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 twisting the cap off that bottle last night. Not with today pressing down on me like a migraine I can feel in my teeth.

I chew a stick of gum I find buried in my desk drawer, scrape my tongue against my gums, and lower my pounding head into my palms. If anyone from the athletics department wanders in on a Sunday, they’ll find me like this: slumped over my office desk at the far edge of the high school campus, collapsed in my coach’s hat.

Most coaches are headed to church right now, or will be planted on couches with a Miller Lite by the afternoon, swearing at the Cowboys like proper Texans do on football Sundays. But I don’t have that kind of Texas pride. 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.

My wife brought me here in ’99. Two young teachers chasing stable jobs at the newest, shiniest high school in the state. Back then, Fitzhollow smelled like wet limestone set on the banks of lake water—a Hill Country oasis built for people who wanted to pretend they were getting away from city traffic without ever leaving southern comfort behind.

The rich built their retreats. The rest of us tried to build a life.

Fitzhollow High School gleamed like a future promise—glass ceilings, rock archways, banners waiting for championships. A campus the locals swore would “put us on the map,” whatever they meant, when the grand opening ribbon was cut. What I learned in the Lone Star State is that everyone shoots for bigger—the schools, the ambitions, the egos.

You see it in every booster check written and feel it inside every kid who walks these halls like the world owes them something better.

I took the coaching job thinking it’d be temporary. A year. Maybe two. But Fitzhollow has a way of pulling you in. The years start to stack, one on top of the next, until one morning you wake up hungover, crouched over your office desk on a Sunday morning, pushing thirty-six, realizing you’ve built a whole damn life in a town you never meant to make memories in—much less life-altering decisions.

Like today.

A beam of sunlight slants through my office window and lands directly on the manila envelope sitting dead center on my desk—a spotlight forcing my attention where it’s least welcome.

Attn: Coach Tim Nichols.

I promised an answer by today. My signature. My final decision.

2019 (NOW)

ALLISON NASH DALTON

The lake looks harmless at night.

From the windows of the lobby bar, moonlight skims across Lake Fitzpatrick. Glassy. Still. Beautiful enough to make a hotel guest think nothing bad had ever happened there. I should be upstairs asleep. Instead, I'm nursing a glass of wine past midnight and staring at a body of water I've spent years trying not to think about.

Tomorrow, my best friend, Miles Singer, gets married. I should be excited for him. Everyone else seems to be. Maybe that's why nobody is ready for the night to end. Rehearsal dinner chaos continues to spill over. Glasses clink. Laughter breaks open. Music climbs higher. Another round of lemon drops disappears.

Thirty-four looks different on all of us.

The lines around our eyes are deeper. The stories are heavier. But somehow this lake town looks exactly the same. And just like that, I'm fourteen again. 1999. Driving towards a brand new high school over a bridge that divides East and West Fitz, turning onto Cherry Lane for the first time.

New girl.

New town.

New start.

Standing outside the tennis courts in a white skirt with a stomach full of nerves, watching Coach Nichols check names off a clipboard and wondering if I'd survive my first day of tennis tryouts.

Someone calls my name—I think—but I don't turn.

The bar comes back into focus as my phone vibrates against the bartop. The sound punches straight through me. For a second, I can't move. Slowly, I flip it over. The notification is still there.

@MNTennisGuy requested to follow you.

My stomach drops all over again.

_____

Last night, I lay beside my husband, Colby Dalton. He slept on his side of the mattress, one hand resting across my thigh as his thumb traced slow, absent circles beneath our silky sheets. His skin was soft. His hands had never known calluses from holding the grip of a racket. He grew up holding pigskin and clubs. His sandy blond hair remained light enough to disguise the gray beginning to creep in around his temples. Mine wasn't nearly as forgiving. Every month, another white strand appeared among my auburn hair, a reminder that motherhood had found me first.

"You need to go to bed, babe," he said gentle.

"I know."

"You have a long weekend ahead with Miles wedding."

"I know." I said, half dosing off.

