The Meltdown

July brought a heatwave that turned the Ojai valley into an oven. The air shimmering off the asphalt was 110 degrees.

"One more set of suicides," Ezra commanded.

Maya was at the baseline. Her vision was swimming. Black spots danced in front of her eyes.

"Ezra, it's hot," she murmured.

"Champions play in the heat," he said, though he was frowning. "Go."

Maya pushed off. She sprinted to the net. She bent down to touch the line.

The ground tilted. The net rushed up to meet her face.

The last thing she felt was strong arms catching her before she hit the concrete.

\---

Maya woke up in the Bungalow.

It was small, cluttered with tennis magazines and old trophies used as doorstops. The air conditioning was humming loudly, a beautiful, artificial chill.

She was lying on a leather couch. Ezra was kneeling beside her, pressing an ice pack to the back of her neck.

"You idiot," Ezra whispered. His voice lacked its usual bite. It sounded shaken. "Why didn't you stop?"

"You said... champions..." Maya croaked.

"I said run, not die," Ezra scolded gently. He moved the ice pack to her forehead. "Here. Drink."

He held a straw to her lips. Maya drank. She looked at him. His face was inches from hers. He looked tired. Worried.

"Why did you really quit?" Maya asked. The defenses were stripped away by the heat exhaustion. "It wasn't the knee, was it?"

Ezra froze. He sat back on his heels, looking at his hands.

"No," he said softly. "It wasn't the knee. The knee healed."

"Then what?"

"I hated who I became," Ezra said, meeting her eyes. "I couldn't sleep. I couldn't eat. Every match was life or death. I won the French Open, and I didn't feel happy. I felt relief. Just relief that I hadn't failed. That’s not a way to live, Maya. I saw you going down the same road. I wanted to stop the car."

Maya reached out. She touched the scar on his knee, then moved her hand up to his arm.

"I don't know how to stop," she whispered. "I don't know who I am without it."

"You're Maya," Ezra said. He leaned in, his voice rough. "You're smart. You're funny. You're a pain in the ass."

Maya laughed, a weak sound.

Ezra didn't pull away. The tension that had been building on Court 4—the sweat, the arguments, the proximity—finally snapped.

He kissed her.

It wasn't gentle. It was like their tennis—intense, desperate, a release of pent-up energy. Maya wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him down to the couch. Ezra made a low noise in his throat, burying his hands in her hair.

For the first time all summer, Maya wasn't thinking about her backhand or her father or the Summer Open. She was just there, in the cool dark of the bungalow, being held by someone who saw the mess and didn't look away.

\---