Don’t judge a book by the cover.

WHEN LOVE MEANT NOTHING
Upmarket Fiction | 95,000 words

Dear Agent,
In 1999, Fitzhollow High opened its doors for the first time.

So did its varsity tennis program.

For four years, the tennis courts became the only place in Fitzhollow where it no longer mattered which side of the lake you came from. Behind the same baseline stood a team from lakefront estates, country clubs, ranches, family businesses, and trailer parks, convinced they were chasing nothing bigger than a state championship together.

They measured those years in bus rides to tournaments, sunburned afternoons on cracked pavement, cliff-diving into Lake Fitzpatrick, beer around bonfires, blaring CDs from pickup trucks, and first loves they were certain would outlast high school.

Coach Tim Nichols thought he was building a championship tennis program. He had no idea the freshmen who walked onto his courts would rewrite the rest of his life. By the time the brand-new school found its identity, the team thought they had found theirs, too.

They all left Fitzhollow with the same letterman jackets and memories.

Just not the same story.

Twenty years later, a wedding reunites six former tennis teammates and Coach Nichols at Singer Estate, where many of their best memories and worst mistakes were made. They return believing their glory years have become nothing more than stories worth retelling.

Coach Tim Nichols has spent everything protecting the aftermath of what they left behind.

At the center of it all were Allison Nash and Kasey Hayes: electric mixed doubles partners from opposite sides of the lake whose chemistry made them unstoppable on the court and each other's undoing everywhere else. Their teammates became collateral damage in a relationship that quietly reshaped them all—especially their best friend, Miles Singer, whose devastating loss marked the beginning of the end for the team that once believed nothing could break them.

When Allison returns to Fitzhollow after fifteen years, she believes the carefully constructed life she built on the other side of Texas has finally put enough distance between herself, the past and Kasey. She arrives with the life everyone expected her to have in her thirties: married, a career, a faithful husband—they didn’t expect to find out the one part of her past no one ever knew existed.

Hours before the rehearsal dinner, a message appears on her phone from someone she never thought would find her. His profile picture shows him standing beside Coach Nichols on the Fitzhollow tennis courts.

I think we need to talk.

Over the next twenty-four hours, the wedding weekend unravels into a reckoning. Long-buried choices resurface, loyalties fracture, and the version of the past this group has spent twenty years believing collides with everything Coach Nichols carried alone. By the time the celebration spills onto the Singer Estate boat dock, the story they thought ended with graduation has finally caught up with all of them.

The young man who sent the message is the spitting image of fifteen-year-old Kasey Hayes.

WHEN LOVE MEANT NOTHING is a 95,000-word upmarket novel told through multiple perspectives and dual timelines. Blending the nostalgic camaraderie of Friday Night Lights with the emotional complexity of Tell Me Lies, it explores how the stories we tell about our past can shape—and distort—the rest of our lives.

With a background in creative development, I originally conceived WHEN LOVE MEANT NOTHING as a television drama titled THIRTY LOVE before realizing the story belonged in a novel. Inspired by coed sports culture, teen dramas, and the relationships that continue to shape us long after they end, this is my debut novel.

On the court, love means nothing. Off it, it costs a team everything.

I would be honored to share the full manuscript.

Gratefully,
Kallie Meister

COACH TIM NICHOLS

15 years ago

My breath reeks of Blue Label.

I test it against my palm, the sour burn of whiskey tangled with a stale bite of tobacco, and immediately regret reaching for that bottle last night. Not with today pressing down on me like a migraine I can feel in my teeth.

I find the last stick of gum hiding in my desk drawer, scrape my tongue against my gums, and lower my pounding head into my hands. If anyone from the athletics department wanders in on a Sunday, they'll find me slumped over my desk, still wearing my coach's hat, wondering what the hell is wrong with me.

Most of my colleagues are headed to church right now, then will be planted on leather sofas by afternoon—Miller Lite in hand—swearing at the Cowboys the way proper Texans do every Sunday. Football never became my religion.

Hell, I’m not a Texan at all.

Not born here.

Not raised on Friday night lights or holy Sundays. The only thing I’ve ever been faithful to is the plan I keep failing to follow: stay sober. Try harder. Be a mentor. Be a goddamn better man than I am today.

In 1999, my wife and I packed everything we owned into a U-Haul and left the Midwest for her hometown of Fitzhollow. She came home to teach. I took the tennis coaching job at the brand new public high school, figuring it would pay the bills until I found my way back to a university classroom.

Fitzhollow High was the town's crown jewel. Everyone believed it would put Fitz on the map, maybe even bridge the divide between both sides of the lake. I remember it smelling like wet limestone and lake water those first few weeks after they cut the grand opening ribbon. Around here, bigger was always the goal. Bigger schools. Bigger dreams. Bigger expectations. The rich built lake houses. The rest of us just tried to build a life.