My suitcase was already packed for the wedding. Jewelry polished. Dress steamed and hanging from the back of the closet door. My son slept down the hall, his nightlight casting a soft glow into the hallway. The dishwasher hummed in the background. On the kitchen island sat a detailed list surrounded by sticky notes and reminders. The kind of life built from routines and calendars. Predictable in all the ways adulthood promises.

The architecture of an ordinary life.

As if the past couldn't find me there.

I did my final doom scroll, then went to set my phone alarm. That’s when the notification arrived. Appearing at the top of my screen.

@MNTennisGuy requested to follow you.

Confirm or Delete.

At first, it meant nothing.

A simple notification. One click. One name. I should have ignored it. Let it disappear into the graveyard of unopened emails, missed calls, and things I have the luxury of avoiding. Just another request. Probably a stranger or some kind of spam alert was always my first thought.

But, I clicked. 

Curiosity has always been my fatal flaw. 

The profile opened.

I didn't recognize him at first. He stood on the tennis courts, Lake Fitzpatrick shimmered in the distance. Dark hair. Tanned skin. A hunter-green Fitzhollow hat pulled low across his eyes.  Stitched across the brim.

EST. 1999. 

The year everything started. But I couldn't look at him. Instead, I stared at the two people standing beside him. His parents.

Older now.

The sight of them knocked the air out of me. Fifteen years since I last saw them.

I exited the app immediately.

The Dalton family photo filled my home screen. Another set of parents posed in linen whites against a Caribbean sunset. My in-laws. Everyone angled just right.

Me.

My husband.

My four year old.

The perfect image. The photo doesn't show the argument about my wrinkled dress. Or Sammy's meltdown over a missing seashell. Or my mother-in-law informing me—for the hundredth time—that I let him get away with too much.

Pictures never tell the whole story.

Neither do people. Especially the ones who move 196 miles away from Fitzhollow and spend years convincing themselves they've built a new life.

____

I wave down the bartender, drain the last of my wine, and reach into my purse for my credit card. The hotel lobby was still buzzing. As I zip open my purse, I feel my fingers catch on a stack of photographs. The ones I promised to bring Mrs. Singer for the wedding tribute video. The edges are soft, worn smooth by time. I push them deeper into my purse and pull the zipper shut. As if that's where the past belongs.

When Mrs. Singer put me in charge of the video. I spent weeks digging through old dusty boxes. The disposable-camera years. The photos that would never make it onto social media. 

Bottles of Smirnoff Ice 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 that none of us were nearly as innocent as our parents believed.

But my favorite hard copies were always the tennis team photos. Long bus rides to away matches. Rain delays spent playing endless games of Kemps. Celebratory milkshakes after big wins. Coach Nichols standing in front of us before the final match of senior year, delivering one of his legendary pep talks we all took for granted. A snapshot of who we used to be. Those are the memories I wish would stay. 

But that's not how memory works. 

It keeps the moments you want to forget. The mistakes. The regrets. The things you'd give anything to bury. Especially when they find a way back to you.

@MNTennisGuy requested to follow you.

My hands haven’t stopped trembling. Every time I close my eyes, the same question comes back. Why now? I feel the like I am going to collapse.

"I gotta get out of here." I muttered, trying to catch the bartender's attention. 

The bar grows louder by the minute.

The rehearsal dinner crowd refuses to let the night end. Younger cousins order another round of shots. Bridesmaids abandon wedge heels beneath cocktail tables. Sloppy conversations. They haven't said a word to me all night.

I tell myself it doesn't matter.

I have my own group here. The ones frozen in the photos tucked inside my purse. My high school tennis team. The people who are supposed to make a night like this feel easy. The ones who once felt like family.

Before everything fell apart.

Miles' college friends, who I barely know, are spread across the outdoor terrace and around the bar. Hawaiian shirts hanging open. Loafers with no socks. Watches that all look expensive. Different faces. Same frat boy stereotype. Clinging to the chance to use this wedding to act like animals and relive their college days.

A body drops onto the stool beside me.

Three buttons undone. Hairy chest on full display.

"Abby!" he says.

Tequila. Queso. Overconfidence.

