15-Love
A crush he didn’t expect. A dream he can’t give up. A year that could change everything.
Rion Miller has a plan: play hard, keep his head down, and make it through sophomore year with his tennis dreams—and his dignity—still intact. But between the mounting bills at home, a new part-time job, and a crush that’s as inconvenient as it is undeniable, staying focused is easier said than done.
High school gossip spreads fast when a determined bully is at the helm. Pressure builds even faster. And when the stakes get personal, Rion has to decide what he’s really playing for, on the court and off.
Heartfelt, witty, and brimming with messy charm, 15-Love is a sharply funny coming-of-age debut about ambition, identity, and the courage to go after what sets your soul on fire.
Rion Miller has a plan: play hard, keep his head down, and make it through sophomore year with his tennis dreams—and his dignity—still intact. But between the mounting bills at home, a new part-time job, and a crush that’s as inconvenient as it is undeniable, staying focused is easier said than done.
High school gossip spreads fast when a determined bully is at the helm. Pressure builds even faster. And when the stakes get personal, Rion has to decide what he’s really playing for, on the court and off.
Heartfelt, witty, and brimming with messy charm, 15-Love is a sharply funny coming-of-age debut about ambition, identity, and the courage to go after what sets your soul on fire.
Prologue:
If I won, it wasn’t just for me. That thought had looped through my mind a hundred times since the match began, now embedded in me like a reflex.
The umpire called play for the final set. I moved in a daze, barely aware of how I got there or who I was, even playing against
A few points slipped by in an instant. I trudged back to my side of the court and glanced at the scoreboard, trying to remember how to breathe. My legs wobbled like jelly.
The scoreboard read: WC Rion Miller USA 5–7, 4–6, 6–3, 7–5, 6–6, 5/3 (3rd seed) GRE Stefano Gonzalez—final set. I was up 5–3 in the tiebreak.
“Why do men’s Grand Slam matches have to be best of five sets?” I muttered to no one. “Best of three would be so much easier.”
I approached the baseline, aligning myself. I zoned in on the ball in Gonzalez’s hand, bracing for the serve. My body screamed with exhaustion, but I blocked it out.
Gonzalez bounced the ball twice. Just as he tossed it up, a loud noise broke through the air.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
The chair umpire raised his hand and apologized for the technical glitch. Play resumed.
I felt my anxiety rise from my belly, in my chest, and in my throat. I held my breath as Gonzalez prepared to serve again.
And then time slowed. He tossed the ball high, leaped into motion, and smashed it toward me with blinding speed.
My eyes widened as the ball rocketed my way, but my reflexes—those beautiful reflexes—kicked in. I shifted left and met the ball with a clean hit, sending it straight into Gonzalez’s racquet.
He didn’t hesitate. In an instant, he fired it back, and I was already sprinting forward, forcing my body to reach the approach shot.
I attacked with a sharp backhand. The ball skimmed the far corner line.
Everything went silent.
One beat. Two beats.
The crowd exploded into a roar. People leaped to their feet, cheering, and I had never felt so alive. My muscles tensed as I imagined a victory dance. I felt like I deserved it.
“Let’s do this,” I said to myself.
The score was 6–3. One more point. Everything came down to this. Strange, how everything I’d worked for hinged on this one moment.
Gonzalez looked furious, his nose flaring with every breath. It was intimidating, but I shoved the fear aside and sucked in a sharp breath, zeroing in on the ball gripped tightly in his beefy palm. His hand twitched. He was about to serve.
“You got this, Rion,” I said under my breath.
He tossed the ball and drilled it toward me. It clipped the net and landed outside the service box, in the doubles alley.
A beginner’s mistake. Good for me.
He pulled a ball from his pocket and served again, but something was off—it was coming in unusually slow. A mishit. I couldn’t help the grin tugging at my face, and I unleashed a heavy forehand down the line.
But my joy didn’t last. The ball clipped the net again.
I held my breath. Then luck stepped in. The ball bounced over to Gonzalez’s side. Relief surged through me.
But it wasn’t over.
Gonzalez sprinted forward and somehow got his racquet under the ball, pushing it back over.
It was a floater. No spin.
The opportunity hit me like a surge of adrenaline. I lunged, energy surging through me. This was it.
I reached the ball in record time and sent a soft cross-court volley into the open court.