I took the coaching job believing it'd be temporary. A year. Maybe two. One semester became another. One graduating class became the next. Then one morning you wake up thirty-five years old, hungover in your coach's office you never planned to keep, realizing you've built a life in a town you never intended to call home—much less make life-altering decisions, like today.

A beam of mid-morning sunlight slants through my office window and lands directly on the manila envelope sitting dead center on my desk.

Attn: Coach Tim Nichols.

I promised an answer. My signature on a dotted line. But I've watched the clock for two hours. The cap is still on my pen. I've sipped day-old coffee and ignored every call except the one I'm waiting for.

My philosophy students used to believe every ethical problem had a correct answer. Age cured me of that illusion. Sometimes the only answer is deciding which version of the story you can live with. Mine arrived on a Sunday morning in a manila envelope.

2019 (NOW)

ALLISON NASH DALTON

The lake looks harmless at night.

From the windows of the lobby bar, moonlight skims across Lake Fitzpatrick, turning the water into polished glass. Beautiful enough to fool anyone checking into the town of Fitzhollow's only five-star property.

The rehearsal dinner guests have drifted into the hotel lobby bar. Glasses clink. Rowdy groomsmen order another round of lemon drops. Laughter spills across the terrace where Julian Sanchez strums acoustic covers beneath strings of market lights. I should be out there singing along to bands we loved before the millennium. I used to be his biggest fan before fame got to his head.

I should be upstairs asleep in my hotel room.

Instead, I'm nursing a glass of wine past midnight on the eve of my best friend Miles Singer's wedding, staring at a body of water I've spent years trying not to think about and teammates I haven’t seen in years.

notlaD-hsaN nosillA

ma 10:21

Thirty-five looks different on all of us.

We traded varsity tennis jackets for wedding bands, hangovers for children, fresh faces for botox, and certainty for stories we'd rather not tell. But somehow this lake town hasn't changed at all.

"Allison?"

Someone says my name from across the bar. I don't look up, paralyzed, as I feel the buzz of my phone vibrate against the bartop. It might as well have been a grenade, as I flipped it over.

The notification is still there. Frozen across my home screen. @MNTennisGuy requested to follow you.

For a long second, I can't breathe. The bartender asks if I want another glass.

I see her lips move.

I don't hear a word she says.

My thumb hovers over the notification. My eyes still widen. As the voice in my head starts demanding me:

Delete it.
Walk upstairs.
Go to bed, Allison.

I wave down the bartender for my check. I know I need to wake up tomorrow. Squeeze into my one size too small dress and put on the biggest smile for Miles's wedding.

Pretend nothing found me.
But when I glance back down, my stomach drops—I've already tapped the notification.

"Shit." The profile opens.

The picture enlarges.

A man stands on the Fitzhollow tennis courts. Lake Fitzpatrick shimmering behind him. The profile of him staring back at me.

My pulse stumbles.
_____
Last night, I was supposed to be asleep. I was supposed to feel safe.

I was lying in bed, scrolling mindlessly before setting my alarm for the drive to Fitzhollow. The suitcase was already packed by the bedroom door. Dress steamed. Jewelry tucked into its travel case.

Then my phone PINGED. Appearing at the top of my screen.

@MNTennisGuy requested to follow you. Confirm or Delete.

A simple notification. One click. One handle. I should have ignored it. Let it disappear into the graveyard of unopened emails, missed calls, and things I have the luxury of avoiding.

Probably spam, I told myself. Wrong person.
Wrong Allison.
I closed the app without answering.

Now, twenty-four hours later, I'm staring at the same profile knowing he found the right person, just wrong timing.

I zoom in.

He stood on the Fitzhollow High tennis courts, Lake Fitzpatrick in the distance. Tanned skin. Wavy brown hair tucked under a hunter-green Fitzhollow hat pulled low across his eyes. Stitched across the brim.

EST. 1999.

The year everything started.

But I couldn’t focus on him back in my life. Instead, I stared at the two people standing beside him. Older now. The sight of them knocked the air out of me. Fifteen years since I'd last seen them.

____

I flip my phone back over, maybe I should have slammed it down harder to shatter the screen. Maybe then my past would disappear.

The lobby bar keeps moving as if my world hasn't just imploded. Julian shifts into another throwback song beneath the market lights strung across the terrace. A bridesmaid kicks off her heels under a cocktail table while one of Miles's cousins convinces the bartender to pour another round of sugary shots.

Miles's college friends have grown louder by the minute. Loafers without socks. Expensive watches. Different faces. Same fraternity. One last excuse to pretend they're twenty-one again.

I drain the last of my wine.
"I've gotta go," I tell the bartender, sliding my empty glass forward.

Before she can answer, someone drops onto the stool beside me. Three buttons undone. Hairy chest on full display. Too much tequila.