"You did that video thing, right?"

"It's Allison."

"Right. Allison." He points at me with the concentration of a man attempting brain surgery. "You're the redhead."

I wait.

"The tennis one."

Another beat.

"Miles's best friend."

His face brightens.

"That's you."

"Good detective work," I say. "Now excuse me while I recover from your nacho breath."

He laughs so hard he nearly falls off the stool. I grab his shoulder before gravity wins.

"Miles never mentioned how hot and funny you were."

"You should've given a toast."

"I retired from public humiliation."

He signals for another round. I immediately try to cancel it, anxious to close my tab.

"Stay for one more song."

Then he cups his hands around his mouth and shouts toward the terrace.

"HEY, ROCKSTAR!"

Half the bar turns.

"PLAY SOMETHING WE KNOW!"

"You know that guy's famous, right?" he says, lowering his voice. "Big-time famous, he goes by Jules."

He points toward Julian Sanchez. My face burns.

"Is he?" I say sarcastically. “I would have never known.”

I look toward the terrace. Julian sits beneath a string of market lights, a guitar balanced across his knee. Same dark curls. Same easy smile. Same ability to make a room feel smaller. Then I admit to Mr. Nacho Breath—

"He was actually on the tennis team too."

His eyes widened.

"Oh shit."

I sigh.

"Yeah, I have known Jules for a long time."

"Wowww, so THE singer knows Singer." He pauses, using his hands to gesture an explosion over his brain. I don’t laugh as I watch him sulk in his own epiphany. 

"Can you get the bartender's attention?" I nudge his shoulder. "I really need to go to bed. We've got a big day tomorrow."

I should be out there singing along. Dancing. Requesting the songs Julian use to strum around bonfires on summer nights. The ones that rattled through the speakers of his pickup truck with the windows down. Burned onto CDs he'd slide across the center console after practice and insist I listen to. Some things about Julian never changed after fame caught up to him.

But some things did.

I wave down the bartender myself, desperate to get off this barstool. I flip my phone over to check the time. The screen lights up.

Three missed calls from Colby.

Two texts.

A voicemail I haven't listened to.

A missed call from Miles.

1 New Message on Instagram.

The knot in my stomach tightens. A growing list of people trying to reach me and a message I am terrified is from him. I reach into my purse and tap a Valium into my palm. Dry swallow. Then chase it with the last of my wine.

12:13 a.m.

I should have left when Miles headed upstairs over an hour ago with his younger brother. He was always the responsible one from our team. The guy who knew when to walk away before things got messy. The guy who made good decisions while the rest of us were still debating bad ones. Tomorrow he'll stand beneath a chuppah exactly where he's always imagined his wedding would be at Singer Estate, his family's lakefront home.

Pressed suit.

Polished shoes.

Family and friends surrounding him. A future unfolding exactly according to plan. But to me, he'll always be the fourteen-year-old kid I met twenty years ago in tinted glasses and a spotless white polo.

Somehow, he grew into exactly who everyone expected him to become.

And I really am happy for him.

He deserves this weekend more than anyone.

My thumb brushes against my wedding ring. I wish Colby were here. Instead, he's three hours away at a Dalton family wedding with our son. Two competing obligations. Two RSVP cards. One impossible choice.

The Daltons won.

They usually do.

So while Colby is making small talk with distant relatives, I'm sitting alone at a hotel bar trying very hard not to think about the notification waiting on my phone.

The bartender finally appears.

"Sorry for the wait," she says, sliding over my receipt. "This one's on me. Looks like you need it tonight."

She's not wrong.

I grab the bill, leave a tip, and sign the merchant copy.

Allison Nash.

Muscle memory takes over. I stare at it. For a second, all I see is the old version of myself. Before everything that came after. I draw a line through it. Then write the name I've spent fifteen years becoming.

Signature: Allison Nash Dalton.

That's when I hear the opening chords of a song I used to love. He strums the opening progression without looking up. Of course Julian would pick this! We used to scream this song from the front seat of his truck until neither of us had voices left. He glances over. Winks. Never misses a note. Even after all these years, he knows exactly which song will make me smile. 