It landed perfectly square on the line.
The crowd went wild.
I dropped to the ground, overwhelmed. Emotions choked me. I did it. I did it. Tears pricked my eyes, annoying, but impossible to stop.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
I jerked awake, blinking against the flashing red lights at the edge of my vision.
The alarm shrieked in my ears. A half-smile tugged at my lips. I was dazed.
Wait... did I win this time?
If I won, it wasn’t just for me. That thought had looped through my mind a hundred times since the match began, now embedded in me like a reflex.
The umpire called play for the final set. I moved in a daze, barely aware of how I got there or who I was, even playing against
A few points slipped by in an instant. I trudged back to my side of the court and glanced at the scoreboard, trying to remember how to breathe. My legs wobbled like jelly.
The scoreboard read: WC Rion Miller USA 5–7, 4–6, 6–3, 7–5, 6–6, 5/3 (3rd seed) GRE Stefano Gonzalez—final set. I was up 5–3 in the tiebreak.
“Why do men’s Grand Slam matches have to be best of five sets?” I muttered to no one. “Best of three would be so much easier.”
I approached the baseline, aligning myself. I zoned in on the ball in Gonzalez’s hand, bracing for the serve. My body screamed with exhaustion, but I blocked it out.
Gonzalez bounced the ball twice. Just as he tossed it up, a loud noise broke through the air.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
The chair umpire raised his hand and apologized for the technical glitch. Play resumed.
I felt my anxiety rise from my belly, in my chest, and in my throat. I held my breath as Gonzalez prepared to serve again.
And then time slowed. He tossed the ball high, leaped into motion, and smashed it toward me with blinding speed.
My eyes widened as the ball rocketed my way, but my reflexes—those beautiful reflexes—kicked in. I shifted left and met the ball with a clean hit, sending it straight into Gonzalez’s racquet.
He didn’t hesitate. In an instant, he fired it back, and I was already sprinting forward, forcing my body to reach the approach shot.
I attacked with a sharp backhand. The ball skimmed the far corner line.
Everything went silent.
One beat. Two beats.
The crowd exploded into a roar. People leaped to their feet, cheering, and I had never felt so alive. My muscles tensed as I imagined a victory dance. I felt like I deserved it.
“Let’s do this,” I said to myself.
The score was 6–3. One more point. Everything came down to this. Strange, how everything I’d worked for hinged on this one moment.
Gonzalez looked furious, his nose flaring with every breath. It was intimidating, but I shoved the fear aside and sucked in a sharp breath, zeroing in on the ball gripped tightly in his beefy palm. His hand twitched. He was about to serve.
“You got this, Rion,” I said under my breath.
He tossed the ball and drilled it toward me. It clipped the net and landed outside the service box, in the doubles alley.
A beginner’s mistake. Good for me.
He pulled a ball from his pocket and served again, but something was off—it was coming in unusually slow. A mishit. I couldn’t help the grin tugging at my face, and I unleashed a heavy forehand down the line.
But my joy didn’t last. The ball clipped the net again.
I held my breath. Then luck stepped in. The ball bounced over to Gonzalez’s side. Relief surged through me.
But it wasn’t over.
Gonzalez sprinted forward and somehow got his racquet under the ball, pushing it back over.
It was a floater. No spin.
The opportunity hit me like a surge of adrenaline. I lunged, energy surging through me. This was it.
I reached the ball in record time and sent a soft cross-court volley into the open court.
It landed perfectly square on the line.
The crowd went wild.
I dropped to the ground, overwhelmed. Emotions choked me. I did it. I did it. Tears pricked my eyes, annoying, but impossible to stop.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
I jerked awake, blinking against the flashing red lights at the edge of my vision.
The alarm shrieked in my ears. A half-smile tugged at my lips. I was dazed.
Wait... did I win this time?
Chapter 1:
It was the last day of summer vacation. Tomorrow, I’d be a sophomore.
First thought: What should I wear?
I stretched and glanced around my messy room, piles of clothes on the floor, posters of Serena and Venus Williams, Shawn Mendes, and Little Mix plastered on the walls.
Jesy, I still can't believe you left the band, I thought to myself, staring at the poster of Little Mix.
Spotting last night’s dinner plate on my desk, I sighed. Better take it to the kitchen before it grows legs. I placed the dish and fork in the sink just as Mom called from the other room, “Have a good run, sweetie.”
