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racket. The set continued with us breaking each other’s serve, until she got her tremendous kick serve going and won a service game at love, taking us to 3-5, in her favor. True to form, my first serve failed me, and I lost my service game, giving her the set at 3-6.
    We both jogged to the net and shook hands. She had a mist of sweat on her face and neck, making me think of a beverage I wanted to try.
    “Nice set,” she said, my hand in hers. She wasn’t smiling but wasn’t frowning, either. She had a look of respect combined with wonder, like she was trying to figure out a puzzle.
    “You, too.” I smiled. Then for some reason I closed my eyes, smirked, and shook my head, pulling my hand away. I started to head off the court.
    “What was that for?”
    I turned around. “What was what for?”
    “That look. And that head shake.”
    “Sorry. I didn’t realize I did that.”
    “You did, so spill it.”
    I sighed. “I’m not good with compliments.”
    The right side of her mouth curled up slightly, and she tilted her head to the side as she had the first day I saw her in the doorway of Mr. Wilcox’s class. “Giving them, or taking them?”
    “Either. Both.”
    “Then you’re off the hook, since you’re not really giving one if someone has to force it out of you. So ’fess up.” Her tone was light, playful.
    I faced skyward, unable to say the words directly to her. “I was only asking myself if there was anything you didn’t do well.” I took a deep breath and exhaled, finally meeting her eyes.
    The left side of her mouth joined her right, blossoming into a genuine smile. “Why wouldn’t you want to tell me that?”
    Embarrassed, I studied my racket and pulled at a couple of the strings before bringing my eyes back to hers. I shrugged. “Anyway, thanks for the set,” I said before turning and jogging toward the gate.
    Over my shoulder, I heard her call out. “Good luck!”
    Coach wasn’t ready to make any decisions that day, or at least wasn’t ready to announce them if she had, so we eventually went to the locker room to shower and change. As I reached the row where my stuff was, I stopped as if I’d hit a glass wall. A wet-haired Sarah, clad in jeans and a lacy off-white bra, was fishing out her top from her locker and talking to her friend Olivia, who was also changing. I blushed and immediately turned around to head back out the door to wait until the coast was clear, not trusting myself to keep my eyes off Sarah and therefore the color out of my cheeks.
    I heard the familiar voice from behind me. “Cazz, hold up.”
    “One sec,” I said weakly before darting to the bank of sinks around the corner, throwing on a cold-water faucet, cupping my hands below the spigot, and splashing several handfuls against my face. Hopefully the color in my face would be mistaken for the cold-water rinse rather than this combination of hot-blooded desire and monumental embarrassment. I turned off the water and stared at my wet face in the mirror. Wide, green eyes blinked back at me in surprise.
    This was no coincidence. I was having unchaste thoughts about a girl. And if that wasn’t bad enough, not just any girl, but the most popular girl in school, dating the cutest boy in school.
    “You okay?” Sarah asked from behind, baring miles of lovely, smooth tanned skin as she held her shirt in her right hand.
    I reached for a paper towel and covered my face, nodding. Through it, I mumbled. “Just got something in my eye.” I kept my head down and tossed the paper towel into the silver trashcan. As I walked back toward my locker, I freed my dark-brown mane from its elastic band and fanned it around my shoulders in an attempt to cover my face and neck, hoping Sarah would stay behind me until she donned her shirt. I opened my locker and focused all my attention into the tall rectangular metal structure before me.
    “How were tryouts? Any news?”
    Still staring at my clothes hanging in front of me, I replied.