Don’t judge a book by the cover.

WHEN LOVE MEANT NOTHING
Upmarket Fiction | 95,000 words

In 1999, the Fitzhollow High varsity tennis team was untouchable.

They were magnetic, reckless, and inseparable in their small Texas lake town—spending weekends cliff-diving into Lake Fitzpatrick, drinking beer around bonfires, and chasing a state title in white tennis skirts and letterman jackets. Their ambitious coach, Tim Nichols, believed winning would hold them together.

By senior year, he underestimated how badly they could break each other.

At the center of the team were Allison Nash and Kasey Hayes: best friends, mixed doubles partners, and eventually, each other's undoing.

On the court, love meant nothing.
Off the court, it cost everything.

Twenty years later, the team reunites at Singer Estate, the sprawling lakefront home where everything first fell apart. Allison arrives already spiraling after a late-night message forces her to confront what she buried after graduation: years ago, she gave birth to a son and placed him for adoption with the man who once coached them all.

She tells herself she can survive one weekend back in Fitzhollow.

Instead, the past detonates almost immediately.

Someone goes missing.
Someone is punched.
Someone gets arrested.

And on the boat dock at Singer Estate, the truth Allison spent years avoiding explodes in front of everyone she once loved.

By midnight, Allison is in Kasey's hotel room.
By dawn, she wakes alone in a hospital bed.
By nightfall, she comes face-to-face with the son she let go and realizes he has Kasey's eyes.

Blending the tangled relationships and emotional volatility of Tell Me Lies with the ensemble intensity of Friday Night Lights, WHEN LOVE MEANT NOTHING is a dual-timeline, multi-perspective upmarket novel about first love, buried secrets, and a varsity tennis team that built a mythology around itself—and spent decades living in the wreckage of it.

With a background in creative development, I first conceived WHEN LOVE MEANT NOTHING as a television drama titled THIRTY LOVE before realizing the emotional scope of the story belonged in a novel. Inspired by teen dramas, coed sports culture, and the complicated relationships that continue to shape us long after they've ended, this is my debut novel.

Thank you for your time and consideration. Below is a first page sample; I would be honored to share the full manuscript.

Gratefully,
Kallie Meister

COACH TIM NICHOLS

15 years ago

My breath reeks of Blue Label.

I test it against my palm—the sour burn of whiskey tangled with a stale bite of tobacco—and immediately regret twisting the cap off that bottle last night. Not with today pressing down on me like a migraine I can feel in my teeth.

I chew a stick of gum I find buried in my desk drawer, scrape my tongue against my gums, and lower my pounding head into my palms. If anyone from the athletics department wanders in on a Sunday, they’ll find me like this: slumped over my office desk at the far edge of the high school campus, collapsed in my coach’s hat.

Most coaches are headed to church right now, or will be planted on couches with a Miller Lite by the afternoon, swearing at the Cowboys like proper Texans do on football Sundays. But I don’t have that kind of Texas pride. Hell, I’m not a Texan at all. Not born here. Not raised on Friday night lights or holy Sundays.

The only thing I’ve ever been faithful to is the plan I keep failing to follow: stay sober. Try harder. Be a mentor. Be a goddamn better man than I am today.

My wife brought me here in ’99. Two young teachers chasing stable jobs at the newest, shiniest high school in the state. Back then, Fitzhollow smelled like wet limestone set on the banks of lake water—a Hill Country oasis built for people who wanted to pretend they were getting away from city traffic without ever leaving southern comfort behind.

The rich built their retreats. The rest of us tried to build a life.

Fitzhollow High School gleamed like a future promise—glass ceilings, rock archways, banners waiting for championships. A campus the locals swore would “put us on the map,” whatever they meant, when the grand opening ribbon was cut. What I learned in the Lone Star State is that everyone shoots for bigger—the schools, the ambitions, the egos.

You see it in every booster check written and feel it inside every kid who walks these halls like the world owes them something better.

I took the coaching job thinking it’d be temporary. A year. Maybe two. But Fitzhollow has a way of pulling you in. The years start to stack, one on top of the next, until one morning you wake up hungover, crouched over your office desk on a Sunday morning, pushing thirty-six, realizing you’ve built a whole damn life in a town you never meant to make memories in—much less life-altering decisions.

Like today.

A beam of sunlight slants through my office window and lands directly on the manila envelope sitting dead center on my desk—a spotlight forcing my attention where it’s least welcome.

Attn: Coach Tim Nichols.

I promised an answer by today. My signature. My final decision.

2019 (NOW)

ALLISON NASH DALTON

The lake looks harmless at night.

From the open windows of the hotel lobby bar, moonlight skims across Lake Fitzpatrick—the only thing cutting through the dark. It’s always been so calm at night. Like time has stood still since I left. I should stop staring into the abyss, into the depths of my own thoughts. 

But I can’t.

It's drowning me.

It’s midnight on the eve of my best friend’s wedding back here in Fitzhollow, Tx. I should get off this barstool and go to bed. I can’t let this place unravel me now. Not in front of everyone. Not here at this moment.

This place is too loud for me to be spiraling this deep. Glasses clink. Laughter breaks open. Music climbs higher. Rehearsal dinner chaos continues to spill over. Someone calls my name—I think—but I don’t turn. I’m too stuck in this coma. Too overwhelmed with the emotions of being back in this place, surrounded by my highschool friends.

