| 3 |

THE OUTSIDER

Al stood on the driveway in front of his house, racket in hand. The trees encircled the patio, so that even in this open space he was cut off from the rest of the world.  With his other hand, he threw a tennis ball up and down. That was the easy bit.

He was staring intently at a familiar, blank stretch of wall. It had been his strongest opponent in his youth. That wall had to have received the brunt of over tens of thousands of rallies. Even now, he could remember every inch of that brickwork. Could predict how every shot would bounce and ricochet based on the angle and speed of his shot against the uneven patchwork surface.

If he could just make the racket connect like he usually would, it would be nostalgic.

Unfortunately, in his current state, the familiarity only served to make the experience more frustrating.  He was so distracted these days. He couldn't even seem to get a decent rally going. Even the basics seemed difficult all of a sudden.  He couldn't focus. Of course. Every time he went to serve he'd remember trying to teach Sylvia how to.  Every time he ran, he'd remember a time she'd be shouting at him to slow down so she could catch up.  He was off his game, and he didn't know what to do about it. He was trying very hard not to think.

Gritting his teeth, Al tried to focus on the ball, on visualising how his muscles would feel as he extended his arm to strike it at the perfect height, his racket an extension of himself.

Tony stood watching him from the doorway, a worried expression on his young face. He watched Al throw the ball high into the air.

"Hey!" Jim's yell carried from the living room and broke the silence.

Tony winced, inwardly cursing their youngest teammate's poor timing, and his own choice not to close the door after him when he'd stepped outside to watch Al. Ironically, he hadn't wanted to break Al's concentration.

The tennis ball soared wildly away into the bushes, and Al rounded on him, his cheeks stained an embarrassed and angry red. He glared at Tony.

"What're you doing trying to sneak up on me?" he yelled.

Tony looked significantly at where the tennis ball had flown, and the others scattered liberally in half a dozen out of the way places. It wasn't like this was a one-time event.

But he supposed Al had every right to be paranoid. He'd be paranoid too, if he lost his talent. Without tennis, and that clearly defined career path, Al must have felt lost.  Like everything was beyond his control. If he kept playing like this, he couldn't play on the team, much less lead it.  All this, just as he was about to hit the adult divisions next year? It was a lot.

Tony and Victor hadn't told the other members of their team what was going on. Jim would have had a field day at Al's expense, but that was nothing to what Mark's reaction would have been. Not that Tony particularly liked to think of Mark as a part of their team. He'd pretty much forced his way in because his father had paid off the coach. He could just imagine Mark trying to whip Al back into shape. As if a lack of discipline had made Al change this way. As if he could be fixed, and there wouldn't be a problem anymore.

"Any progress?" he asked, rather pointlessly. He could already see the results. Two weeks had passed, and in that time the only improvement Al could boast of was that he had perfect control of any rally, provided nothing distracted him. In other words, Al could make a tennis ball dance and spin on his every whim, but as soon as anyone else was around, he was back to square one. In a singles match, he'd be completely useless to them. Victor had cleared his throat the other day and Al had all but fired a serve over the fence. The worst thing about those moments was the expression on Al's face.

Al didn't say anything. Instead he reached for the spare tennis ball in his pocket, and studied his racket strings. Tony sighed.

"You can't keep hiding this forever," he said, worried. More than team mates, they were friends. Al had been the life and soul of the team. He'd pulled them through every rough tournament.  Every break point. He'd persevered, and that determination had rubbed off on the rest of them.   "The next tournament is-"

"I know!" Al yelled, and Tony pursed his lips. You couldn't reason with Al when he was angry. The only consolation was, Al wasn't angry with him. Al was angry with himself. The team leader was letting the team down. "I know, Tony. It's only a few months away."

"And before that there's the qualifiers," Tony said, a gentle reminder that they really didn't have any time left. Al looked up at Tony then, and Tony couldn't read his expression. He really hoped Al wasn't going to do something stupid. Like early retirement. He'd known other child prodigies drop out over less.

"I'm nowhere near ready." Al didn't look at him, and the confession was quietly ground out through his teeth. The admission cost him dearly.  Tony nodded and crossed his arms to think.

"We can cover for you in doubles for as long as it takes, but we'd have to start practising that now." Al closed his eyes and breathed a sigh of relief.

"I thought... Maybe you should find a replacement." Tony's face shut down. Of course, this situation was beyond awful, but it wasn't that bad.

"Don't be an idiot. We've been playing together for five years now. How could we do it without you?" Al pursed his lips, and forced a smile.

