I sat down across from Cassidy. The library smelled like old books and furniture polish. Her textbook lay open to a page covered in her color-coded notes, but she wasn't looking at it. Just staring at the wood grain of the table like it held answers to questions she hadn't asked yet.
"So," I said.
"So," she echoed.
"You kicked my ass at tennis."
Her lips twitched. Not quite a smile, but close. "Obviously. You held the racket like you were swatting flies."
"I was improvising."
"You were embarrassing yourself." She leaned back in her chair. "But you kept trying anyway. Even when I nailed that serve into your ribs."
"That was accidental."
"Was it though?"
I rubbed my side. Still sore. "You're a menace."
"And you're slow." But her voice had lost that sharp edge. Now it just sounded tired. "You did better toward the end. If you actually practiced, you'd probably be decent."
"High praise."
"Don't let it go to your head."