Suddenly I feel a rise of anxiety in my chest. 

The memories don’t ease in, they rush, like a flood that came without warning. This has been harder than I imagined. Magnified by the message that I received last night. The one that's already started to crumble my world. The regret that I fear will come when they realize what I’ve done, what I’ve lied about.

I grip the edge of the bar.  I really need to get upstairs.  I take a final gulp of wine. Dig through my purse, for my credit card—as my fingers catch on the stack of photos I zipped inside. The edges are now soft. Worn down by time.

I pause, gripping the top of the polaroid I’ve mistakenly pulled out...

An image of a simpler time. Sharpied on the back, 1999. A happy memory, I can finally draw from. I was freckled from the sun. Cheeks flushed, from the boy beside me. My hair whipping out the window to a song we kept repeating.

For a second, I let myself believe I’m still her.

But the feeling quickly fades. The bad stuff takes over again. It’s a shame how memory and emotions work. How you can’t really control them. You don’t get to decide what stays buried or how things get remembered, your subconscious makes those decisions for you. 

I put the photo back and felt my phone. I know the notification is still there from last night. I quickly pull my hand away. I know what is waiting on the screen. Just waiting to detonate. To split my world open—my marriage, my motherhood, my career. The life I lead with. The parts of me I would’ve bragged about this weekend when someone asked how I’ve been?

I am more sure than ever that I shouldn’t have come back here. To avoid the emotional chaos that I left behind. But that would have been predictable, that would have been the old me. The girl that always ran from her mistakes and lied to cover her tracks. I'm here now and there’s no turning back, I can’t let Miles down this time. 

I said goodnight to him an hour ago, the groom, the reason why we are all back in town. Always the responsible one. The boy I met with thin glasses at fourteen. The guy who knows when to leave before things get messy.

—

I stare at my fingers that won’t stay still—tapping the bar, picking at the edge of my nail, pressing into the wood, grounding myself there. Tearing at the cocktail napkin, I look around at all the people that stayed to keep the party going.

Miles’ fraternity brothers spread across the outdoor terrace. Hawaiian shirts hanging open, loafers with no socks, watches that all look expensive, different faces. Same stereotype. Clinging to the chance to use this wedding to relive their college days.

But they’re not the only ones letting loose.

Younger cousins crowd the bar, ordering another round of shots, voices rising over each other. Complaining about their parents. Comparing vacations. Laughing too hard at things that aren’t that funny. Behind me, bridesmaids have kicked off their wedge heels, abandoned them under high-top tables. Blistered ankles. Sloppy conversations they will regret tomorrow morning. 

They haven’t said a word to me all night.

I told myself it didn’t matter.

I have my own group here.

Old friends. Familiar faces. My high school tennis team. The ones who are supposed to make a night like this feel easy. The people that once felt like family. Before everything fell apart.

Our team from twenty years ago didn’t make sense on paper. We weren’t supposed to blend, we weren't supposed to succeed. Different homelifes, different backgrounds, different rules. We showed up for each other. Through the wins. Through the losses we didn’t know how to carry yet. We celebrated too hard. Held on too long until we lost our grip on it all.

—

My phone vibrates again, bringing me out of this trance. It has been buzzing all night. I just can’t bring myself to look at who is trying to reach me. Not right now. It’s probably just my husband checking in from the other side of Texas. Or Hannah making sure I don’t order another glass of wine. Or maybe it’s Miles confirming our plans for the morning. 

I fall back into the grip Lake Fitzpatrick has on me, letting my focus drift to what I’m trying to ignore.

I watch the waterline. The estates glitter along the bank as if they have been lowered from the stars. The Austin skyline flickers faintly beyond them—only visible from this side of Fitzhollow. A lake town just outside the city limits. Close enough to touch, but far enough to feel like something else entirely. Especially for the people who can afford the view. 

It has its own gravity.

It pulled me in the moment we moved here in high school. But we lived on the other side.

East Fitz.

Miles grew up on this side—the side where wealth settled. Generational homes. Lakefront property. The kind of places that felt permanent. His was known around town as Singer Estate. The place he’ll get married today. Everything exactly where he has always imagined it would be since we were kids. Pressed suit. Polished shoes. A signed ketubah. At the end of the ceremony, he’ll crush a glass beneath his heel that will shatter into a hundred fragile pieces.

Each break is a blessing.
Each piece is a promise.

At least, that’s what the Rabbi will say to the guests.

I won't be standing beside him, even as his unofficial “groomswoman.” It didn’t feel traditional. At least that’s how Miles’ gently framed it to me. “But,” he said. “I want you to have groomswoman duties.Hold the rings. Walk the flower girls down. And make the wedding video—because you’re the only one who kept everything.”

He wasn’t wrong.

That’s why the copies are sitting inside my purse tonight.

I’m the one who couldn’t let go. I dug through boxes and boxes of them. The grainy ones that never made it to Instagram. Disposable camera photos—full of spontaneous expressions, not manicured poses. The little things only I noticed.

Bottles of Smirnoff Ice tucked behind Miles’s jacuzzi.
A blunt left on a lawn chair by the fire pit.
Smoke lingering behind a picture of the boys hanging off a ranch jeep.
Bikini bottoms abandoned on the floor of a boat while everyone smiled from the water.
The night we jumped off the lake cliff—right beside the signs that said don’t jump.