"Thanks, mate." Tony nodded and headed back inside. From the living room he heard Jim let loose another yell as Victor continued to thrash him on the games console. Sometimes he wondered how much their youngest team member really knew. Even Sylvia's friends seemed to have picked up that something was wrong with Al. It wouldn't be a secret for long. He shuddered to think what would happen if the media found out.

---

Marilyn was having a field day. Netball practice had just finished, and she'd scored three goals today – her tall stature made her the perfect Goal Shooter – then who should be leaning against the school's front gates as she left, but the Mark Laton. She thought her legs would melt into a puddle as she walked up to him.

"Hi," she said, breathy and seductive. She pursed her lips and fluttered her eyelashes at him. "You're Mark, aren't you? I just wanted to say I think you're absolutely beautiful when you play."

His expression solidified before the true terror he felt could show. He dealt with her the best way he could, which was to ignore what she'd said and make use of her to get the information he needed.

"Alan Holmes transferred here, correct?" Marilyn nodded, smiling at him with dreamy eyes. She was taller than him, but from the look of her heels they were almost the same height.

"Yeah." She sighed happily. "He's gorgeous too." One of Mark's eyes twitched, but he did his best to keep his agitation under control.

"Do you know where he's staying?" Marilyn finally noticed he had a bag on his back.

"Are you?" she asked, in wonder. They had the whole team now. A perfect set. Sylvia was a lucky- She stopped the thought. She was pretending everything was normal, after all. Even though that was a rapidly diminishing dream.

"What?"

"Are you staying?" she asked again, smiling charmingly. There was something so attractive about the way he gritted his teeth. He must be used to being hit on, but Marilyn prided herself on being able to unsettle even the most confident individuals.

Mark closed his eyes.  He should have known she'd be dumb. No one intelligent would have greeted a stranger like that. Even if they were famous.  He didn't think he'd ever been called beautiful, not even by his own mother.

"No," he replied flatly.  Now what could he say to her to get the information he actually needed.  Did he have to give her a fake number? An autograph? He hoped she wasn't the type to try and ransom information for a kiss.

"Oh." She pouted. "Well, I suppose I can take you there. I mean, it's Friday, so Tich will be there too. I guess that would be okay." But she didn't really want to go to Sylvia's home. She hated it there. She couldn't pretend. Not with Sylvia's mum looking like that, all heartbroken.

"Tich?"

"Sylvia's friend." The words were hard to say. "Sylvia is-" Mark held up a hand.

"Stop talking." Her mouth clamped shut. Mark didn't care who Sylvia was. He wished he hadn't asked about whoever the other person was too. It was obvious they didn't have anything to do with tennis. He'd been wondering what Al and the others were up to. He'd thought they were doing some kind of secret training camp, but if this bimbo was anything to judge by, it seemed like they'd only come here to hit on girls. Mark was disgusted.

"Uh." Marilyn hovered, and he reluctantly looked back at her. "It's only fifteen minutes this way." She pointed. Mark looked at her warily. He hadn't travelled here by plane, train and taxi, using the vague address their coach had reluctantly given up to him, just to get mislead by a gigantically tall girl with half a pound of makeup on her face. On the other hand, it was getting late, and aside from the general area he had no idea where he was going. He should have pressed Stevens harder for the exact address. Still, having made the journey he wanted to at least confront Alan about not training enough. Their next tournament was only a couple of months away, and he didn't need Al dragging the team down. Dragging him down. Some team captain.

"Fine." She stared, and he grimaced at her confusion. He'd just agreed, so why wasn't she taking him anywhere.

"God, you're sexy," she said, then she pointed in the same direction again. "This way." She skipped down the street.

Mark felt sick. Why did he have to follow a girl who'd just said that to him? He wanted to stalk off in the opposite direction to put as much space between them as possible. Yet again, he cursed himself for missing the airport connection and having to wait for a later train. He'd meant to arrive before the end of the school day. He'd meant to ambush Al at the gates. But time had royally screwed that one up for him. He'd just been waiting at the gates on the off chance that a teacher might turn up. If he wasn't freezing, he'd probably have continued waiting, but he was cold, and he was starting to need a piss, so following this idiotic girl seemed to be the only thing he could do. He just prayed she wasn't going to try and make more small talk.

---

"Are you joking?" Tich had to double check, her fingers digging into the soft, velvety fabric.

Al grunted, which she chose to interpret as a think what you will.

"Who even told you my birthday was coming up?" she asked.  Although once she'd thought about it, she guessed it was Camilla. Helen didn't seem to like the boys, and Al had been actively avoiding Marilyn ever since she started coming up with excuses to put her hands all over him. For all her eccentricity, Camilla was the most approachable one of her friends. Camilla liked to describe herself as artistic. She lived and breathed for school plays, or any role where should be fabulous.  But for all that she acted like she'd adore to be the centre of attention, she was also the one constantly putting the rest of their needs before her own.