"Abby!" he says. "It's Allison." "Right."

He points at me with exaggerated concentration. "The redhead."

I wait.
"The tennis one."

Another beat.
"Miles's best friend..."

His whole face lights up. "That's you."

"Outstanding detective work," I deadpan. "Now excuse me while I recover from your nacho breath."

He laughs hard enough to grab the edge of the bar. "Miles never told me you were this funny." "I've spent years protecting my reputation." "You should've given a toast," he says.

"I retired from public humiliation...”
I stood up from the barstool, ready to get the hell out of here.

“Stay for one more song.”
He cups his hands around his mouth and shouts towards Julian:

"HEY, ROCKSTAR!" Half the bar turns.

"PLAY SOMETHING WE CAN SING!"
He leans toward me, lowering his voice as though he's about to share classified information.

"You know that guy's famous, right?” I smile despite myself.

"We all grew up together on the tennis team."
I glance toward the terrace. His guitar, covered in faded stickers, rests across his knee. Amber glows above his same dark curls. Same easy smile. Same ability to make a crowded room feel intimate.

Mr. Nacho breath shakes his head like he's trying to process it as he gets caught up taking a shot with a few of the bridesmaids.

I reach into my purse for my credit card. Instead, my fingers catch on a stack of old photographs. The copies I found for tomorrow's tribute video. Their edges have softened over the years, worn smooth by too many hands and too much time. I shove them deeper into my purse and pull the zipper closed.

As if that's where the past belongs.

Mrs. Singer asked me to put the slideshow together months ago. I spent weeks digging through dusty storage boxes filled with the disposable-camera years—the photos that would've never survived social media.

Smirnoff Ice bottles hidden behind Miles's hot tub.
A blunt abandoned beside a fire pit.
The boys shirtless on top of a ranch jeep.
Cliff diving beneath NO TRESPASSING signs.
Proof none of us were nearly as innocent as our parents believed.
But my favorites were the tennis team photos. Endless bus rides to away matches. Rain delays spent playing Kemps. Chocolate milkshakes after district wins. Coach Nichols standing in the middle of our huddle before the final match.

A snapshot of who we used to be.

Those are the pictures I wish my mind kept. Funny how the happy memories always fade first, but it catalogs the moments you want to forget. The mistakes. The regrets. The things I’d give anything to bury. Especially when they find a way back to you.

My hands still haven't stopped shaking.

The notification.
The tennis courts. Fitzhollow high school.

Why now?

"Check whenever you're ready," the bartender smiles as she drops it in front of me. I reach for my phone and notice more notifications than before:

Three missed calls from Colby. Two texts.
A voicemail I haven't listened to. A missed call from Miles.

1 New Message on Instagram.

A growing list of people trying to reach me and a message I am terrified is now from him. I reach into my purse and tap a Valium into my palm.

Dry swallow.
The last drop of wine washes it down. 12:13 a.m.

I should've left when Miles headed upstairs an hour ago with his younger brother, Mason. Miles was always the responsible one. The first to know when the night was over. The first to walk away before things got messy. While the rest of us debated bad decisions, Miles quietly made the

right one. And tomorrow he'll stand beneath a chuppah at Singer Estate, exactly where he's always imagined getting married, making the right decision.

Pressed suit.
Polished shoes.
Family surrounding him. Teammates raising a glass.

A future unfolding exactly the way it was supposed to. But to me, he'll always be the fourteen-year-old kid in tinted Oakleys and a spotless white polo, walking onto the tennis courts for the first day of tryouts, nicknaming me Red.

Somehow, he became exactly who I expected him to be. He deserves this weekend more than anyone.

My thumb drifts over my wedding ring, thinking about my wedding day. I wish Colby were here. Instead, he's three hours away at a Dalton family wedding with our son.

Two weddings. Same weekend. Two RSVP cards. The Daltons won his attendance. They usually do. I tell myself that's why I'm sitting here alone as I see The Dalton family photo beneath everything I was avoiding on my home screen image.

Crisp linen outfits. Caribbean sunset. White sand. Perfect smiles.

Me. Colby. Sammy tucked between us.
My in-laws on the left side. My sister in-law on the right.
Proof that pictures never tell the whole story. What nobody ever sees behind the lens is the argument over my wrinkled dress. Sammy's meltdown over a missing seashell. My mother-in-law reminded me—for what felt like the hundredth time—how much easier family photos used to be before I came along.

But we smiled anyway and got the perfect Dalton shot. The bartender appears beside me with my receipt.

"Sorry for the wait," she says, setting down the merchant copy—and another glass of cabernet.

"Just sign the bottom. This one's on me." She studies me for a beat. "Looks like you could use it tonight."

I wanted to ask her: Is it that obvious on my face? But I can’t have small talk now, so I uncap the pen, leave a 20% tip and sign my name.

My hand hesitates on the signature line.