The photos our parents would’ve grounded us for—the ones I kept locked in a box.

But my favorite photos were the ones I pinned to my bedroom walls. A glimpse of who we used to be. The ones of us on long bus rides to out-of-town matches. All of us huddled together during rain delays, playing endless games of Kemps. Celebratory milkshakes after big wins. Or my favorite—the one of Coach giving us one of his infamous pep talks before the last match of our senior year.

Those are the memories I wish would stick. The ones I want to replay. The version of me I want to hold onto. But that’s not how your mind works. It holds you hostage to the worst versions of yourself—to the things you desperately wish you could forget. 

—

A body drops onto the stool beside me, again breaking my deep nostalgic trance.

“Ab—Abby! You did that video thing, right?”

Tequila. Queso. Overconfidence breathing in my face. 

“I did ya, but It’s actually Allison.”

He leans in closer than necessary.

“I wanted to meet you,” he says, pointing at me with the precision of someone who cannot focus. “You’re the redhead Miles always talked about. Miles’ high school best friend, the one he talked about in college!”

His eyes linger like he’s trying to place me in a story he only half remembers. He puts his hand on my shoulder, gripping it too long. 

“You should’ve given a toast tonight,” he slurs, leaning in too close. “We needed someone to really roast the ole’ man.”

“I retired from public humiliation.”

He laughs too hard. Tries to slap the bar. Misses. Nearly tips backward. He leans in again, hovering over my wine glass. Too many close calls for spillage as I take it in my hands.

He shouts even louder, my eardrum stings from this idiot—

“HEY, ROCKSTAR!! PLAY SOMETHING WE ALL KNOW…”

Outside, under trembling market lights and lakeside fire pits, Julian sits on a barstool with his guitar angled across his knee. One string snapped and hung loose. I should be out there, singing along on an adirondack chair. But I listened from the bar.  

Julian strums the end of Come Pick Me Up.

He catches me watching. He chose this track knowing it would grab my attention, because we use to scream the chorus together in the front seat of his truck. He gives me a wink without missing a beat— The flicker in his eyes, the expression on his face says it all. Another problem that I never properly resolved, another conversation I've spent all night avoiding. 

Miles’ drunk college friend leans closer, signaling for the bartender to fill up my glass.

“You know,” he says, lowering his voice in a sacred way. “Miles said you were the one that got away.”

The words land wrong. I knew what Miles probably meant when he phrased it like that.

Shortly after high school I distanced myself from everyone for a while. Got out of town and never turned back, and it wasn’t until years later that I reconnected with Miles and Hannah and even Scott to some degree, who was sitting closer to Julian now, enjoying the throwback tunes  while picking apart everyone in the room. 

Probably judging the botox on my forehead and wondering why I can’t stop staring at Julian.

Scott hasn’t changed since he was 18, meticulously dressed, calculated and clean from head to toe. Perfectly trimmed beard, shaved arms, glossy white teeth.  He’s Patrick Bateman, without the serial killer tendencies, maybe. He rolls his wedding band along his finger, like a winding clock. He’s the perfect example of Instagram happy. A beautiful wife with two gorgeous kids, summer months at their Cinnamon Shores beach house, ski trips every year to Vail. But I knew better, I knew there was more to Scott’s idyllic life than what was shown on his social media feeds.

—

My phone vibrates again—harder this time. I close my eyes. Just for a second longer than I should. I take it out of my purse. Missed calls. My husband. Hannah. Miles. Follow-up texts just as I expected.

I breathe.

For a second, I’m relieved. It’s just them. The ones who always check in. My thumb moves anyway—opening Instagram without thinking. That’s when I see it. A new message is waiting for me.

1 new message. 

My breath catches—my oxygen has been cut off.

My pulse spikes. I know it is him. The anxiety hits all at once, rushing through me before I can stop it. I reach for the orange bottle in my purse. I tap a Valium into my palm. Dry swallow. Chase it with the last of my wine, just as the bartender refills my glass.

—

Twenty-four hours ago, he showed back up in my life. 

I was in bed laying next to my husband, Preston, the steadiest man I had ever known. Blue light flickered across his face as he scrolled on his phone, half-asleep. His other hand traced slow, absent circles against my thigh beneath the sheets.

“You need to go to bed, babe,” he murmured. “You got a busy day tomorrow.”

“I know. I know.”

I turned my phone face-down, right when the ping came through. It came in as someone requesting to follow me. I should have ignored it. Let the notification disappear into the graveyard of unopened emails, missed calls, things I have the luxury of avoiding. 

But I didn’t. I flipped it back over. 

Tapped on the notification. 

@MNTennisguy: requested to follow you.

(Confirm or Delete?)

I opened his profile instantly. I didn’t recognize him at first. Dark brown hair, tanned skin, hidden dark eyes under a hunter green hat—worn soft with time. Vintage now. Est. 1999 stitched beneath the Fitzhollow Highschool emblem. 

That’s when I realized who it was. 

Behind him, his older parents leaned in close. His sweet family I can’t forget. And farther back—blurred, but unmistakable—the tennis courts. The ones where everything started. 

