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The server’s first serve was well long, and on her second serve, she made the mistake of going to Sarah’s forehand. Sarah took it on the rise for a better angle and nailed a crosscourt winner. 6-5.
    Crap. My serve, at the worst possible time. Sarah scooped up a ball with her racket and foot and handed it to me, offering words of support and reassurance. Unfortunately, my first serve wasn’t listening. Various points later, although my first serve continued to abandon me, Sarah didn’t give up. At thirty-forty, one point from losing the game, she walked over to me before I prepared to serve. “Let’s go, Cazz. You can do it. We’re going to win this.” Serving to the ad court, I nailed it down the line, sending the girl well to the right of a comfortable forehand. The ball hit her racket frame and soared into the fence. Deuce.
    Once again, Sarah hustled over to me, trying to pump me up. “Take a little pace off your first serve. If it doesn’t go in, do the exact same thing on the second serve. Can you do that?”
    “I might double-fault.”
    “True, but I’d rather lose because we were aggressive than because we played it safe.”
    “Are you sure?”
    “I’m sure. Trust me.”
    I shifted my grip slightly to the left to add a small spin to my first serve. I tossed the ball and sprang forward into the serve with slightly less power than usual. It sailed long. I looked at Sarah, who nodded. “You can do it,” she said firmly. Keeping the same grip, I repeated the process and watched the ball land just inside the line. The Primrose girl stepped into the forehand but couldn’t take it on the rise due to the faster pace of the ball. She hit it to Sarah, who lunged left, her stab volley sending over a perfectly placed drop shot. Ad-in.
    “Nice!” I called out.
    Sarah met me at the baseline. Another high-five. “Same thing, Cazz. Same thing.” This time, serving to the ad court, my less formidable first serve landed on the centerline. Our opponent hit a strong forehand deep to my backhand, which I sent down the line to the other girl. She struck a hard but short ball back to me. I raced around it in order to hit a forehand that traveled between our opponents for a winner.
    We won.
    I hustled to the net next to Sarah, both of us shaking hands with our opponents to congratulate them on a good match. Our teammates cheered and applauded and began filing out of the bleachers to head to the gate leading to our court. Next thing I knew Sarah practically tackled me, engulfing me in a fierce embrace.
    I’d never known such joy until that moment. My grin was as wide as our bus. I wanted nothing more than to wrap my arms around Sarah and never let go, but I couldn’t bring myself to hug her. My racket in one hand, the other staying limp at my side, I wanted so badly to hold her yet knew I never could, not the way I wanted to.
    “Okay, okay, okay.” I laughed. “No need to fuss. Geez. All right, already. It’s not such a big deal.”
    She continued holding and rocking me for a few moments. She pulled back, and her eyes beamed with pleasure as she smiled, her hands around my neck, her face inches from mine. Her gaze dipped to my mouth, and her smile disappeared; then she quickly raised her eyes back to mine. My grin vanished, and my mouth went dry. The gymnast in my stomach did a backflip that moved deftly into a somersault. I gazed into her eyes for what seemed like an endless stretch of time. Then, afraid of what was in them or what I feared I might do, I forced myself to turn away.
    Sarah released me and took a step back, which gave me the freedom to meet her eyes. “We did it,” she said quietly, bringing a smile back to her beautiful mouth. I nodded, pleased and pained by her smile. Pleased to see her happy, pained not to be able to cause it beyond a tennis match or two. She had Dirk for that.
    “We did.”
    Suddenly our joyous teammates surrounded, hugged, patted, and high-fived us, everyone congratulating