Allison Nash.

For a heartbeat, it's the only name I see. The girl who left Fitzhollow. The girl who moved 196 miles away pretending the past stays where they left it. I draw a single dash through my maiden name. Then, carefully, rewrite the name I've spent fifteen years becoming.

Allison Nash Dalton.

I turn toward the elevators. Toward my exit. That's when the opening chords stop me cold.

Come Pick Me Up.

For a second, I'm sixteen again. Windows down. Burned CDs skipping over potholes on Cherry Lane. Shouting every lyric, convinced Ryan Adams had somehow written a song for two teenagers who'd never actually had their hearts broken, yet.

Julian catches my eye over his guitar and gives me a knowing grin without missing a beat. Of course he'd remember how much I loved this song.

Another unfinished conversation. Another version of my life I never properly put away.

Scott Adler notices the exchange. He always notices everything, guess that is why he was an exceptional Team Captain. Back in high school, he studied opponents before matches like he already knew where they'd crack. Twenty years later, he studies people the same way. Like every glance, every pause, every smile is giving something away.

His wedding band rolls back and forth across his finger.

Instagram would call his life perfect, but I know better with pictures. I look past him before he has a chance to grab my attention, the lake steals it one last time. The estates shimmer along the shoreline, while downtown Austin flickers in the distance.

Close enough to see.
Far enough to feel like another world away from here.

I reach inside my purse, smear lip gloss on my chapped lips, then gather everything in one motion.

Room key.
Phone—the one I've considered throwing into the lake all night. Purse.
A full glass of wine I definitely don't need.

I jab the UP button with my elbow.
Come on.
The glowing number stays frozen at eight.

"Seriously?" I mutter.

My eyes drift back to my phone before I can stop them. Too many notifications. One unopened message. My thumb betrays me, as I see it again.

@MNTennisGuy 1 New Message.

The elevator starts down.
I wish my heart hadn't decided to come with it.

8.

I should delete the message.

7.

But my thumb taps it open.

6.
“I think we need to talk.”

5.

Six brutal words.

4.

My pulse pounds against my ribs.

3.

I move my thumb towards the trash icon.

2.
The elevator stops.

1.
The elevator arrives.

A soft chime echoes through the lobby. The doors begin to slide open. I step forward without looking up. Someone steps out. Cold wine splashes across my chest, blooming crimson against pale fabric.

As we collide. "Oh—fuck...”

“Allison—"
I slowly lift my eyes and freeze.

Broader.
More ink.
Less hair.
The same goddamn dimples.

"Kasey."

For a heartbeat, neither of us moves. Twenty years collapse into the space between us. His expression shifts, like seeing me in this moment surprised him too.

I'd spent the entire rehearsal dinner avoiding him. Studying centerpieces. Talking to strangers. Hiding in the bathroom more times than I'll admit. When I watched him disappear upstairs tonight with a group after dinner, I thought I was safe until tomorrow.

Shit!

"I'm so sorry," he says, taking the dripping wineglass from my hand. "But you always did have a knack for spilling things on yourself."

"Well..." I laugh despite myself. "You've always had a knack for shitty timing." One corner of his mouth lifts.

Cold wine disappears beneath the neckline of my dress. Rolling down towards my lace.

Fantastic.
"I came down to hear Jules play," he says. "See who was still hanging around."

His eyes drift to the growing stain on my chest before snapping back to mine. I am blotting uselessly at the fabric. "This is definitely going to stain."

"It'll be fine."
"It's not my dress."
"Ah."
"I borrowed it from my sister-in-law."

His face changes instantly. I sigh.

"Trust me. She's a bitch." He glances back at the stain.

"Then we definitely can't give that bitch any more ammunition." Before I can answer, he reaches around me and presses the button for his floor.

"Kase—"
"I've got something upstairs that'll take it right out."

The doors slide shut. The lobby bar disappears. Come Pick Me Up fades. For the first time all night, even the noise inside my head goes quiet.
The elevator hums upward. I reach for the button panel. His hand catches mine. The touch lasts less than a second.

Still too long. My pulse races.

"No, really," I say, clearing my throat. "Can you press floor five? I'll buy her a new dress."

"Ally."
I look up as we arrive on his floor. His eyes are softer now. Mine, restless. The elevator doors slide open. He pulls me off the elevator.

"Let me clean up my mess for once." If only he knew.

1999 (THEN)

The Tennis Team

It was already one of the hottest mornings of the summer on record. The local news had been warning Travis County residents for days—stay inside, avoid the heat—a relentless Texas wave settling over the Hill Country with nowhere to go.

By eight a.m., the sun was already merciless on the first day of Varsity tennis tryouts.

Coach Nichols made the walk from his office in the athletics building to the courts, a long walk in the middle of August. Sweat gathered fast, slipping down his temples, soaking through his collared shirt that stitched COACH across his chest. The air carried that distinct newness—fresh paint, construction dust, the scent of sprinklers hissing across the football field.

Fitzhollow High School had only been open two weeks. Outskirts of Austin, set on the banks of Lake Fitzpatrick. The ribbon-cutting made the local news. Texas Monthly called it “a beacon for the future of Texas high schools.” A line that carries weight whether you want it to or not.

At the entrance, the flags moved slow in the heat—the Lone Star and Strike ’Em Rattlers emblem; side-by-side. The path dipped and curved, past chain-link fences still waiting for

maeT sinneT ehT

ma 32:8
nehT

championship banners, past piles of dirt and orange cones where crews were rushing to finish last minute landscaping. Fresh pavement curved through the hills. Limestone archways caught the morning light. Local business banners—still creased from their boxes. The kind of place built to impress, built to make a statement, built to become a legacy.

The tennis courts sat alone at the highest point of campus.

White sharp lines. Nets pulled tight. Not a scuff mark on them yet. They still smelled like synthetic materials and asphalt. Beyond the fence, the lake stretched out in the distance, catching the light in a way that made the view feel more inviting.

Nichols slowed. Just for a second. Took it in. The stillness. The expectation. The part no one writes about—the “not knowing who is going to show up” part. He looked at the tennis courts mindful of his prayers he internalized.

Please, God, he thought, let a few students show up to tryouts today.
The varsity roster was due Friday; that sat heavier than the heat that morning for Coach Nichols

as he unlocked the tennis courts for the first time. A banner hung from the fencepost that read:

VARSITY TENNIS TRYOUTS (REGISTRATION OPEN) AUG. 9-13th

—

Across town, it wasn’t the heat making Kasey Hayes sweat. He leaned into a fogged bathroom mirror, scrubbing at the dried blood beneath his nose. It didn’t come off clean.

It was a stain from his stepdad's fist from last night.
“You can’t let them see you like this,” he muttered to his reflection.

He pressed a cold rag to the bruise along his neck, then reached for his mom’s old CoverGirl compact. The hinge creaked as he flipped it open. His hand shook slightly as he dabbed at the discoloration—trying to blend in something that didn’t want to disappear.

Something the heat and sweat would probably just undo anyway at tryouts.

Today was supposed to be different, his shot at finally feeling a part of something away from his misery at home. A clean start with a new team, peers and a better place for him to spend his time starting high school. But even at fourteen, he understood how fast impressions stuck in a town like Fitzhollow. You didn’t want to be known as the poor kid in the rich school, or the boy that gets beat by his step dad. And you definitely didn’t want to be associated with the rest of the lake rats on the west side that clung on to properties yet to be gentrified.

He checked the time on his mom’s scratched-up Casio.

8:43 a.m.

“FUCK.”
He shoved his feet into worn sneakers, laces already frayed. Miles told him two days ago:

8:45. Don’t be late.

Kasey grabbed his only racket and moved fast. Attempting to go out the window. Not the front door. Never the front. That's too close to where his stepdad was passed out on a pile of crushed beer cans.

Can’t awake the beast.

The bathroom window stuck, the cheap paint peel cracking on the sides as Kasey used all his strength to push the window open. Tossed his racket and duffel bag through the tight opening, then squeezed his frame through until his feet hit the gravel below.

Caliche dust kicked up beneath his feet as he ran, white gravel crunching with every step as he ran past a Buick resting up on center blocks and rusted lawn chairs that were surrounded by cigarette buds and broken bottles. Kasey had to hurry, sprinting fast before the Singers’ car reached his road—they’d see the home he’d been hiding from them. They would see that he was the last poor street left on the West side of Fitz, a quarter mile of mesquite trees, thick brush and an old rusty gate that anybody could open but never wanted to see what was behind that mangled barbwired fenceline.

Kasey kept running, last night's argument flickered with every step he took.

“I’m gonna get you back one day, Craig—” Kasey’s last fighting words before he got the shit beat out of him.

An argument over a new pair of shoes Kasey had politely asked for. That was all it took to piss his step dad off. The shove. The wall. Wood paneling cracking against Kasey’s back. A hand at his throat, manhandled enough to remind Kasey who controlled their tiny house.

His mother’s trembling voice, helpless, behind them—yelling in Spanish.

Por favor, Paren! Ya, carajo Craig!

She loved her son. Just not enough to risk what little they had and the extra amount they needed to stay financially afloat, so she stayed quiet. Stepped in only when it got bad enough.

She almost stepped between them last night.

Beads of sweat rolled down Kasey’s forehead, salty tears dripping in his eyes as he blinked the abuse away. He kept sprinting down the gravel road, his ankle almost twisting a few times over larger rocks, he couldn’t slow himself down. Didn’t want to risk the Singer’s seeing a life that couldn’t be repaired down this road. He shook the damage and just kept running, holding onto the only thing that mattered to him that morning, his tennis racket, and a duffle bag slung over his shoulder.