I exit the app in a panic. Praying it could just disappear if I clear it. My heart is already racing. I’m staring at my home screen now, at our family photo. We were posed in linen whites. Caribbean sunset. Everyone angled just right. I stood in front of my in-laws. The Daltons. My new family. The perfect image. 

But the photo doesn’t show the argument about my wrinkled dress. Or my four-year-olds meltdown over a lost seashell. Or my mother-in-law commenting on my mothering skills saying—you let him get away with too much. 

This is the life I built here in Dallas, the life I thought I always dreamed of. Far from Fitzhollow. I laid awake for most of the night, running through every possible scenario in my head. The ceiling fan was ticking faster than it should. The static of the baby monitor humming louder than ever before. 

By dawn, sunlight striped the ceiling. My only light at this moment.

I had to be in Fitzhollow by five—dressed in my Hawaiian best and ready for Miles’s long-awaited wedding weekend. Alone. Preston’s cousin was getting married in Abilene that same day. A Dalton affair at their West Texas Ranch. My boys would head west after school— and I’d head south. Down I-35.

My bags were already in the trunk. Coffee I’d spend more time making than drinking. Makeup to disguise the sleeplessness. The plan was simple: school drop off, hug him tight, and get on the road.

Drive straight into the chaos waiting for me.

At least Hannah would be at the wedding. My rock, calm, composed, always knowing exactly what to say to walk me off the ledge. I thought about calling her, telling her everything. But I couldn't. I kept her in the dark all these years and she’d never forgive me if she knew everything I hid from her.

I wanted to call Miles and tell him I couldn’t come, to make up an excuse he may actually believe. But I couldn’t do that to him. Not after all he had done for me, not after everything we’ve been through together. 

—

I open my phone and stare at the message. Six words that will shatter the world around me.

@MNTennisguy:

I think we need to talk.

I start gathering my things, waiting for the pill to hit. Something to steady me. Something that numbs this moment. I need to get upstairs. I can’t keep drowning in this spiral. I grab the bill, leave a tip, sign my name on the merchant copy. Muscle memory. For a second, I just see my old name. The one I used to be. Before I became a Dalton. Before the vows. Before my kid. 

Before I was the girl who ran from this place.

Signature: Allison Nash Dalton

I dig for my room key shoved below pictures and pills. Buried deep inside my purse, I grab the stem of my unfinished wine, and slip out before anyone can stop me. 

I press the elevator UP as I feel the wooziness kicking in. Watching the floors count down towards the ground level. The elevator button glows red. A chime—ding–that’s when the elevator doors slide open. I step in, as someone steps out. 

We collide. Wine splashes cold across my chest, blooming red against pale fabric.

“Oh—fuck, Ally—”

I step backward in shock. He steps forward reaching for the dripping glass in my hands. His voice. Raspier now. Kasey Hayes. 

My body reacts like it did when I first saw him at fourteen. 

“Hi Kase.” 

I hadn’t called him Kase in years. But the name still knew its way out of my mouth.

“I am so sorry,” he said in a way that felt instantly familiar. “But you always did have a knack for spilling things on yourself.”

“Well,” I shoot back, “you’ve always had a knack for shitty timing.”

He’s standing inches from me. Close enough to touch. Close enough to ruin me again. Close enough to feel the chemistry that we never replaced. The only boy who knew exactly what I needed. What I wanted. 

I can’t help but look at his dimples, they cut deeper than I remember. Time hasn’t softened him. It sharpened him. Darker tan. Richer eyes, more ink, less hair, broader now, filling out the linen shirt tailored to him. I avoided him all night. Studied centerpieces. Talked to strangers. Hid in the bathroom more times than I’ll admit. Anything to not look at him and prevent any interaction. 

When I saw him head upstairs, I thought I was safe until the ceremony tomorrow. 

“Ally, I really am sorry. For once.” He winces.

I am soaked. I feel the wine sliding between my breasts, slow and deliberate, tracing down my sternum, my stomach—toward the lace I chose for reasons I don’t want to think about. He grabs my purse, my glass—as he stares at the wine dripping down my cleavage.

Of course he does. 

As I start to wipe it off with my hands.

“Shit, shit, shit,” I mutter. “My bitch of a sister-in-law is going to kill me. It’s her favorite dress—I borrowed—”

My voice trails as he looks at the stain deepening, then back at me. His eyes don’t leave mine.

“Well,” he says, mouth tilting, “then we can’t give that bitch any more ammo, now can we?”

Before I can answer, he takes my elbow and pulls me into the elevator.

“I’ve got something in my bag upstairs. It’ll come out.”

He reaches past me and presses his floor. For a second, we stand too close. Not touching. Not moving. In silence. I tell myself the flush in my cheeks is from the wine. From embarrassment. From the chaos racing in my mind. Not from the boy who once swallowed every version of me whole.

The elevator springs upward, the noise from the lobby and the voices in my head suddenly grow silent. Except for the one voice telling me this is a bad idea. 

“No it’s fine really, I’ll just buy her a new one” as I reach to press the button for my floor.
He grabs my wrist.

 “Ally.” The way he says my nick name and the million times he has said it before. 

“Let me clean up my mess for once.” I look at him with restless eyes and think—God if he only knew how ironic those words were right now; he would have never chosen to say them.

1999 (THEN)

The Tennis Team

It was already one of the hottest mornings of the summer on record. The local news had been warning Travis County residents for days—stay inside, avoid the heat—a relentless Texas wave settling over the Hill Country with nowhere to go.

By eight a.m., the sun was already merciless.

Coach Nichols made the walk from the athletics building to the courts, a long walk in the middle of August. Sweat gathered fast, slipping down his temples, soaking through his collared shirt that stitched COACH across his chest. The air carried that distinct newness—fresh paint, construction dust, the scent of sprinklers hissing across the football field.

Fitzhollow High School had only been open two weeks.

The ribbon-cutting made the local news. Texas Monthly called it “a beacon for the future of Texas high schools.” A line that carries weight whether you want it to or not. 

At the entrance, the flags moved slow in the heat—the Lone Star and Strike ’Em Rattlers emblem; side-by-side. The path dipped and curved, past chain-link fences still waiting for championship banners, past piles of dirt and orange cones where crews were rushing to finish last minute landscaping. Fresh pavement curved through the hills. Limestone archways caught the morning light. Local business banners—still creased from their boxes. The kind of place built to impress, built to make a statement. 

The tennis courts sat alone at the highest point.

White sharp lines. Nets pulled tight. Not a scuff mark on them yet. They still smelled like synthetic materials and asphalt. Beyond the fence, the lake stretched out in the distance, catching the light in a way that made everything feel quieter than it was.

Nichols slowed. Just for a second. Took it in. The stillness. The expectation. The part no one writes about—the “not knowing who is going to show up” part. He looked at the tennis courts mindful of his prayers he internalized. 

Please, God, he thought, let a few kids show up today.

The varsity roster was due Friday; that sat heavier than the heat that morning for Coach Nichols.

—

Across town, it wasn’t the heat making Kasey Hayes sweat. He leaned into a fogged bathroom mirror, scrubbing at the dried blood beneath his nose. It didn’t come off clean.

It was a stain from his stepdad's fist from last night.

“You can’t let them see you like this,” he muttered to his reflection.

He pressed a cold rag to the bruise along his neck, then reached for his mom’s old CoverGirl compact. The hinge creaked as he flipped it open. His hand shook slightly as he dabbed at the discoloration—trying to blend in something that didn’t want to disappear.

Something the heat and sweat would probably just undo anyway.

Today was supposed to be different.

A clean start with a new team and a new collection of peers. 

Not this. Even at fourteen, he understood how fast things stuck in a town like this. You didn’t want to be known as the poor kid in the rich school, and you definitely didn’t want to be associated with the rest of the lake rats that clung on to properties yet to be gentrified. 

He checked the time on his mom’s scratched-up Casio.

8:43 a.m.

“FUCK.”

He shoved his feet into worn sneakers, laces already frayed. Miles told him two days ago:

8:45. Don’t be late. 

Kasey grabbed his only racket and moved fast. Attempting to go out the window. Not the front door. Never the front. That's too close to where his stepdad was passed out on a pile of crushed beer cans. 

Can’t awake the beast.

The bathroom window stuck, as Kasey used all his strength to push it to the top. Finally dropping into the gravel below, surrounded by cracked siding and a Buick resting on cinder blocks. A far cry from the sprawling lake views of his future high school.

Caliche dust kicked up beneath his feet as he ran, white gravel crunching with every step. He had to hurry. If the Singers’ car came too early—if they turned before he reached the road—they’d see everything he wanted to hide. The only thing protecting his truth from the rich folks driving on cherry lane, was a quarter mile of mesquite trees and thick brush and an old rusty gate that anybody could open. 

Cherry Lane cut through the hills, a seam, as it winded its way up from the lake to the main part of the town. One side built up. Shopping centers, grocery stores, entrances to the sprawling neighborhoods that sat upon the lake. New money pouring in, hoping to ride the wave of the booming suburb. 

The other side—

What hadn’t been taken yet was the land that Kasey lived on. Mainly on the west side of Cherry lane. Untamed, mostly ranchland that had old trailer houses and junkyards scattered throughout. The owners leased the land to locals just to cover their taxes. Holding out on selling to the commercial developers, either because of pride or because they knew the price would just keep going up. 

Kasey kept running, as last night's argument flickered behind his eyes. 

“I’m gonna get you back one day, Craig—”

A fight over a new pair of shoes Kasey had asked for. That was all it took. The shove. The wall. Wood paneling cracking against his back. A hand at his throat, tightening just enough to remind him who controlled their tiny house.

His mother’s trembling voice behind them—yelling in Spanish, Por favor, Paren! Ya, carajo!

She loved her son. Just not enough to risk what little they had. So she stayed quiet. Stepped in only when it got bad enough. 

Kasey blinked it away. Kept running.  He shook the memory loose, as he raced down the dirt road, dodging potholes from summer storms. Sometimes he imagined rain hard enough to wash it all away—the bruises, the beer cans, his nightmare inside the 1,200 square foot doublewide. 

He dreamed of one angry flood to sweep it all away. 

Kasey waved, breathless at his neighbors on the caliche road before he reached the gate off of Cherry Lane. Wayne and his salty wife Vickie, they were the kind of folks’ who’d been together so long they spoke in grunts and traded thoughts without words. They were always smiling from their porch. They were always out there. Every morning, same as the last, they sat in their foldable chairs facing the open stretch of nothing. Smoking Marlboros. Sipping black coffee from chipped mugs that read—I ♥ My Dogs, Keep Fitzhollow Normal.

