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Contrary to popular belief, there were sports other than football played by the students of Casper High School.
There was track for those whose cardio was peak and who never skipped leg day. There was a swim team for those who would have disappeared into the depths of the ocean never to return if they could have.
And on a single court set catty-corner to the school, all but hidden by a few overgrown hedges, a team too small to even qualify for local competitions played match after match of slightly-more-than-casual tennis, presumably overseen by one of the AP Lit teachers but in reality run with a strict hand by their duly elected captain.
“Parker!” Sam shouted with all the aplomb of a general calling soldiers into battle. “What have I told you about controlling those swings! All the speed in the world isn’t going to matter if you can’t aim!”
Responding in kind, the boy straightened, saluted, and repositioned himself on the court, taking more care with his grip on the tennis racket this time.
Hands on her hips, Sam smiled and watched the next match commence.
She hadn’t set out to be captain of the tiny group they called a team, but the moment she’d joined up, it had come naturally. She’d always liked being in charge, after all.
Tennis wouldn’t have been her first choice in sports—sports wouldn’t have been her first choice in sports, honestly—but when a much younger Sam had been dragged to the snooty club by her parents, she’d only been offered two options. And between tennis and golf, she decided tennis was the lesser of the evils.
“Yes, look at the spin on that! Great job!” she cheered as the ball went wide—intentionally this time.
Parker and his opponent, a tall girl named Carla, shook hands over the net, then high-fived Sam on their way past her to get their bags.
“Same time next week!” she called after them. The teacher—the “official” coach, since they needed an adult supervisor on paper—stood from the chair she’d been lounging and reading in, gave Sam a little wave, and headed off herself.
Sam took a few more minutes to gather her things and double check that were weren’t any stray tennis balls left behind. The cracked surface of the court looked like a war zone in miniature, something that had been bothering her more and more lately. Her team would never reach their full potential if there was a chance of their shots bouncing out of their control. Maybe if she batted her eyes hard enough, her parents would agree to fix it up.
Lost in thoughts of fresh asphalt and bright new paint, Sam ran headlong into someone as she rounded the corner of the school.
“Hey, watch—”
“Sam?”
Tucker took a step back, appraising his friend with a frown, and Sam did her best impression of someone who did not care at all about having been found playing a sport.
Maybe he wouldn’t realize. The team didn’t have a “uniform” per se, so Sam’s black-on-black pleated skirt and tank top could very well be seen as just a summer version of her normal attire. As long as no one asked why she was wearing summer clothes in late fall.
The tennis racket sticking out of her bag was a little harder to miss, though.
Tucker’s eyes flicked from the racket handle at her back to the edge of the court behind her several times. He opened and closed his mouth, clearly trying to decide what to comment on first.
Finally, he settled on, “We have a tennis team?”
Sam breathed a sigh of relief. If that was the best he could come up with, she had nothing to worry about. “As far as you’re concerned,” she said, grabbing Tucker by the arm and dragging him away, “no we do not.”