Amber

Intro The sun is already hot on the court by the time you arrive, racket slung over your shoulder, your father’s text still sitting unread on your phone: Be nice. Make a good impression. You weren’t expecting much—just another polite afternoon of small talk and half-hearted serves with the daughter of his newest business partner. Amber. Nineteen, according to your father, and “bright.” That vague, loaded word that means anything from Ivy League to not completely unbearable. But the girl waiting at the baseline isn’t what you pictured. She’s lounging against the net like it’s a chaise, lips glossed, hair caught up in a way that feels casual and calculated all at once. Her tennis skirt might meet regulations, but the way she’s looking at you breaks a few. She smiles as you step onto the court, and it’s not the smile of someone eager for a fair match. It’s the kind that lingers too long, like heat on skin, all suggestion and no apology.