Wayne had lived on this property a long time. He kept a watchful eye on everyone who lived on the caliche road. Close enough to hear everything. Nosy enough to pay attention.

Wayne’s dogs barreled toward Kasey before he reached the gate. 

“Kid, slow down, you're gonna hurt yourself.” Wayne called from the porch.

“Late for tennis tryouts Wayne!”

“Can’t play tennis with another broken bone.” He shouted back.

One dog escaped under a broken link in the mesh wire fence. Kasey swatted it away with his racket. As the dog teethed at Kasey’s frayed shoelaces. Wayne whistled, mug in hand, cane steady against the gravel as he got closer.

“Come on now Sonny, get your ass back over here…” Paired with a loud whistle, the dog responded to instantly.

Wayne steps closer, now leaning on the fence—

“Heard all that ruckus last night,” Wayne said with concern.

“Just a Normal Sunday in the Hayes house!” Kasey says back.

Wayne’s eyes lingered on the melting makeup along Kasey’s collarbone.

“That don’t look normal.”

His wife Vickie approached, silver catching in her hair.

“Your step dad better not be bruising those cute dimples…” She smiled with sincerity.

Wayne pulled a red bandana from his pocket and handed it over. 

“Hide that bruise better, boy. Don’t need kids at the new school startin’ rumors.”

Kasey took the bandana out of respect and necessity. Tied it once. Twisted a little. Styled in a way that you could only pull off with confidence. 

“Thanks for always taking care of me,” Kasey says. “Will let you know how tryouts go later tonight.”

He makes his final charge to the gate that sits right off of Cherry Lane, he slouches over as he sees the Singers’ shiny silver Volvo come around the corner. 

A friendly beep beep from Miles’ mom. As he slid into their backseat.

“Sorry we’re late Kasey,” Mrs. Singer said, embarrassed. “Hope you boys aren’t late, hate for y’all to make a bad impression.”

“All good,” Kasey answered, breath still uneven. 

—

The tennis courts were already packed.

Coach hadn’t expected this many players to show up. The registration table has been swarmed since 8:45am—clipboards passing between hands, Sharpies dropping and rolling underfoot. Name tags peeled, stuck, peeled again in the humidity. Parents crowded too close, talking over one another.

The line stretched into the parking lot. Allison stood somewhere in the middle of it, beside her mom.

Waiting.

—

She’d been quieter than usual all morning. Her mom noticed it the second she got in the car—the way Allison kept biting her lip, tugging at the hem of her skirt. Not her chatty self. The kind of quiet that didn’t belong to her. Her mom didn’t know if it was morning exhaustion, nervous energy or just the brutal heat. Allison sat staring out the window as the MapQuest directions stuck to her lap, on the car ride to tryouts.

“Left toward the bridge over Lake Fitzpatrick. Then straight onto Cherry Lane, Mom.”

Their first time driving to her new high school. 

“Then four miles till we get to school, Mom.” Allison said, fanning the sheet of paper across her face.

Allison shifted in the passenger seat, uncomfortable, the waistband of her white tennis skirt clinging tighter to her skin than the seatbelt across her chest. Heat pooled beneath her thighs, her spine damp beneath her sports tank. She reached into her tennis bag, dragging out a stick of Secret Platinum deodorant and swiping it under her arms for the third time that morning. She wasn’t even sure it was doing anything anymore. Her fourteen year old nerves were too powerful to fend off.

Allison angled the vent toward her face, twisting it until it squeaked as the A/C kicked louder. 

“Does this thing blow any harder??” The air vent blew through her auburn locks.

“Sorry Sweet, I guess I underestimated what Hotter Than Hell meant when everyone warned me about taking a job in Texas.” Her mom said jokingly  

Moving was a decision that didn’t come lightly, but one they both needed. She knew it would take some adjusting and that some things just needed time to cool off, literally. Allison shook her head, then leaned closer to the vent, testing it again—as if she hadn’t tapped into its true potential yet. She had already spent entirely too much time in that car that summer. It was 1,973 miles from her old home to her new one and she’d tracked every one of them.

Nine states.

Every hotel circled. Every pit stop marked.

They watched their life—packed into cardboard boxes—shift and settle behind them, mile by mile in the rearview mirror. Massachusetts to the outskirts of Austin, her mom drove while Allison controlled the route. Kept the map folded into careful squares across her lap for three days, as they slowly made their way across the country. She picked the music, found the lunch spots, and marked the landmarks. 

And always adjusted the air.

No siblings in the backseat. No one to fight over the dial. Just the low hum of the road, her rotation of CDs drifting through the speakers, and her mom’s steady hands on the wheel, guiding them toward something new. Chasing something that was supposed to feel like an opportunity. For both of them. New job. New high school. New friends. 

—

Allison was still staring at the window at her new morning commute. Still quiet.

“I mailed your dad that Texas Monthly article,” her mom said. “About your school.”

Allison didn’t look up. Staring out at her new town. 

“Oh…”

“I thought he’d appreciate it. The amazing architecture and the scale of it all. It’s not every day a public high school ends up on the cover of a big magazine.”

