“Satisfied, Brawley? Let’s go.”
We drove about thirty minutes before we found a high school with courts. We knew we wouldn’t find clay, so we settled for a hard court. At least we’d be more evenly matched.
I bounced a ball against my racket. “Do you want to be angry or do you want to be pumped up?”
Cameron blinked. “What are you talking about, Doug?”
I realized that “pumped” sounded sexual. “I meant which works better for you on the court? Being pissed off or having your ego primed?”
“I have no idea.”
I took the net so Cameron could practice passing shots, one of his specialties.
“Okay,” I said, “blast them by me.”
He whipped a backhand, angling it down the line, but I had a long reach and punched it to his forehand. He was there. This time he tried passing on my right, but I’d anticipated and volleyed the ball out of his reach. I heard him mutter a curse.
“Don’t get down,” I said. “Think: Cam is great! Cam is the best!”
He rolled his eyes.