Tess's father arrived on Saturday with the fan, two bags of groceries and a wrong turn he wanted to describe in detail.
“The sign says deliveries,” he said.
“That's why you don't turn there.”
“I know that now.”
He put the bags on the table outside the player entrance. He had brought the crackers she liked, bananas green enough for next week and a jar of peanut butter too large to fit in any of her bags. Tess took it out and weighed it in her hand.
“Dad. I can't take this on a plane.”
He looked at the jar. “Leave it in my truck, then. I'll take it back with me. I thought you'd be hungry after.”
She left it beside the fan. He looked tired. His face had the slightly gray cast it got after a night shift, though he had finished early enough to sleep before driving. Tess wanted to ask how much sleep. She wanted him not to have to tell her.
“Come here,” he said.
She let him hug her. He smelled of soap and the mint he kept in his truck. The hug was unhurried, two pats at the end, the same as always. For a moment Tess could stand without being watched to see how she stood.
“I have to warm up in ten,” she said.
“That's all right.”
“You can stay through the match?”
“Yes. I've got to be back by nine.”
“You can leave if it runs long.”
He didn't answer. He was looking at the parking pass she had sent him, folded now into a little square. “Where do I go after?”
She showed him the map. He took out his reading glasses, put them on and studied it as if she had given him a schematic. She pointed to the section behind Hana. He nodded and put the pass into his shirt pocket.
“Mom's over the other side,” Tess said.
“I know.”
“Just so you know where—”
“I know, Tess.”
She looked away. He didn't need her to explain the family to him. He had been there for most of it. He picked up one grocery bag, leaving the other for her.
“I'll bring this up later. You go get ready.”
She left the jar with him and walked to the practice courts. Hana was waiting at the gate, making a note on the order of play. Tess had Ada for fifteen minutes before Ada's own doubles warm-up, and then a little time for serves. Hana pointed to the clock so they all agreed when to finish.
They hit without talking. Tess liked the small sounds at the start, the soft tick of the ball when nobody was trying to do anything to it yet. She could feel the contact through the handle, a clean point in the middle of the strings. Her legs had been stiff when she woke. Now they began to feel as though they belonged to her again.
They moved back, bringing the pace up without keeping score. Ada gave her height, and Tess let some balls fall, took others earlier. They weren't all good. A forehand caught the frame and made Ada duck. Tess apologized, and Ada waved her back to the baseline, already sending the next ball.
When Ada left, Hana gave Tess six volleys. The clean miss at the baseline felt better than the one that barely reached the net. Tess pointed to where she wanted the next feed. She knew the movement she was trying to find; for once she didn't need to talk through it before she tried.
She thought of last night, the dining room, her mother's question about the backhand. Tess had wanted to tell her how the line had opened, how she had seen it before the opponent moved. She had also wanted not to have to explain. Hana had seen it. Hana was the person whose face she had turned toward after the point. Both things had been true at once, and the room had become unbearable.
Hana waited with a ball on her strings. Tess looked up, raised a hand to say she was ready, and they finished the volleys.
During serves, Hana walked to the far end and put down a target cone. Tess knocked it over on the second try. Hana set it back up without comment, and Tess tried again until the remaining time was gone.
Back in the clubhouse, Tess drank, changed and sat on the bench to rewrap the dressing on her heel. The raw skin from Merritt had closed, but she didn't trust the new patch under friction. She had done it herself all week. This morning the tape kept sticking to its own edge. She worked it loose, tore it, started again.
Her mother could do it with her eyes closed. Tess held the end in her teeth and smoothed it down with both thumbs. It looked lumpy but felt all right in the shoe.
Hana came back with the order of play. “Ten minutes.”
“What do you think she'll do?” Tess asked.
Hana sat beside her, moving a racket bag out of the way with her foot. “Inez will try to use the backhand through your forehand side. She always does when she trusts it. She'll want you playing from behind the line.”
“And Mom knows I'll send it through the middle if I get late.”
Hana ran a finger along the scuffed edge of the bench. “If you can get it deep, that's a good ball. You don't have to do something new on every shot.”
The room was noisy with somebody's music, someone else tearing tape. Tess didn't want a talk about how to face her mother. She wanted a way to win the match that wasn't dependent on proving her mother wrong about every ball.
“I'm going to come in,” she said. “I want to make her have to pass me.”
Hana nodded. “I'll be watching the approach. If it's short, I'll tell you. You can change it then.”
Tess leaned forward, forearms on her thighs. Out on court she could be in front of the ball, behind it, too late, just in time. She could be wrong and fix it on the next point. Here every ordinary sentence seemed to have a second life waiting beneath it. She wanted to play.
Her phone lit. A message from Owen: Found seat. Fan not in use. Beneath it was a photograph of the fan on his lap. Tess sent back a thumbs-up. Then she turned the phone off and put it in her bag.
At the passage to the court she met Inez. They had stood together like this dozens of times, not always at this end of a tournament. Inez had a mark along her shin from the edge of a chair, a square red indentation. Tess looked at it because looking at her face seemed too much.
“You all right?” Inez asked.
“Yeah.”
“Good.”
They waited for the attendant. Beyond the curtain the crowd was clapping for an announcement neither of them could hear. Inez rolled the racket handle in her hand. Tess had beaten her enough times to know there was nothing inevitable about losing today. She wanted to beat her again. She wanted the next round, the morning practice before a final, the chance to be tired and nervous about a different opponent tomorrow.
The attendant lifted the curtain. Inez went first. Tess followed into the light, found the baseline with her eyes and walked toward it.