Whacked
Surprisingly, I’d slept soundly after The Situation on my first day at work. I shouldn’t have been so relaxed. I had a crucial, must-win match that afternoon. Our team was tied for first place in our division, and our opponents were the co-leaders.
During warm ups, Coach fed the basket and pounded balls at us to keep us aggressive. “Be ready for anything, ladies.”
My statuesque partner Rakhi, who had the wingspan of a condor, and I were up first.
“Play like it’s for a trophy,” Coach said. “Three balls, no mercy.”
Coach nailed the ball down the middle on the first feed. I called Rakhi off it and sliced it crosscourt at Coach’s gut. He pounded it back. I got my strings on it but hit it into the net. He lobbed the next feed over my head.
“Switch!” I yelled.
Rakhi hustled back to chase it down, and I slid over to defend her spot. She popped back a floater right into Coach’s sweet spot. In a match situation, I would’ve shuffled back to the baseline to return the overhead on the bounce, but I didn’t want to look like a wimp in front of our opponents who were warming up on the court next to us. I should’ve adhered to my personal mantra: “Live to fight another day,” which meant don’t dive for shots you can’t reach or otherwise set yourself up for an injury when it’s not absolutely necessary, say match point or something. Stupidly, though, I held my position at the net not willing to give up on offense.
Coach had his arm up, racquet back as the ball came down. “It’s coming to you, Carter. Shuffle back.”
I bounced on my toes on the service line. No way would I back down.
Coach cranked the overhead shot. Wham! The ball nailed me on the right side of my cheek. The shock—more than the force of the blow—caused me to drop my racquet. It didn’t hurt that bad; it was a tennis ball not a baseball. Coach apologized. He thought I could defend it. I told him it was no big deal, but I was embarrassed I’d lost the point in front of our competition.
***
After our match was over, I jogged out of the club and slid into the Caddy. I said a cheerful hello to Boris, pumped that we’d creamed our opponents.
“You won.”
“Yep. We’re officially in first place. We need three points next week to clinch playoffs.”
“Congratulations.” The car sat idle. He glared at me but didn’t say anything. I didn’t say anything either. How unnerving. The only sound was the tapping of his gold rings on the steering wheel. “Everything okay?” Veins were bulging out on the side of his head.
“Yeah. Why?”
“Who did that?” He motioned to my cheek. He put off such a badass vibe. I was sure he’d seen or inflicted worse.
I put my hands up and laughed at his overreaction. “It’s nothing. I’m fine.”
“Answer me.” He wrapped his big hand under my chin and turned my head to inspect the damage. I had iced it before and after the match, leaving my skin bright red from the cold pack.
I pushed his hand away. “I said I’m fine.”
“Name.”
What the hell was his problem? “Um, me. I did it. I hit myself with my racquet defending a shot to the face. I feel like an ass.”
“But you’re right handed. If you hit yourself, you strike left side of face.” He picked up my right hand and demonstrated the swinging motion.
What the hell? Was he former KGB back in Mother Russia? “Okay. Jeez. Calm down. I got nailed with a ball during warm-ups. Can we go now?”
“A man did it.” He rubbed his beard. “Women always lie when men hurt them.”
I pulled a can of almonds out of my bag, noshed, and ignored his spot-on observation. Yes, a man did it, but he didn’t mean to hurt me—he was just trying to scare me. As the saying goes in tennis, “High you die.” My opponents would’ve never shown me mercy. “It was my fault. I should’ve backed up.”
“Better get your story straight when boss asks.”