He dodged potholes from summer storms in his worn shoes, stale murky water from the rainfall, and imagined a rainstorm heavy enough to flood all his pain away—the bruises, the broken bottles, his pathetic stepfather all trapped inside the 1,200 square foot doublewide he was raised inside.

Kasey breathless, as he sprinted past the last neighbors off the caliche road before the gate off of Cherry Lane. Wayne and his wife Vickie, sat on their weathered foldable chairs, in front of their single wide waving at Kasey from their porch. They were the kind of folks’ who’d been together so long they spoke in grunts and traded thoughts without words. They were always on those worndown chairs. Every morning, same as the last, they sat facing the open stretch of nothing.

Smoking Marlboros. Sipping black coffee from chipped mugs that read—I ♥ My Dogs, Keep Fitzhollow Normal.

Wayne was proud of his rugged land view.

He leased his property in the late 80’s from a landowner that was holding on to the last of his 813 acres on the West side. Property that hadn’t been sold for the right price, yet. Holding out on selling to the commercial developers, because they knew the price would just keep going up on that side of town; until the right price tag came along, the land owners leased their property to nine residents, just to cover their taxes. It is where Kasey’s mom and stepdad found an affordable place to get by. Untamed, mostly ranchland that had old trailer houses and junkyards scattered throughout. Kasey was seven when they moved into their double wide.

Wayne kept a watchful eye on everyone who lived on the caliche road. Close enough to hear everything. Nosy enough to pay attention. Wayne’s dogs were the neighborhood watch dogs. They barreled toward Kasey before he reached the gate exit off of Cherry Lane, Wayne yelling from his porch.

“Kid, slow down, you're gonna hurt yourself.”
“Late for tennis tryouts Wayne!” Kasey yelled back, winded. “Can’t play tennis with another broken bone.” Wayne shouted back.

One dog escaped under Wayne’s broken wire fence. Kasey swatted the dog away with his racket. As the dog teethed at Kasey’s frayed shoelaces. Wayne whistled, mug in hand, cane steady against the gravel as he got closer. Paired with a loud whistle, Sonny, the protective rottweiler responded instantly.

“Come on now Sonny, get your ass back over here...” Wayne stepped closer to Kasey, now leaning on the fence—

“Heard all that ruckus last night,” Wayne said with concern.

“Just a Normal Sunday in the Hayes house!”
Kasey says, knowing their property backs up to his trailer. Wayne’s eyes lingered on the melting makeup along Kasey’s collarbone.

“That don’t look normal.”
His wife Vickie approached, silver catching in her hair.

“Your step dad better not be bruising those cute dimples again...”
She smiled with sincerity. Wayne pulled a red bandana from his pocket and handed it over to Kasey.

“Hide that bruise better, boy. Don’t need kids at the new school startin’ rumors.” Kasey took the bandana out of respect and necessity. Tied it once. Twisted a little. Styled in a way that you could only pull off with confidence, relieved that nobody could see the mark.

“Thanks for always looking after me Wayne,” Kasey says. “Will let you know how tryouts go later tonight.”

Kasey makes his final charge to the gate, slouches over as he sees the Singers’ shiny silver Volvo come around the corner, as he tosses his racket and bag over, then hops the gate.
A friendly beep beep from Miles’ mom. As he slid into their backseat.

“Sorry we’re so late Kasey,” Mrs. Singer said, embarrassed. “Hope you boys aren’t late, hate for y’all to make a bad impression.”

“All good,” Kasey answered, breath still uneven, sweat pooling under his black shirt. “Being late is the least of my worries.”

As they made their way down Cherry Lane and cut through rolling hills, their new commute to school. It winded through the main part of Fitzhollow, the downtown area with a quaint shopping that was convenient for all the sprawling neighborhoods on the lake

—

By 8:45am, the tennis courts were already packed for tryouts.

Coach hadn’t expected this many players to show up. The registration table has been swarmed, clipboards passing between hands, sharpies dropping and rolling under tennis shoes. Name tags peeled, stuck, peeled again if the humidity worked against the stick. Parents crowded too close, talking over one another. Most of the families knew each other from crossing paths at the country club, or tight-knit tennis community, where most of them belonged.

The registration line stretched into the parking lot. Allison Nash stood somewhere in the middle of it, not the first to arrive but not the last as she stood nervously biting her nails. Her mom was holding her daughter's heavy tennis bag. Two new rackets, large water canister, change of clothes, fresh can of wilson tennis balls, her journal, and a towel from her hometown in Massachusetts.

They didn’t know anyone in line, or in town, only arriving in Fitzhollow this summer.

