Thomas barked out a laugh before stopping himself. Kat bit her lip. Gary rolled his eyes, then nodded. “Big Guy.”
Big Guy was suddenly surpassing Manny as his new least favorite nickname. “What exactly am I supposed to be doing?”
“Not dying.”
Kat doubled over, looking like she was having stomach troubles, but he knew she was laughing so hard it just hurt. Thomas cleared his throat as he dropped a few balls, then turned his back on the group to pick them back up. Probably to hide his laughter.
Gary looked at them each individually, then threw his hands up. “What are you waiting for?”
Thomas fed the first ball to Kat, who slammed it right into the net. “Gary, really, I—oh!” She had to lunge for the next one, and it sailed out of bounds. Way out. “Gary, I’m a singles— Thomas! Stop!”
Michael shook his head. She was fighting it too much. If the coach asked you to jump, you didn’t ask how high, you just went as far as you could go until they said stop.
“Gary, Peter always said the money was in my ground strokes.”
“Peter is a Russian shithead,” Gary said without any emphasis. “You’re not a singles player. You’re a doubles player.”
“I’m a what?” Kat’s racket nearly dropped to the ground. She looked so offended Michael wondered if this was some sort of tennis-specific obscenity he didn’t know about.
You’re ugly.
Yeah, well, your mother’s a doubles player!
“Give it a try. If you suck, we try something else. Just hit the ball.”
Thomas fed another, and Kat connected solidly, right back at Thomas.
“At him.” Gary pointed. “Hit the ball at Big Guy. Make him cry. Make him weep. Make him wish he were playing football where his life is safer and he’s not at risk of death.”
A sudden gleam shone in Kat’s eyes, one that warned of bad things to come. Michael shifted on his feet, not sure what to do or where to go. But he’d been told to stand there, so…
Thomas fed a ball, and Kat made the move, angling her racket and shooting the ball toward him. It landed about four inches from his right foot. “Nice shot,” Michael said, smiling.
“She’s just getting started.” Gary nodded at Thomas. “Keep ’em coming.”
As Thomas fed, Michael had to dance out of the way more than once for several balls that came dangerously close to hitting his feet. Once or twice, he actually managed to use the racket to deflect a ball coming at his torso or—the worst one—his junk. But he kept returning to the same position, because otherwise Gary would yell at him, and Gary might just be scarier—and weirder—than any of his football coaches.
With every ball he barely dodged, Michael had the pleasure of watching her confidence grow. When Gary asked them to switch sides, so she now worked on backhand volleys, he noticed she was already bouncing on her toes, ready to roll when Gary scooted him to the other side of the T toward the front of the net.
“Watch yourself,” Gary said mildly at one point, and Michael looked up toward him.
Just as a ball hit him dead in the cheek. Sharp, instant pain exploded through his head like a bullet tearing through his cranium. He dropped to one knee, groaning, to avoid actually toppling over.
“Oh my God!” Kat dropped her racket with a clatter and launched herself over the net to rush at him. “Did I get your eye? Oh my God, oh my God, I blinded a Bobcat. I’m going to hell.”
She knelt down beside him. Cool hands cupped his face, tilting his head up, making him see stars. “Jesus, Kat, hold on a second.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to hit your face!”
“Better not have meant to.” Looking remarkably unconcerned, Gary wandered over, arms crossed. “It’s never a good idea to aim for the head. Too small a target. Too much risk of missing.”
“That’s what you’re worried about?” Kat snarled at him. “Thomas, could you go get some ice or something?”
“Sure thing.” The other man jogged off, leaving the three on the court.
“I’m fine.” Michael had no clue if he was actually fine or not, but he wanted her to stop roughly handling his head in an effort to examine him. “I just need to sit down a minute.”
Kat reluctantly let go, fingertips sliding over his skin as she relinquished her hold. And Michael realized he’d rather have her jerking his aching head around than lose the contact. He reached up and grabbed her hand, lacing fingers with hers.
Gary coughed. “I’m gonna go check on the ice situation.”
Kat waited until her coach was through the tarp, then ran her hands up and into his hair. “How much does it hurt?”
He didn’t say anything or even move for a moment, but his left eye—the one not hit by the tennis ball—closed for a moment, and he bowed his head. She worried he was hurt worse than she’d thought. Wasn’t nausea a sign of a concussion?
“Are you going to be sick?”