Come Pick Me Up by Ryan Adams.

Scott Adler looks back at me from his Adirondack chair listening to Julian play this one for me. Scott has always treated a room like a puzzle he could solve if he stared at it long enough. While looking like Patrick Bateman without the homicidal tendencies. He rolls his wedding band back and forth. The picture of a man who has everything. The curated Instagram version. 

But I know as well as anyone, enough to know nobody's life looks the way it does in pictures.

The lake catches my attention one last time as the song finishes. Moonlight fades across the surface. The estates glitter along the shoreline. Beyond them, the Austin skyline flickers faintly in the distance. Close enough to see. Far enough that nothing is ever quite what it seems.

Either way, I'm done reflecting for tonight.

Past exhaustion.

I push back from the bar before anyone can stop me. I gather everything in one motion and slip toward the elevator. Room key. Phone. Purse and a full poured wine glass to take to the room. 

 I press the UP button with my elbow.

And wait.

“The elevator is taking forever.” I mumble.

I am anxious as I pull out my phone. My thumb moves before I can stop it from opening Instagram. The unread message is still there.

1 New Message.

I stare at it. Twenty-four hours of pretending I could somehow outrun past.

Delete it.

The elevator is still stuck on a higher floor.

I look back down to realize I have tapped the message open:

@MNTennisguy

I think we need to talk.

Shit! 

My stomach drops. The elevator button glows red above me as it descends down.

8.

7.

6.

5.

4.

3.

ELEVATOR STOPS ON FLOOR TWO.

Repeating over and over as I watch the elevator arrive at the lobby floor.  I think we need to talk.  My pulse racing starting at my phone. Heart at the bottom of the elevator shaft.

Ding. Ding.

Finally, the doors slide open. I step forward, fixated on my screen. At the exact moment someone steps out. Wine splashes cold across my chest, blooming red against pale fabric.

We collide.

"Oh—fuck, Allison—"

My world stops.  I know that voice before I look up from the impact.  

Broader.

More ink.

Less hair.

The same dimples.

I exhale, almost losing my balance.

For a second, neither of us moves. Twenty years of history collapses into stillness. 

"Hi, Kasey."

His expression shifts. Like it surprised him too.

I 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 Kasey disappear upstairs after the rehearsal with a group,  I thought he was tucked into bed by now with some bridesmaid. I thought I was safe at the bar until the wedding. Anything to avoid eye contact. 

His eyes find mine.

"I am so sorry." He takes the dripping wine glass from my hand. "But you always did have a knack for spilling things on yourself."

"Well, you've always had a knack for shitty timing." I let out a laugh.

A corner of his mouth lifts. 

I feel the wine sliding between my breasts, tracing down my sternum, toward my lace underwear that I chose for reasons I don’t want to think about.

"I came down to hear Jules play and see who was still hanging around."

He winces and glances down at my dress. Wine continues to slide down my chest in slow, deliberate streaks. 

Great. Just great.

Kasey's eyes follow the red droplets for half a second before he drags them back to mine.

"Shit," I mutter, blotting at the stain with my hand. "This is going to stain."

"It'll be fine."

"It's not my dress."

"Ah."

"I borrowed it from my sister-in-law."

His face immediately changes. I stare at him.

"She is a bitch." I say in spite.

"Well," he says, glancing at the spreading stain, "we definitely can't give that bitch any more ammunition."

He reaches around me and presses his floor.

"Kase—"

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

Before I can answer, the doors slide shut. For a second, we're standing too close. The elevator hums upward. The noise from the lobby disappears. The music disappears. Even the voices in my head grow quiet. I feel the numbness kicking in.

I reach for the button panel. His hand catches mine before I can press it. The contact lasts less than a second. This is a bad idea.

"No, really. It's fine. I'll just buy her a new dress." I clear my throat.

"Ally."

I look up. His eyes are softer now as the doors open to his floor. Mine are restless as he reaches for my hand.

"Let me clean up my mess for once.” The words land somewhere deep in my chest.

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 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.

First day of tennis tryouts.

“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.”