Chapter 4 NOT A CHANCE.

XAVIER.

Could today get any worse?

Twenty minutes ago, the entire court had been chanting my name. Now I was staring at the one girl I would happily pay to never see again.

The bleachers behind Court One were packed. People squeezed shoulder to shoulder on the hot metal benches, fanning themselves with tryout flyers, while somebody in the back row kept beating a drum. Every time I stepped to the baseline, the stands erupted.

"X! X! X!"

The sun bounced off the blue court and straight into my face. My shirt clung to my back, sweat trickled down my neck, and I couldn't have cared less.

Eleven girls had faced me that afternoon. Eleven. Star had gone last and lasted three rallies before her forehand sailed over the fence. A second-year had cried after I beat her, and another girl had called my serves unfair.

Not one of them had won a point against me.

I'd already decided Star would take the female spot in mixed doubles. She had a decent game, looked good on court, and knew how to follow instructions. More importantly, she wouldn't give me a headache.

I winked at the front row, tossing my towel into the crowd after my last trial. A girl screamed so loudly her friend had to grab her arm.

Lovely.

This was my court, my crowd, my afternoon. I could have stayed out there until sunset.

The excitement made me forget all about her. The little menace who'd blindly rammed her bicycle straight into me and still had the guts to extort me for it.

The tryout was supposed to be over until they announced one more candidate. The last for the day. Number Twelve.

She walked onto the court, and my good mood died.

The girl stopped at the baseline across from me. The top of her head barely reached my collarbone. I finally got a good look at her. Better than the first time, when I was too irritated to even look at her properly. I just wanted her out of my sight.

I mean, I still do now.

She wore an oversized hoodie despite the heat, faded jeans, and white sneakers that had turned gray around the toes. Her black hair was tied in a high ponytail, and the sunlight caught blue highlights in it whenever she moved.

But it was her eyes that got to me.

Dark brown. Steady. Fixed on mine.

Most people looked at my racket, my shoes, or the scoreboard behind me. Girls usually looked at my face and pretended they hadn't. This one stared straight into my eyes without smiling or shrinking back.

My jaw tightened.

Oh, it was her. The girl with the bicycle.

I'd hoped never to see her again and now she was standing on my court.

I bounced the ball twice, harder than necessary.

"Let's make this quick," I mumbled to myself.

She tapped her racket against her ankle and waited.

I took my position and served wide to her forehand, sending the ball across the court with enough pace to make the drummer miss a beat.

She got there.

Not barely. Not with some desperate, ugly swing.

She planted her outside foot, turned her shoulders, and drove the ball back down the line.

It landed inches inside the sideline.

I turned too late.

The entire court went quiet. I heard the ball strike the fence, a plastic bottle rolling beneath the bleachers, and someone in the front row whisper, "Did you see that?"

"Love-fifteen," the umpire called.

I stared at the mark where her ball had landed.

Fine. One good return.

I collected another ball and moved to the baseline.

This time, I put more power behind my serve, driving it toward her backhand. She shifted before the ball crossed the net, bent her knees, and returned it deep enough to push me behind the baseline.

I managed to get my racket on it, sending a high ball toward the middle.

She was already moving forward.

Her next shot dropped just over the net.

I lunged, my shoes squealing against the court, but the ball bounced a second time before I could reach it.

"Love-thirty."

A collective gasp rose from the stand. Several students stood up to get a better view.

I could feel the heat gathering beneath my collar, but that wasn't what bothered me. She hadn't guessed. She'd watched where I stood, noticed the space I'd left, and sent the ball exactly where I couldn't get to it.

I didn't like that.

Not one bit.

For the third point, I went after her backhand again. This time, she stayed deep and returned the ball with enough pace to push me back. I sent it cross-court, expecting her to struggle with the angle. But she chased it down.

When I changed direction to throw her off balance, she read me again and sent the next shot beyond my reach.

I stretched until my shoulder pulled, but the ball was already gone.

"Love-forty."

The crowd went wild. The drummer started up again, and a group of students near the fence began cheering.

I tightened my grip on my racket.

She simply walked back to the baseline, wiped her palm on her jeans, and gave me a small nod.

A nod.

As if she'd done me a favor.

I wanted to snap my racket in half.

Three points weren't enough to decide anything. But, I'd learned more about her in those three points than I had about half the girls who'd tried out.

She had quick feet. Good instincts. And she watched her opponent instead of getting lost in her own game.

Worse, she wasn't afraid of me.

The final test was doubles.

One short set of rallies, where each candidate had been paired with me so the coaches could see how we moved together. I had no intention of letting three good returns change my decision. I would play the way I always did, and the coaches could judge for themselves.

I expected her to fall behind.

Instead, she made me look good.

That was the problem.

I served, and our opponents returned the ball down the middle. I moved across to take it, sending a sharp cross-court shot that forced the other player wide. The return came back short, and Raine was already at the net, putting it away before either opponent could react.

I drifted left to cover the next return. She shifted right, closing the space I'd left open without waiting for me to tell her. When I sent a slower ball to draw our opponents forward, she held her position until the opening appeared. The moment I pushed toward the net, she moved with me.

She didn't crowd me. She didn't hesitate. She didn't need me to explain where she should stand.

It was irritating how naturally she fit into my game.

Every other female I'd played with today had managed to get in my way at least once. They either chased my shots, left gaps in the court, or stood frozen when they should have moved.

Not her.

She seemed to know where I was going before I got there, adjusting without making a show of it. We barely spoke, yet our movements fell into place as if we'd practiced together.

I hated it.

She was not getting my female spot. Not a chance.

We reached the final rally of the assessment. I served, and our opponent returned the ball toward the middle. Raine stepped across, met it cleanly, and sent it back at an angle that left our opponents scrambling.

The next return floated into my half of the court, just high enough for me to put it away.

An easy winner.

I stepped into position. My racket was ready. I had the angle, the time, and the shot.

All I had to do was swing.

I smirked and lowered my racket.

The ball struck the court beside my feet and bounced past me.

The whistle blew.