The score was 40:40, and the sun was beaming down on us. I struggled on my serve, especially since the sun was right in my eyes. My arms were sore with fatigue, and my legs ached from running.
"Please go in," I whispered to the ball, throwing it up and smacking it with my remaining strength. It arched over the net--just barely--and almost landed in the alley if not for the sudden wind that might've taken part. My opponent ran up to the ball, already prepared for my weak shot, and hit it with a slice.
Oo-h no.
This game was doomed. My returns on slices were abysmal. Meaning, they sucked. I stumbled to my opponent's shot, barely catching it with a wobbly backhand. A bit of back-and-forth continued, the both of us at our limits. One slip up, and the game would be over. But I always thought too much during times like these--and that's why I'm the one who was going to lose this match.
~
I greedily gulped down the remaining water in my water bottle, coughing as I tried to breathe. It was so hot today with the sun out and the air humid from two days of rain. The game was over as me and my opponent shook hands, and I dreaded the thought of going to see my dad. He was going to be upset--very upset.
Plodding up the stairs to the building, I silently swung open the door and saw my dad sitting by the windows, looking at his phone. No words were exchanged as we headed out of the place, entering the car and driving home.
Still no words were exchanged.
And I preferred it this way.
Only once I got home, all the judgments would start like a hailstorm towards me and only me. I looked out the car window, thinking.
Is this all really worth it?
I never got my answer as my breathing became ragged, and heat encompassed me.
I knew right then that I had died.