"Milly did." Al confirmed her suspicions. "You don't have to wear it. It's from all of us, and don't think it means anything. It was cheap." Tich smiled, slightly endeared to his hostility. So defensive.

"Well," she said, ramming the humongous hat onto her head. It was so large that she probably looked like she was wearing a pudding. "I'll make sure to tell them thank you."

They were sitting on the patio. It had always been her favourite place at Sylvia's house. It caught the sun. In summer they'd wheel out the table tennis table and play until they lost all the balls, which would happen in a matter of hours. Neither of them was exactly accurate with their shots. Other times, they used to practice netball shots with Marilyn, using a basketball and a huge makeshift hoop structure they'd built out of cellotape and rigged up to her parent's balcony. They'd always meant to buy a real one some day, but some day never came.

As it was, Victor had pretty much claimed the basketball. He kept challenging Jim, and roping in Tony so that they ended up playing Piggy in the Middle. She didn't know why Jim put up with it.

Al was propped up against the side of the house with his legs splayed out, eyes closed against the sun.  This hair gleamed in the sunlight, and feather like shadows played across his face.  Tich couldn't help catching her breath. There was a word for it. Basorexia. The strong overwhelming desire to kiss someone.

She blushed. Hating that she was still having these thoughts. Could she just control her hormones for one minute? She hunched up beside him, fiddling with her shoelaces.

"What's wrong?" Al asked.  She stared at him, but he hadn't even moved. How could he even sense that she was troubled? She searched for something more suitable to say.

"Why don't you go play with them?" His eyes flickered open, and he smiled lazily over at her.

"Why don't you?"

He was like a cat, curled up in the sunlight, unwilling to move from that small patch of comfort.  If she'd replied like that, she'd have sounded like a child.  But he just seemed even more attractive. As if that were possible.

"I'm not the one they're missing." He looked blankly at the air for a minute before sighing and getting to his feet.  Tich wished she hadn't said anything.  But only for a moment.  He glanced back at her as he stretched.  "That surprisingly suits you."  Tich blushed horribly, her hands on her hat.  "Pass it here," Al yelled to the others, turning his back on her.  She smiled as Victor instantly shot it in Al's direction, and shook her head when he passed it onto Tony, essentially making Jim's odds of catching it even slimmer.

"What the hell!" their youngest teammate complained. "Al, help me out here." Al grinned and formed a game plan, two on two, three passes before you're allowed to shoot for goal. Tich watched them play for a minute before getting up and walking through the house to the kitchen. She'd made progress in these last two weeks, even though this was only her third visit. She'd forced herself to spend time in the kitchen, to ignore the visions she was sure Sylvia's parents had to deal with all of the time. She reached for the empty jug and went searching for the orange squash in the fridge.

Was it weird? Spending her Fridays here with the boys. They weren't anything like what she'd imagined, but when she thought about what she'd imagined, she decided that was only right. Celebrities were people with their own personalities. How could she have ever accurately guessed what they were like having never met them before?

Tich heard shouting from outside and guessed Jim was accusing Victor of cheating again. She sighed and opened the cupboard, looking for plastic glasses. The door slid open, and she turned, expecting one of the boys.

"Hiya."

Tich stared at Marilyn.

"Hi," she greeted, a little slowly. It wasn't that Marilyn didn't have a right to be there; it was just unexpected. She hadn't said anything about coming earlier in the day. Then again, that was just like Marilyn. She often showed up on the spur of the moment. Tich smiled. "Wanna help me with the glasses?"

"Sure." Marilyn beamed. "We'll need seven of them."

"Oh, who else came?" She should probably call whichever of Helen or Camilla didn't come, just so they didn't feel left out. Marilyn giggled and alarm bells went off in Tich's mind.

"Mark Laton," she announced, jumping up and down on the spot and squealing. "Oh, my heart is still racing." Tich stared at her. Then ran through the house and went outside to have a look.

"What are you playing at?" the angry yelling continued, but Tich could make out the words now. "You can't just barge in here and demand a rematch."

"I said, get your racket." Mark's voice sounded different than it did on the TV. She peaked around the corner in time to see Al slap Mark's arm off of him.

"I'm not having a match with you," he snarled. "What're you doing here, Mark?"

"I thought you took this seriously," Mark said. "The tournament is two months away, and the qualifiers are less than that. What're you doing here?" