Girl Against the Universe by Paula Stokes

beats me to the spot. He reaches down with his racquet, pins the ball against the side of his foot, and flips it up into the air. I reach out and catch it. “Seriously. I hope I didn’t offend you,” he says. “I’m not really a slick asshole. I just pretend to be one sometimes, for the media people. Occasionally, I forget to turn it off.” He’s still got half a smile on his face, but there’s a heaviness to his words.
    â€œWhy not just be the real you?”
    â€œThe real me doesn’t sell tennis racquets,” Jordy says. “Or grip tape or sports sunglasses. Apparently I need a brand to be successful. And sadly, everyone seems to like Slick Asshole Jordy better.”
    I crack a smile. “Not everyone.”
    â€œYeah, well, you don’t really know me, do you?”
    â€œTrue.”
    â€œYet,” he says as we make our way back down the grassy hill.
    Something about that one innocent word makes me nervous.
    We duck back into the tennis courts a couple of moments later, and Coach gives Jordy a long look. “I thought maybe you two weren’t coming back. Did she hit that ball into the next county?”
    â€œShe’s got quite an arm,” Jordy says.
    We resume hitting on Court Two, where Jordy runs me from side to side and I return his power with a little added extra of my own. Each shot I make is harder than the one before. Vaguely, in my peripheral vision, I see the girls on the nearby courts pausing their games to watch us. Jordy hits a shallow ball, and my momentum brings me up to the net. He tries to lob over me but comes up short. I’m in perfect position for an overhead slam. I bring my racquet back and wait for the ball to fall, squinting hard to keep from losing it in the bright sunlight. Wait for it . . . wait for it . . .
    Jordy has to guess which way I’m going. I see him lean to my left, so I aim right. I swing hard, transferring my weight forward as I make contact, but my aim is slightly off and the ball flies through the air right at Jordy’s body. He tries to get out of the way, but it’s coming at him too fast.
    Oh no. He’s going to get hit, I think. Bad Luck Maguire strikes again.
    But it’s even worse than I imagine. My overhead nails Jordy right between the legs.

CHAPTER 7
    Watching Jordy get hit is like watching a bad slow-motion sequence in a movie. His skin goes pale. He flails backward a couple of steps. Freezes. Doubles over. His knees hit the ground first, and then the rest of him. He twists onto one side, his feet and legs inside the court, his upper body beyond the baseline. His face turns red.
    â€œOh my God. I am so sorry.” I stand awkwardly at the net, my racquet dangling from my hand as Coach Hoffman runs to Jordy’s side. Kimber is right behind him.
    She kneels beside Jordy and looks back at me with undisguised loathing. “Did you just hit him in the . . . ? What is the matter with you?” Her dark eyes bore holes in my skin.
    â€œI—I didn’t mean to,” I say.
    Jordy groans. He pulls his knees up to his chest and curls into the fetal position. “That’s good to know,” he chokes out. “Like I said, Coach. She’s got quite an arm.”
    The girls down on Court Five and Court Six are stillplaying, but everyone else has stopped to check out the commotion. A small crowd gathers around Jordy. Titters become giggles become full-blown laughter. One of the girls has her phone out recording the entire thing. This is totally the most humiliating moment of my life.
    â€œKimber. Go get Reyes,” Coach Hoffman says. He turns to Jordy. “Can you sit up?”
    Jordy takes Coach’s hand and pulls himself into a seated position as Kimber stalks off to get the athletic trainer. His face starts to return to normal color. “Not Reyes,” he protests. “What is he going to do? Put an ice pack on my balls?”
    Another wave of laughter