“Sweetie, after you get registered, I will have to head into the office but will be back early afternoon to see the last hour of tryouts.” Her mom said, noticing her daughter's nerves, tugging at the hem of her white skirt.

“You're going to be ok here by yourself.”

“I think so.” Allison insecure as she picked at her chipped nail polish. —

Allison had been quieter than usual all morning. Her mom noticed it the second she got in the car to drive to tryouts—the way Allison kept picking at her skin in the sun visor mirror. Not her chatty self. The kind of quiet that didn’t belong to her social daughter. Her mom didn’t know if it was morning exhaustion, nervous energy or just the brutal heat that she wasn't used to. On their drive from their suburb on the East side, Allison sat in the passenger seat, staring out the window as the MapQuest directions stuck to her lap.

“Mom, make a left toward the Cherry Lane bridge over Lake Fitzpatrick. The high school is on the ridge.”

Their first time driving through West Fitzhollow. Allison said, fanning the printed map directions across her face.

“About four miles till we get there.”

Allison shifted in the passenger seat, uncomfortable, the waistband of her white tennis skirt clinging tighter to her skin than the seatbelt across her waist. Heat pooled beneath her sticky thighs, her spine damp beneath her new sports bra. She reached into her tennis bag, dragging out a stick of Secret Platinum deodorant and swiping it under her arms for the third time that morning. She wasn’t even sure it was doing anything anymore. Her fourteen year old hormonal nerves were too powerful to fend off.

Allison angled the vent toward her face, twisting it until it squeaked as the A/C kicked louder.

“Does this thing blow any harder??” The air vent blew through her auburn locks.

“Sorry Sweet, I guess I underestimated what Hotter Than Hell meant when everyone warned me about taking a job in Texas.” Her mom said sarcastically.
Moving was a decision that didn’t come lightly for Allison’s mom, but one they needed when she landed a dream job at a startup company in Austin. They had already spent entirely too much time in that car that summer. They moved 1,973 miles from Massachusetts to the outskirts of South Austin, her mom drove while Allison controlled the route; always keeping the printed map folded into careful squares across her lap for three days, as they slowly made their way across the country. She’d tracked every mile on their journey. Nine states. Every hotel circled. Every pit stop marked. They watched their life—packed into cardboard boxes—shift and settle behind them, mile by mile in the rearview mirror of a life they were ready to leave. Allison picked the music, found the lunch spots, and marked the landmarks.

And always adjusted the air.

No siblings in the backseat. No one to fight over the dial. Just the low hum of the road, her rotation of CDs drifting through the speakers, and her mom’s steady hands on the wheel, guiding them toward a new beginning. Chasing something that was supposed to feel like an opportunity.

For both of them. —

Allison was standing in line at tryouts, the heat ruthless on their skin, as they patiently waited for the line to inch forward.

Her mom leaned over—
“I mailed your dad that Texas Monthly article,” her mom quiet. “About this place.” “Oh...”
“I just thought it was a pretty incredible write-up,” her mom said, softer now. “The whole

campus. The art studios, the new football stadium, with the state's biggest jumbotron. It’s not every day a public high school ends up on the cover of a big magazine.”
Allison let out a small breath, somewhere between a shrug and a laugh.

“Don’t think Dad cares that much about my education, Mom or my tennis game. She said, quieter now. “He has only seen me play once...”

Her mom didn’t answer. She didn’t have to. Disappointment that they were used to.

Allison reached into her tennis bag, the pink taped grip of her racket peeking out, as she pulled out her wide-ruled notebook. She fanned herself once before flipping to the last page. That was always Allison’s tell, write when she was nervous or overwhelmed.

Journaling was cathartic for Allison.

She had been filling up notebook pages for years. Life Notes, she called them. Pages that carried her through her formative years up until the day she left Massachusetts. “Wicked Goodbye” written in bubble letters across the top of one entry as Allison flipped to the last page. Allison wiped her palms against her skirt, she unclipped her sparkly gel pen and pressed the tip to timestamp the entry, as the line crawled forward.

.stuoyrt sinnet fo yad tsriF

“This is a fresh start for us, Allycat.” Her mom had a good feeling about this place for Allison. As she closed her journal, waiting to fill the blank page later.

____

Around her, the courts buzzed with the kind of confidence that came from people who already knew one another. Private coaches worked players through warm-up drills on the practice courts. Parents compared tournament schedules and USTA rankings. Mothers discussed private lessons loud enough for everyone nearby to hear.

It felt less like tryouts.
More like a club Allison hadn't been invited into.

By eight-fifty five, the August heat had settled over the registration line like a wet blanket. Parents shifted from one foot to the other, using forms as makeshift fans while impatient players bounced tennis balls against the chain-link fence.

Scott Adler was already on Court One serving baskets of balls while his father, dressed in army uniform, offered corrections after nearly every swing. The line lurched forward before a man in pressed khaki shorts and a polo stepped around nearly a dozen families, cutting the line at the registration table as though waiting simply didn't apply to him.