I called back, “Thanks, Mom. Go back to bed.”
I headed down the hallway to change for my run, hopping over Luna like always. She barely lifted her head, gave a single huff, then flopped back down, clearly unbothered by my acrobatics. Luna was a four-year-old mutt we’d adopted two years ago, and in that time, she’d mastered the art of selective interest.
By 6:22 a.m., I was out the door. Forty-five minutes later, I was back and jumping in the shower. Sundays were my light workout days, just a quick run and done.
After drying off and getting dressed, I checked the clock. A little past 8:30. Mom’s car was gone, she must’ve gone grocery shopping.
I threw together some cereal and yogurt, topped it with granola and honey-maple cinnamon. As I savored every spoonful, my phone vibrated and lit up with a text from Sarah.
“Hey, what’s the plan for today? Last day of freedom before school starts again!” she joked.
I quickly responded, “Hey! No idea yet. Just finishing breakfast. What time do you wanna meet up?”
Almost immediately, she replied, “It’s 8:30. I’m still in bed. Can we pretend you didn’t wake up at a ridiculous hour on a Sunday to work out? Let’s meet at Honey Hive around 1, when normal people are awake.”
I grinned. She knew me too well.
The Honey Hive was our go-to, and the only café in town, unless you counted the Starbucks by the highway. But since neither Sarah nor I had a driver’s license, we rarely went that far.
On the way there, I caught the usual glances and weird stares. People in town probably thought I was nuts. I couldn’t help it—I always practiced a modified version of my forehand while I walked. It was all about making contact out in front. To everyone else, I probably looked like I was swatting at a fly.
As I turned onto Main Street, a bright cherry-red car whipped around the corner straight at me. I had to dive out of the way.
What the f--
The car screeched to a stop. The window rolled down, and a deep voice called out, “Don’t be such a drama queen, Miller.”
I didn’t have to look. I already knew the voice.
Jason Banks.
“Ugh,” as I got to my feet. “I’m fine. Thanks for checking.”
Who even taught him how to drive?
Jason chuckled, flashing that devious grin I knew all too well.
“Later, Filler Miller,” he called before speeding off down Main Street. You could hear the unmistakable banshee of a laugh that comes from only one person, Ashley Smith. If Jason was there, she wasn’t far behind. Ashley was the Harley Quinn to Jason’s Joker.
Charming as ever, I thought, shaking my head as I continued walking toward the café.
The sidewalks were mostly empty, just a few cars parked along the narrow street and the occasional breeze stirring the leaves. Main Street was quiet, like it always was on a Sunday afternoon. A few faded storefronts and chipped wooden signs lined the block, and the distant hum of lawnmowers buzzed through the air. Somewhere nearby, someone was grilling, it smelled like summer and charcoal.
By the time I reached the Honey Hive, it was a little after one. I pushed open the door, the old bell above it giving a soft jingle.
No sign of Sarah. I rolled my eyes. Typical.
How can the smartest girl in class always be running late?
The Honey Hive had that cozy, rustic charm I loved. Wooden tables, oversized couches, exposed brick walls, and local art and vintage photos of the town added a nostalgic touch. It was the perfect small-town spot.
I walked up to the counter, glancing at the menu even though I’d seen it a hundred times.
Without thinking, I mimicked my forehand again, swinging an invisible racquet.
“Hey, Rion. Still working on that tennis swing?” I heard a voice on the other side of the counter.
At first, I smiled at the sound of the familiar voice, but then my nerves kicked in. Did I look cool and relaxed? Or like a complete idiot?
I thought about my outfit. A black tee, blue jeans, a backward baseball cap, and the ratty old Converse I should’ve thrown away years ago.
Meh, I’d looked worse.
Trying to find the right words to say hi, I just grunted.
A loud voice from out of nowhere rang out from the window seat: “We’ll have our usual—two iced honey vanilla lattes. Make mine with nonfat milk.”
I glanced nervously at Shawn behind the counter. He chuckled, pushing a few loose strands of dark auburn hair behind his ear.
“Sounds like my sister strikes again. I’ll bring those right over.”
I reached for my wallet, but he waved it off like my money was no good here. Smiling, I walked over to Sarah’s table and sat down.