Allison let out a small breath, somewhere between a shrug and a laugh. 

“Don’t think Dad cares that much about my education Mom.”

Mrs. Nash kept her eyes on the road. Couldn’t seem to answer back.

“He didn’t exactly rush to help us pack the U-Haul. Surprised he paid for the movers.”

A beat passed. Mrs. Nash held her intent.

“I just thought it was a pretty incredible write-up,” her mom said, softer now. “The whole campus. The art studios, the new football stadium, with the state's biggest jumbotron. In fact, all of their athletic facilities look amazing.” 

She glanced over briefly. She knew Allison never read it.

“They just had the ribbon cutting,” her mom added. “Two weeks ago. News crews, the mayor… it was a big deal for this town. I meant to record it for you.”

Allison nodded faintly, still looking out the window. Biting her lip. It’s what she does when she can’t seem to think of anything else to say. 

The houses had started to change before they crossed the bridge over Lake Fitzpatrick. There were nice homes scattered throughout the suburban area, but nothing like these lake Estates with long driveways and steel gates. Then, through the breaks between them, flashes of water—the lake stretching wide and bright. The expensive views people pay for.

Then Allison questioned the article. The one line that was headlined in bold.

“Why did it say bringing both sides together?” Allison asked.

Her mom glanced at her. “What do you mean?”

“In the article,” Allison said. “About Fitzhollow Highschool.”

“Oh.” Her mom nodded. “East Fitz and West Fitz were zoned into different neighboring high schools before, there was always kind of a rivalry between the sides of the lake. I think the idea is one school to bring everyone together in this town. Boy isn’t this new bridge they just built nice!”

Allison let that sit. Two sides that didn’t quite meet unless something forced them to. Sounded familiar in her life. Her parents never seeing eye-to-eye. Nothing in common. The only middle ground they stood on, was for her. 

Sort of.

She traced her finger along the edge of the MapQuest printout, following the road where it crossed the lake—a new bridge connecting two sides that had been separate long before she got there. Cherry Lane. 

She noticed that this was the road that would lead her up to her campus grounds. 

“Let’s see if Dad even makes it to a tennis match down here,” she said, quieter now. “He rarely saw me play in Boston.”

Her mom didn’t answer. She didn’t have to. Disappointment that they were used to.

Allison reached into her tennis bag, the pink taped grip of her racket peeking out, as she pulled out her wide-ruled notebook. She fanned herself once before flipping to the last page. Her mom glanced over at the notebook now open on her daughter’s lap.

That was always Allison’s tell.

Allison had been filling notebooks for years. Life Notes, she called them. Pages that carried her through her formative years when she left Boston, her “Wicked Goodbye” written in bubble letters across the top of one entry. Also through the move, through sleepaway tennis camp. Through everything that felt too big to hold in her head alone.

Allison wiped her palms against her skirt, leaving faint streaks in the fabric. She unclipped her sparkly gel pen and pressed the tip to timestamp the entry. The car jolted. The ink dragged. Then smeared across the page. 

August 9, 1999

Allison didn’t look up. She retraced each letter—slower now, more deliberate—pressing her insecurities into the page, trying to keep them there. As she wrote the anxious subject for today:First day of varsity tryouts.

She steadied the page against her knee as the car rolled from East Fitz to Cherry Lane. Still uneven. Still hard to collect her thoughts. Hard to fill the page with nerves building in her chest. As if keeping the pen steady might keep everything else from shifting with it.

Then the road beneath them smoothed.

“Even the lampposts are nicer on this side,” her mom said, half to herself. Half to the street she was passing. 

Allison followed her gaze. Lakeside estates, ski boats, manicured lawns, infinity pools. Everything looked a little different on this side of town. 

“I wish I could just jump in,” Allison said, nodding toward a lakeside dock. “Fully dressed.” She dreamed, “Run straight to that dock and just dive in.”  

“I would dive head first into Lake Fitzpatrick too sweetie.”

Flashes of Lake Fitzpatrick still bright, blinding by the morning sun. Her mom turned the stereo down a track playing from Under the Table and Dreaming—as they approached the gated entrance.

The iron arch came into view. The open gates. The welcome signage. The fresh sod and planted flowers.

Fitzhollow High School
Est. 1999

Her mom’s posture shifted slightly behind the wheel. Even she hadn’t expected it to feel this big. Allison set her pen down. Closed her journal. Zipped it back into her tennis bag. Leaning her head against the window, the glass warm against her temple, she watched as they passed through the gates and followed the signs toward the tennis courts.

“Courts are up top,” her mom said, lifting a hand briefly from the wheel to gesture toward the ridge. “So they overlook everything. East side, west side… all of it.”

Allison looked out as the lake stretched wide below. And in the distance, faint against the hot haze, the Austin skyline looked closer from the top of campus.

“My office is down that way,” her mom added, nodding toward the buildings. Her work jacket swayed on its hanger in the backseat with every turn.

“This is a fresh start for us, Allycat.”

Allison didn’t answer. The car crested the hill. The tennis courts came into view. A banner stretched tight across metal poles: 

TENNIS TRYOUTS TODAY!