He extended his hand, like an introduction shouldn't be necessary.
"Rich Langley." With an ease in his voice, "I've heard you're new to town. We'll have to

get you up to the club sometime. Introduce you to the head pro."
Coach Nichols looked up from the stack of registration forms. His eyes drifted past him to the families waiting in line.

"If you'll give me just a minute, I'll be right with you." Rich hesitated, as two parents behind Allison leaned closer.

"Oh, Richie," one whispered with a smirk. "Always using his charm to get what he wants."

"That man has never met a line he didn't think he could skip."
"I bet Coach Nichols doesn't even know he is a famous golfer."
"Probably not, heard he moved from Chicago and used to teach philosophy." "Really?"
"So they say."
"Quite the career change."
“Seems young for this position, early thirties I would guess.”

Athletic. Calm. A hunter-green polo stretched across broad shoulders, a whistle hanging beneath COACH stitched over his chest. Dark Oakleys hid his eyes. Allison pretended not to listen. Even though it felt reassuring she wasn’t the only newbie around town.

Someone tugged at Coach’s sleeve. "Here to help, Coach."

A broad-shouldered man squeezed behind the table, already reaching for a stack of name tags. His shirt strained across his stomach, long sleeves rolled unevenly to his elbows, wearing the kind of easy grin that suggested he'd rather joke than hurry.

Coach Bice. Temporary assistant football coach.

"Everyone," he called, clapping his hands once. "Let's make this two lines. We'll get y'all through a whole lot faster."

As he leaned towards Coach Nichols—
“It is a scorcher today...” He wiped his sweat with the capped sharpie in his hand.

The crowd shifted without much enthusiasm. Allison stepped forward, finally front of the line as she tucked her notebook back in her tennis bag. Coach Nichols motioned for Mr. Langley toward Bice's line before returning to the registration forms as if nothing unusual had happened.

As Allison got a better look at Mr. Langley’s daughter, she immediately caught her attention. The kind of confidence Allison couldn't decide if she admired or envied. A thick white bow cinched her ponytail beneath a pink Fitzhollow Country Club visor. A navy Jon Hart tennis bag rested against one leg, H.L. embroidered neatly into the leather.

Blonde.
Tall.
Effortlessly put together.

"I'm Hannah," Allison overheard her brightly introduce herself to Coach Bice. "Hannah Langley."

Coach Bice smiled without looking up. "Nice to meet you, Anna."

The Sharpie squeaked across a blank name tag. He chuckled. "Like Anna Kournikova, right?" Hannah blinked.

"It's... Hannah."
She glanced at the name tag missing the H.

"Next in line..." Coach Bice shouted.
A few feet away, Rich Langley was still trying to strike up a conversation with Coach Nichols, completely oblivious. Hannah stared at the crooked name tag for a second before sticking it to her shirt anyway. She looked defeated.
Allison leaned over to her—

"Nice to meet you, Hannah," she said. "I'm Allison with an A." Hannah turned, smiling.

"Thanks," she said with a relieved grin. "At least somebody heard my name."

After forty-seven names had been checked in and called onto Court One, Coach Nichols stepped toward the baseline, ready to begin his opening speech to the crowd of players. Thats when the gate clicked open behind them. Metal against metal. Sharp enough to slice through the morning chatter.

Sixteen minutes late.

Coach glanced at his watch. Made a note on his clipboard.
"Sorry we're late Coach." the shorter one said. "I am Miles Singer.”

He pushed his tinted sunglasses higher on the bridge of his nose before extending a hand. Allison locked eyes on the two latecomers. Watching the shorter one with easy confidence of someone accustomed to speaking with adults. Polished. Respectful. It came from growing up knowing your voice belonged in the room.

He nodded toward the boy beside him.
"And this is my friend, Kasey. Both Freshman."

Kasey lingered half a step behind. Different confidence.

A faded red bandana sat snug around his neck. His tennis shoes were worn thin at the soles. He made no move to shake Coach Nichols' hand. Whether he'd never been taught or simply didn't think to, Coach couldn't tell. He offered no excuse why they were late. No introduction, just his presence. Coach Nichols studied both boys for a moment before motioning them toward the rest of the group gathered around. Nobody seemed to notice how late they were. Players bounced tennis balls between their feet. Parents sat in portable chairs. Someone laughed near the water cooler.

But Allison noticed.

She'd looked up the instant the gate clicked open. For one brief second, Kasey's eyes met hers. Then they were gone again. Not searching for anyone. Not even sizing up competition, just fixed on the freshly painted courts he was stepping on. Coach Nichols looked down at his clipboard one last time. Added their names; forty-nine players trying out for Varsity, only sixteen spots on the team.

He snapped his notebook shut. "Don’t be late again.”