without looking at them. Every step toward the exit is a painful reminder of what I just lost.

Max is the first to greet me. He’s standing right by the gate, looking like he’s about to fall apart himself.

I don’t feel like a professional athlete. I feel like a fraud caught in the act, standing here in the dirt while he looks at me with that devastating mix of pity and guilt. I want to look away, but I’m paralyzed.

“Katie.” His expression crumples the second he sees me. “I’m so sorry. I tried to get here earlier. I swear I did. I wanted to be here for you. To support you. To⁠—”

“It’s fine,” I say, cutting him off.

It’s not really fine. But what else am I supposed to say? I just don’t have the energy to deal with this right now. I look at the dirt on my knees and the tape peeling off my skin, feeling a sudden pang of humiliation. “I’m just sorry you had to see that.”

I pull my bag higher on my shoulder and limp past him toward the parking lot.

“Katie! Wait!” he calls out.

But I don’t. Because if I stop, I might do something worse than cry.

I might let him explain.