—

As Allison still quiet in the registration line at tennis tryouts, as she slowly inched forward, taking in her new surroundings. Private coaches working players through stretches on the sidelines. Quick hugs between people who already knew each other. Mothers talking a little too loudly about rankings and lessons. Scott already registered, practicing his serve on Court One. Fathers stepping in where they didn’t belong, being arrogant, cutting the line without hesitation.

“Excuse me, Coach Nichols—”

He cut in, his hand out before Nichols could respond.

“I just want to introduce you to my daughter—”

“Can this line move any quicker?” a voice snapped from behind them—a mother already late for her morning tennis league.

Two nosy parents leaned in behind Allison.

“I heard he used to be a philosophy professor,” one whispered, squinting toward the front.

The other let out a quiet gasp.

“For this?” she hesitated. “Talk about taking a step back in your career.”

Nichols stayed focused on the table, working to contain the chaos. Harder to manage the parents than the players.

“Everyone—if you could form a single line, we can move through this a lot faster.”

He said it steady. Controlled. But swiped at the sweat gathering beneath the brim of his hat. Allison kept her eyes on the front of the line. On Coach—younger than she’d imagined a high school coach would be. Confident. Athletic. Tan lines cut clean beneath his Oakleys. A hunter green polo stretched across his chest, a whistle resting over COACH stitched into the fabric.

He didn’t need to raise his voice at the sideline parents or the disorganization at his flooded registration line. He was someone who decided things wisely, who spent time making the right decision; especially with the varsity roster due Friday.

The line suddenly shifted, reluctantly organizing. Allison stayed in her place.

In front of her—

A girl that stood out immediately. Pretty—but not in a quiet way. There was something magnetic about her. Blonde, sunlit, all Southern ease. A Texas style. Different from the girls Allison was used to. She didn’t fidget with her skirt. Didn’t scan the crowd. Didn’t look back at the competition. 

Not a flinch of nerves. 

A thick white bow pulled her ponytail tight. A Fitzhollow Country Club visor sat just right. Everything in place. Intentional. A navy Jon Hart bag hung from her shoulder—H.L. stitched neatly into the leather. The kind of detail that made a statement. Especially to Allison who wasn’t used to material things. 

Allison didn’t notice her nerves, but her father did. He was also polished. A man that has his own legacy at the country club.

“Don’t bite your nails, Hannah,” her father said, as she grazed the edge of her thumbnail, tapping her hand away. “Nasty habit of yours.”

Hannah first in line—

“Next,” Coach Nichols called, nudging the line forward.

“Hi, Coach Nichols. I’m Hannah—Hannah Langley,” she said, bright, practiced.

Nichols barely glanced up—someone tugging at his sleeve, pulling his attention again. 

The line stalled.

“Here to help you, Coach.”

A man stepped forward, Mr. Bice, filling the space Nichols had just vacated. Older. Bigger. The kind of presence that took up more room than it should. His shirt strained at the seams, sleeves rolled uneven, already smiling like he was in on something the rest of them hadn’t caught up to. Filling in for the morning. A temporary assistant football coach. He grabbed a Sharpie, bent over the table, and started scribbling across a name tag, he’d done it a hundred times before.

“Nice to meet you Anna! Anna…Like the tennis player, Anna Kournikova right?”

Hannah blinked. Biting her nail again.

 “It’s—Hannah. With an H.” She said, deflated. 

Her father was already mid-conversation with Coach Nichols as he had pulled him aside.
Hannah turned, exasperated, wrongly labeled name tag on her chest. 

Allison smiled at her.

“Nice to meet you Hannah, I’m Allison,” she said. “With an A.”

“Glad you heard my name correctly.” She said with a genuine, refreshed look.

After forty-seven names were checked and called onto Court One, Coach Nichols stepped toward the baseline, ready to begin. The gate clicked open behind them. Metal on metal. Sharp enough to cut through the noise.

Sixteen minutes late. 

Coach clocked it on his watch. Wrote something on his clipboard.

“Sorry we’re late.” Miles said. “Won’t happen again.” 

Miles was polished, clearly comfortable and composed talking with adults. Raised by a family that gave him confidence. Even as he pushed his tinted glasses up the bridge of his nose.

Kasey followed half a step behind. Less mannered. Different confidence. A red bandana pulled tight at his throat. Shoes worn thin at the sole. Coach Nichols didn’t speak right away. Just observed the latecomers. He watched them cross the courts. Measured each one. Then glanced back at the large group waiting for his next instructions.

Miles stepped forward. Reaching out his hand to Coach Nichols.

“I am Miles Singer. Freshman,” He swallowed dry. Breath hitched.  “Here for tryouts Sir.” Then he quickly stepped in for his friend. “And this is my friend Kasey. Freshman too.”

Kasey didn’t reach to shake his hand. Never taught to. He stayed just behind Miles, saying nothing. Offering nothing.

Not his name.
Not a reason for being late.
Not a single piece of himself.

Most people didn’t notice. They were too busy in their own heads. Dribbling balls, practicing their serves, grabbing another paper cup at the water station. But Allison did. She couldn't help but notice him from the moment she heard the metal gate open.

Her brown eyes caught his. 

Just for a second. 

Something in the way he held himself. He didn’t hold a stare at anyone that morning. He barely looked at Coach Nichols. He was just in his own head. His own game face. Standing on the baseline—the only place he felt safe.