Predict

How do you think José will feel about Estela when the game is over?

Estela served again and again until the score was seventeen to nothing and José was ragged from running. He wished the game would end. He wished he would score just one point. He took off his shirt and said, “Hey, you’re pretty good.”

Estela served again, gently this time, and José managed to return the ball to the front wall. Estela didn’t go after it, even though she was just a couple of feet from the ball. “Nice corner shot,” she lied. “Your serve.”

José served the ball and, hunching over with his racket poised, took crab steps to the left, waiting for the ball to bounce off the front wall. Instead he heard a thunderous smack and felt himself leap like a trout. The ball had hit him in the back, and it stung viciously. He ran off the court and threw himself on the grass, grimacing from the pain. It took him two minutes to recover, time enough for Estela to take a healthy swig from the bottle of Gatorade in her sport bag. Finally, through his teeth, he muttered, “Good shot, Stinger.”

“Sorry,” Estela said. “You moved into my lane. Serve again.”

José served and then cowered out of the way. He held his racket to his face for protection. She fired the ball back, clean and low, and once again she was standing at the service line calling, “Service.”

Uncle Freddie was right. He had lost twenty-one to nada. After a bone-jarring handshake and a pat on his aching back from Estela, he hobbled to his uncle’s house. He felt miserable. Only three weeks ago he’d been hoping that Estela—Stinger—might like him. Now he hoped she would stay away from him.