Sarah sat sideways in the chair, dressed in her typical high-waisted jeans, a worn green graphic tee featuring a hand-drawn solar system, and a chunky knit cardigan that looked like it had seen better days. Her auburn hair was loosely gathered in a messy bun, with a pencil stabbed through it like a flag atop a hill. She absentmindedly spun her black-rimmed glasses with one hand while scrolling through her phone with the other.
“Ugh, sorry about Shawn. He can be such a pain sometimes,” she said, rolling her eyes.
“No worries. He’s great, I mean, fine. It’s fine,” I stammered.
Smooth, Rion. Real smooth.
Quickly changing the subject, I asked, “So, what’s the plan for today?”
With her usual quick wit, she replied, “Well, I thought we could hang here for a bit, catch up, considering you were at that weird camp all summer. Then, we can head to my place. Mom’s ordering pizza for dinner, and we can watch a movie.”
Before I could remind her that weird camp was my summer job, I heard that same deep voice from behind us.
“Miller! If I knew you were coming here, you could’ve hitched a ride with me!”
Jason turned back to his table, laughing with his friends.
Just as I opened my mouth to respond, Ashley scoffed loud enough for the cafe to hear, “I bet that’s his dream, being sandwiched in a car full of guys.”
Classic Ashley, always trying to chime in after Jason. She had overly-straightened hazel-brown hair, cover-model looks, and the attitude to match.
We’d never been friends, but we’d crossed paths enough for me to know she was sharp, calculating, and always ready with a well-placed dig.
Before I could say anything, Sarah shot back, “Jason Banks, are we still on for tutoring tomorrow, or did you finally learn your ABCs?”
Laughter bubbled from Jason’s table, but it died quickly when Ashley shot them a sharp look.
Smiling back, Jason said, “Oh, the more one-on-one time we spend together, the better.”
Then, with a nod, he and his friends got up and headed out of the Honey Hive. As they walked out, Ashley yelled across the café, “Miller, I think there’s a glitter cookie with your name on it at the counter!”
My face burned with embarrassment. I let out a sharp sigh and turned to Sarah.
“I hate that guy. Do you have to tutor him?”
Sarah shot me a quick, reassuring smile. “Just ignore him. Hottest guy in school, biggest jerk on the planet. But hey, his parents are paying me double, so joke’s on him.”
Shawn arrived with our lattes, setting the cups down in front of us. Sarah perked up, eyes bright.
“Thanks, Shawn. I think we need a slice of that honey lavender cake, too.”
With a quick nod and a smile, he disappeared behind the counter to cut us a generous slice. The moment Shawn set it down, the sweet, floral aroma filled the air—so delicate it almost felt wrong to eat it.
With two lattes and a thick slice of cake between us, Sarah leaned in. “Now, where were we? Oh yeah, that weird camp. Tell me about it!”
I giggled and shook my head. “Sarah, it wasn’t a weird camp. It was my first real job, and I wouldn’t shut up about it before summer.”
I’d been proud. It wasn’t glamorous, but it was mine. And it paid enough to cover next year’s tennis lessons.
Sarah nodded like she’d just remembered. “Right, right. So, how was it?”
I told her about teaching kids to swim, breaking up splash fights, and dealing with one camper who kept hiding flip-flops in the lifeguard shack. She laughed at that. I tried to stay focused, but when she started talking about her summer textbooks, AP prep, and some online bio course—I zoned out.
She was always like that. Driven. Smart. Laser-focused. I, on the other hand, was counting down the days until my next tennis match. I nodded while she talked, but my mind drifted to the court, where I felt most like myself.
By four p.m., we left the café and started walking to her house. We could’ve made it in twenty minutes if we rushed, but instead we strolled, letting the town pass by slowly.
It was the last day of summer vacation. Tomorrow, I’d be a sophomore.
First thought: What should I wear?
I stretched and glanced around my messy room, piles of clothes on the floor, posters of Serena and Venus Williams, Shawn Mendes, and Little Mix plastered on the walls.
Jesy, I still can't believe you left the band, I thought to myself, staring at the poster of Little Mix.
Spotting last night’s dinner plate on my desk, I sighed. Better take it to the kitchen before it grows legs. I placed the dish and fork in the sink just as Mom called from the other room, “Have a good run, sweetie.”
