The Black Knight Squash Fiction League Match

The Quill Shots CHAPTER TWO

“Knew you were gonna come for me, better chose carefully,

Cause I’m capable of anything. Make me your one and only.

Don’t make me your enemy.

Once you’re mine, you’re mine. . .There’s no going back,

Cause I’m comin’ atcha like a dark horse,

Like a perfect storm, a perfect storm.

Are you ready for, you ready for, a perfect storm?”

Dark Horse – Katy Perry

Chapter 2 -- A Perfect Storm

By -- Kathryn Abernathy

BETHANY

Bethany dialed her daughter, Sadie’s, cell -- straight to voicemail. Frowning, she headed her Bentley towards Hwy 280. Today was endless, and Chris sure didn’t help, with his talk of bettering her game, and then intimating her husband, Kyle, was gone permanently. Three months prior, Kyle followed a girl, 27 years his junior, to Arizona, after supposedly knocking her up.

At dinner tonight, Chris was more obnoxious than usual, and despite his efforts, appeared highly agitated. What was his problem -- that manic mega-mile running, his insufferable sarcasm towards her friends, the outrageous flirting, obtuse jokes, and that never-before-heard-of story about his ex-tennis partner? Bethany realized she almost mirrored his ex-tennis partner’s loathing of Chris’ unsolicited opinions, and refusing to speak to him again. She was almost there herself.

Groaning, Bethany smacked the steering wheel, and blasted the radio. Lately, Chris “miraculously” showed up everywhere. It almost resembled stalking, and even worse, tonight, walking outside the restaurant, Chris asked Jeff about taking squash lessons. Bethany trained at Smash Courts weekly; more importantly, Sadie trained there daily. Bethany knew Sadie would freak if he took up squash there. She despised him, complaining Chris was “overtly creepy.” Bethany had dismissed it, but lately, recognizing her daughter’s keen perceptiveness, wondered about him.

She was relieved Chris declined her invitation to come over. She’d only offered to make things less weird, immediately regretting it. She recalled hosting dinner with Chris and her teammates last week. He wouldn’t take a hint – or twenty – almost crossing the line, appearing to accidentally touch her neck, arm, shoulder, repeatedly, acting like a proprietary husband. He’d stood so closely, she’d felt claustrophobic. However, thinking it absolutely possible she’d misunderstood, she didn’t say anything that could ruin their 9 month friendship. Instead, she’d invented a migraine to get him out.

Tonight, she’d let Chris assume she’d slept with Jeff, only because she wanted to subtly solidify to Chris her non-interest. She realized Chris overtly flirted with Kim, at the club, at dinner with Gloria, making sure Bethany noticed. Was he trying to make her jealous? Chris was a running and coffee buddy, not a boyfriend. He was hilarious, but also hyper, narcissistic, and unemployed! Bethany thought, “I’m not ready to date, let alone date a grey-haired, recycled teenager.”

Pulling into her Hillsborough home, she retried Sadie. 12:40, 12:44 – no answer. “Bethany, Sadie’s in college now. Relax,” she admonished herself.

12:58, 1:19. . .

As Bethany got into bed, her anxiety grew. She’d almost annihilated her relationship with Sadie due to her parental neglect, resulting in her daughter barely surviving her wild and dangerous teen years. Coach Julian had made Bethany face that she was a horrible mother. He’d healed Sadie. Now, they were not only mother-daughter, but friends. She thanked God for her second chance with Sadie, and for Julian, every day.

1:57 -- Where was Sadie?

SADIE

What’s that noise? Is someone still on the courts? As Sadie listened from the storage room, the sound suddenly stopped. Five minutes later, Sadie brushed it off as imagination or traffic, and resumed closing-up.

Sadie LOVED squash, working at Smash Courts full-time until university began; then, managing closing-shift nightly. The pay was nil, but Sadie had money. The real draw – Sadie’s coach -- Julian Allesandro, THE Julian “Tin-Man” Allesandro!

Julian’s competiveness and rare talent manifested at only age five, winning match after match in the U-11 Juniors. He later dominated Canada and Mexico. Finally, consistently winning Men’s Open Tournaments, he became the youngest U.S. player to turn pro. Julian was International Fan Favorite, until mangling his knee during a high-profile match, the blowing out of his knee so gnarly, that YouTube hits remain colossal. Three years later, raring gossip and heated debates rage on about if the “accident” was really an accident after all.

Now, he owns Smash Courts, and mentors at-risk teens. Urban kids play or train every afternoon. Julian coaches the kids personally. Enter Sadie.

Sadie’s parents, Bethany and Kyle Barrington were old-money, social-status motivated, had a loveless marriage, and continually neglected Sadie, until she befriended a bad crowd, whose exponentially dangerous, illegal antics got Sadie into deep trouble.

One afternoon, Julian caught Sadie rifling through his Jeep Cherokee, her hands in his Black Knight bag, stealing cash and, inexplicably, his racquet. His ultimatum: work to pay for the smashed Jeep window, or he’d phone police and parents. Two days later, Julian taught her how to smack out her rage with a racquet. Sadie cleaned courts; Julian coached squash.

With Coach Julian’s brusque mandates and coveted encouragement, Sadie blossomed: acing college-prep courses, making a trio of new friends, and was thief no more. Three years later, she dreamed of a future playing Olympic squash.

11 p.m. Monday night, Sadie closed Smash Courts. After dust-mopping courts, vacuuming locker rooms, she threw her racquet bag and cell into her car. Then she remembered the trash still sitting in the storage room. Damn! Rushing inside, Sadie headed to the back.

She unhooked the backdoor‘s padlock chain, and walked out to the dumpsters, when she heard it again. Slap, slap, slap – like someone slamming a ball in Court #6.

Trash abandoned by the exit, she crept toward the courts, heart pounding. Suddenly, the ball’s slamming ceased. Sadie cut through the deserted men’s locker room to investigate. She peered through the glass walls - just empty, noiseless courts.

“Last time I hit a Frat party and drink “mystery” punch,” Sadie chuckled to herself, remembering the rare party and hangover. She returned to trash duty.

Back in the alley, she threw four, huge, smelly bags into the dumpster. She tossed the alley cat, Cheeto, bits of her left-over tuna sandwich. Then, she twisted the doorknob, but the backdoor didn’t move. Was it jammed? It needed to lock properly, or the alarm would trip later. Too irritated for fear, Sadie marched down the side gravel path of the building, easily hopping the chain-link fence. Now drizzling, she raced up the steps, unlocking the front door.

Eighteen months ago, Julian entrusted Sadie with a front-door key. Momentarily sentimental, he’d placed it on a Nicol David keychain. Sadie surged with pride, then and now. Julian trusted her. She strode through the club, pausing to check the alarm -- no alarm set, no Julian.

Sadie returned to the backdoor, and hackles sprang up on her neck. The padlock was clicked in place, door chained shut -- from the inside! Terrified, she leapt behind the new pop-up court equipment.

Suddenly, slap-squeak, slap-squeak – the ball resumed its rally. Who was that? She’d walked the last team out at 11 p.m., and locked the front door. Julian knew her nightmares; he’d never play such a cruel trick. So, who was here?

The ball reverberating against the court’s wall seemed to pound against Sadie’s skull. Her singular thought: GET OUT NOW! But, how could she escape safely, unseen? Was the phantom player clueless, or cognizant of Sadie, merely taunting her before showing themselves? Sadie reached for her cell phone, but gasped, realizing the effort was hopeless - her phone was inside her racquet bag, and the bag was now locked away, outside, in the trunk of her car.