I called back, “Thanks, Mom. Go back to bed.”
I headed down the hallway to change for my run, hopping over Luna like always. She barely lifted her head, gave a single huff, then flopped back down, clearly unbothered by my acrobatics. Luna was a four-year-old mutt we’d adopted two years ago, and in that time, she’d mastered the art of selective interest.
By 6:22 a.m., I was out the door. Forty-five minutes later, I was back and jumping in the shower. Sundays were my light workout days, just a quick run and done.
After drying off and getting dressed, I checked the clock. A little past 8:30. Mom’s car was gone, she must’ve gone grocery shopping.
I threw together some cereal and yogurt, topped it with granola and honey-maple cinnamon. As I savored every spoonful, my phone vibrated and lit up with a text from Sarah.
“Hey, what’s the plan for today? Last day of freedom before school starts again!” she joked.
I quickly responded, “Hey! No idea yet. Just finishing breakfast. What time do you wanna meet up?”
Almost immediately, she replied, “It’s 8:30. I’m still in bed. Can we pretend you didn’t wake up at a ridiculous hour on a Sunday to work out? Let’s meet at Honey Hive around 1, when normal people are awake.”
I grinned. She knew me too well.
The Honey Hive was our go-to, and the only café in town, unless you counted the Starbucks by the highway. But since neither Sarah nor I had a driver’s license, we rarely went that far.
On the way there, I caught the usual glances and weird stares. People in town probably thought I was nuts. I couldn’t help it—I always practiced a modified version of my forehand while I walked. It was all about making contact out in front. To everyone else, I probably looked like I was swatting at a fly.
As I turned onto Main Street, a bright cherry-red car whipped around the corner straight at me. I had to dive out of the way.
What the f--
The car screeched to a stop. The window rolled down, and a deep voice called out, “Don’t be such a drama queen, Miller.”
I didn’t have to look. I already knew the voice.
Jason Banks.
“Ugh,” as I got to my feet. “I’m fine. Thanks for checking.”
Who even taught him how to drive?
Jason chuckled, flashing that devious grin I knew all too well.
“Later, Filler Miller,” he called before speeding off down Main Street. You could hear the unmistakable banshee of a laugh that comes from only one person, Ashley Smith. If Jason was there, she wasn’t far behind. Ashley was the Harley Quinn to Jason’s Joker.
Charming as ever, I thought, shaking my head as I continued walking toward the café.
The sidewalks were mostly empty, just a few cars parked along the narrow street and the occasional breeze stirring the leaves. Main Street was quiet, like it always was on a Sunday afternoon. A few faded storefronts and chipped wooden signs lined the block, and the distant hum of lawnmowers buzzed through the air. Somewhere nearby, someone was grilling, it smelled like summer and charcoal.
By the time I reached the Honey Hive, it was a little after one. I pushed open the door, the old bell above it giving a soft jingle.
No sign of Sarah. I rolled my eyes. Typical.
How can the smartest girl in class always be running late?
The Honey Hive had that cozy, rustic charm I loved. Wooden tables, oversized couches, exposed brick walls, and local art and vintage photos of the town added a nostalgic touch. It was the perfect small-town spot.
I walked up to the counter, glancing at the menu even though I’d seen it a hundred times.
Without thinking, I mimicked my forehand again, swinging an invisible racquet.
“Hey, Rion. Still working on that tennis swing?” I heard a voice on the other side of the counter.
At first, I smiled at the sound of the familiar voice, but then my nerves kicked in. Did I look cool and relaxed? Or like a complete idiot?
I thought about my outfit. A black tee, blue jeans, a backward baseball cap, and the ratty old Converse I should’ve thrown away years ago.
Meh, I’d looked worse.
Trying to find the right words to say hi, I just grunted.
A loud voice from out of nowhere rang out from the window seat: “We’ll have our usual—two iced honey vanilla lattes. Make mine with nonfat milk.”
I glanced nervously at Shawn behind the counter. He chuckled, pushing a few loose strands of dark auburn hair behind his ear.
“Sounds like my sister strikes again. I’ll bring those right over.”
I reached for my wallet, but he waved it off like my money was no good here. Smiling, I walked over to Sarah’s table and sat down.
Sarah sat sideways in the chair, dressed in her typical high-waisted jeans, a worn green graphic tee featuring a hand-drawn solar system, and a chunky knit cardigan that looked like it had seen better days. Her auburn hair was loosely gathered in a messy bun, with a pencil stabbed through it like a flag atop a hill. She absentmindedly spun her black-rimmed glasses with one hand while scrolling through her phone with the other.
“Ugh, sorry about Shawn. He can be such a pain sometimes,” she said, rolling her eyes.
“No worries. He’s great, I mean, fine. It’s fine,” I stammered.
Smooth, Rion. Real smooth.
Quickly changing the subject, I asked, “So, what’s the plan for today?”
With her usual quick wit, she replied, “Well, I thought we could hang here for a bit, catch up, considering you were at that weird camp all summer. Then, we can head to my place. Mom’s ordering pizza for dinner, and we can watch a movie.”
Before I could remind her that weird camp was my summer job, I heard that same deep voice from behind us.
“Miller! If I knew you were coming here, you could’ve hitched a ride with me!”
Jason turned back to his table, laughing with his friends.
Just as I opened my mouth to respond, Ashley scoffed loud enough for the cafe to hear, “I bet that’s his dream, being sandwiched in a car full of guys.”
Classic Ashley, always trying to chime in after Jason. She had overly-straightened hazel-brown hair, cover-model looks, and the attitude to match.
We’d never been friends, but we’d crossed paths enough for me to know she was sharp, calculating, and always ready with a well-placed dig.
Before I could say anything, Sarah shot back, “Jason Banks, are we still on for tutoring tomorrow, or did you finally learn your ABCs?”
Laughter bubbled from Jason’s table, but it died quickly when Ashley shot them a sharp look.
Smiling back, Jason said, “Oh, the more one-on-one time we spend together, the better.”
Then, with a nod, he and his friends got up and headed out of the Honey Hive. As they walked out, Ashley yelled across the café, “Miller, I think there’s a glitter cookie with your name on it at the counter!”
My face burned with embarrassment. I let out a sharp sigh and turned to Sarah.
“I hate that guy. Do you have to tutor him?”
Sarah shot me a quick, reassuring smile. “Just ignore him. Hottest guy in school, biggest jerk on the planet. But hey, his parents are paying me double, so joke’s on him.”
Shawn arrived with our lattes, setting the cups down in front of us. Sarah perked up, eyes bright.
“Thanks, Shawn. I think we need a slice of that honey lavender cake, too.”
With a quick nod and a smile, he disappeared behind the counter to cut us a generous slice. The moment Shawn set it down, the sweet, floral aroma filled the air—so delicate it almost felt wrong to eat it.
With two lattes and a thick slice of cake between us, Sarah leaned in. “Now, where were we? Oh yeah, that weird camp. Tell me about it!”
I giggled and shook my head. “Sarah, it wasn’t a weird camp. It was my first real job, and I wouldn’t shut up about it before summer.”
I’d been proud. It wasn’t glamorous, but it was mine. And it paid enough to cover next year’s tennis lessons.
Sarah nodded like she’d just remembered. “Right, right. So, how was it?”
I told her about teaching kids to swim, breaking up splash fights, and dealing with one camper who kept hiding flip-flops in the lifeguard shack. She laughed at that. I tried to stay focused, but when she started talking about her summer textbooks, AP prep, and some online bio course—I zoned out.
She was always like that. Driven. Smart. Laser-focused. I, on the other hand, was counting down the days until my next tennis match. I nodded while she talked, but my mind drifted to the court, where I felt most like myself.
By four p.m., we left the café and started walking to her house. We could’ve made it in twenty minutes if we rushed, but instead we strolled, letting the town pass by slowly.
Chapter 2:
We didn’t get to Sarah’s house until five. Her street, lined with well-kept ranch-style homes and neatly trimmed hedges, always felt like a different world from mine. Kids zipped by on bikes, sprinkler arcs glistened in front of lawns, and there was a gentle hum of barbecues firing up in the distance.
Just as we reached her driveway, Shawn pulled in behind us, his beat-up Jeep kicking up a soft crunch of gravel.
He leaned out the window with a grin. “How’d it take you this long to walk home?”
Sarah rolled her eyes. “Ugh, shut up.”
I couldn’t help but giggle. There was something oddly comforting about how siblings could say so much with just a couple of words.
As we made our way up the driveway, Shawn called out again, “Mom! When are we ordering pizza? I’m jumping in the pool real quick.”
A spark of nerves, or maybe something closer to excitement, zipped through my chest. The pool. It wasn’t just the water that made my stomach flutter. It was Shawn. Even hearing his voice made my heart knock a little too hard against my ribs.
Sarah caught the look on my face and narrowed her eyes. “What’s with you?”
Panic. I scrambled for an excuse. “Oh, uh… I just remembered my mom’s doing a back-to-school dinner tonight.”
Smooth, Rion. Real smooth.
Sarah raised an eyebrow but didn’t press. “Aw, that’s sweet of her,” she said, softening. Then she smirked. “But now you owe me dinner for ditching me for your mom.”
As I turned to leave, her voice followed: “And don’t wear those old Converse tomorrow! They look like they’ve been run over by a truck. Repeatedly.”
I smirked without turning around. “No promises.”
By the time I got home, it was just past 5:30. Our cracked driveway led up to the familiar sight of Mom’s faded silver sedan parked under the drooping maple tree. The screen door creaked as I stepped inside, and almost instantly, I heard her voice from the kitchen.
“How was tennis practice today?”
Before I could answer, she corrected herself. “Wait—Sunday. You went for a run, right? See, I pay attention.”
I laughed, heading toward the fridge. “Yeah, you sure do.”
Grabbing a water bottle, I made my way down the hall toward my room. Just as I reached for the doorknob, she called out again.
“Dinner will be ready in twenty minutes if you’re hungry!”
I smiled to myself. She has no idea I just used that as an excuse at Sarah’s. “Okay, great!” I called back.
“Oh, and Rion, I picked up a few things for you today. They’re on your bed.”
I stepped into my room and froze. Two overflowing shopping bags sat at the foot of my bed. Next to them, a small black shoebox, unmarked. I ignored the clothes and went straight for the box.
Inside: brand-new, all-white Converse All-Star high tops.
I let out a squeal and kicked off my old ones like they were on fire. The new ones slid on perfectly. I all but jogged over to my mirror, twisting to check out the view from every angle.
Still wearing the sneakers, I finally turned to the bags. Mom had gotten a little bit of everything—jeans, tees, a couple of button-downs. But as I sifted through it all, a pang of guilt surfaced.
How did she afford all this?
Before I could spiral too far, I heard her call from the kitchen. “Dinner!”
The moment I stepped in, the smell hit me, beef, cheese, onion, and pastry crust. I gasped.
“Cheeseburger pie?” I asked, almost accusingly.
Mom grinned, placing a warm slice on my plate. The golden crust cracked under the fork, revealing sizzling beef, melty cheddar, and the sweet pop of caramelized onions. I devoured it like I hadn’t eaten in days.
“Okay,” I said between bites, “this is dangerously good.”
Mom rubbed her belly in fake sympathy. “You didn’t seem to be complaining.”
I leaned back in my chair and let out a dramatic belch. “My compliments to the chef.”
She gave me a mock-glare. “Really, Rion?”
We both laughed. It felt good. Easy.
After dinner, we worked together to clear the table. While I dried the dishes, Mom glanced over and asked, “Are tennis tryouts coming up?”
I gave her a look. “Tryouts are in the spring. But I start lessons at the club later this week.”
“Right,” she said with a nod. “That’s what I meant.”
Once the last plate was stacked, she pulled the towel from my hands. “Go chill out or something. I’ve got the rest.”
I didn’t argue. I kissed her on the cheek and whispered, “I hate drying dishes.”
Laughing, I bolted back to my room, already feeling lighter. I threw on my favorite Spotify playlist—Mom’s Night Out—filled with ‘80s and ‘90s ballads, plus a few new gems from Lizzo, Bruno Mars, and Fifth Harmony.
I dove back into the shopping bags, laying everything out on the bed like a personal runway. Tomorrow was the first day of school, and somehow, even with everything else swirling in my life, I felt ready.
We didn’t get to Sarah’s house until five. Her street, lined with well-kept ranch-style homes and neatly trimmed hedges, always felt like a different world from mine. Kids zipped by on bikes, sprinkler arcs glistened in front of lawns, and there was a gentle hum of barbecues firing up in the distance.
Just as we reached her driveway, Shawn pulled in behind us, his beat-up Jeep kicking up a soft crunch of gravel.
He leaned out the window with a grin. “How’d it take you this long to walk home?”
Sarah rolled her eyes. “Ugh, shut up.”
I couldn’t help but giggle. There was something oddly comforting about how siblings could say so much with just a couple of words.
As we made our way up the driveway, Shawn called out again, “Mom! When are we ordering pizza? I’m jumping in the pool real quick.”
A spark of nerves, or maybe something closer to excitement, zipped through my chest. The pool. It wasn’t just the water that made my stomach flutter. It was Shawn. Even hearing his voice made my heart knock a little too hard against my ribs.
Sarah caught the look on my face and narrowed her eyes. “What’s with you?”
Panic. I scrambled for an excuse. “Oh, uh… I just remembered my mom’s doing a back-to-school dinner tonight.”
Smooth, Rion. Real smooth.
Sarah raised an eyebrow but didn’t press. “Aw, that’s sweet of her,” she said, softening. Then she smirked. “But now you owe me dinner for ditching me for your mom.”
As I turned to leave, her voice followed: “And don’t wear those old Converse tomorrow! They look like they’ve been run over by a truck. Repeatedly.”
I smirked without turning around. “No promises.”
By the time I got home, it was just past 5:30. Our cracked driveway led up to the familiar sight of Mom’s faded silver sedan parked under the drooping maple tree. The screen door creaked as I stepped inside, and almost instantly, I heard her voice from the kitchen.
“How was tennis practice today?”
Before I could answer, she corrected herself. “Wait—Sunday. You went for a run, right? See, I pay attention.”
I laughed, heading toward the fridge. “Yeah, you sure do.”
Grabbing a water bottle, I made my way down the hall toward my room. Just as I reached for the doorknob, she called out again.
“Dinner will be ready in twenty minutes if you’re hungry!”
I smiled to myself. She has no idea I just used that as an excuse at Sarah’s. “Okay, great!” I called back.
“Oh, and Rion, I picked up a few things for you today. They’re on your bed.”
I stepped into my room and froze. Two overflowing shopping bags sat at the foot of my bed. Next to them, a small black shoebox, unmarked. I ignored the clothes and went straight for the box.
Inside: brand-new, all-white Converse All-Star high tops.
I let out a squeal and kicked off my old ones like they were on fire. The new ones slid on perfectly. I all but jogged over to my mirror, twisting to check out the view from every angle.
Still wearing the sneakers, I finally turned to the bags. Mom had gotten a little bit of everything—jeans, tees, a couple of button-downs. But as I sifted through it all, a pang of guilt surfaced.
How did she afford all this?
Before I could spiral too far, I heard her call from the kitchen. “Dinner!”
The moment I stepped in, the smell hit me, beef, cheese, onion, and pastry crust. I gasped.
“Cheeseburger pie?” I asked, almost accusingly.
Mom grinned, placing a warm slice on my plate. The golden crust cracked under the fork, revealing sizzling beef, melty cheddar, and the sweet pop of caramelized onions. I devoured it like I hadn’t eaten in days.
“Okay,” I said between bites, “this is dangerously good.”
Mom rubbed her belly in fake sympathy. “You didn’t seem to be complaining.”
I leaned back in my chair and let out a dramatic belch. “My compliments to the chef.”
She gave me a mock-glare. “Really, Rion?”
We both laughed. It felt good. Easy.
After dinner, we worked together to clear the table. While I dried the dishes, Mom glanced over and asked, “Are tennis tryouts coming up?”
I gave her a look. “Tryouts are in the spring. But I start lessons at the club later this week.”
“Right,” she said with a nod. “That’s what I meant.”
Once the last plate was stacked, she pulled the towel from my hands. “Go chill out or something. I’ve got the rest.”
I didn’t argue. I kissed her on the cheek and whispered, “I hate drying dishes.”
Laughing, I bolted back to my room, already feeling lighter. I threw on my favorite Spotify playlist—Mom’s Night Out—filled with ‘80s and ‘90s ballads, plus a few new gems from Lizzo, Bruno Mars, and Fifth Harmony.
I dove back into the shopping bags, laying everything out on the bed like a personal runway. Tomorrow was the first day of school, and somehow, even with everything else swirling in my life, I felt ready.
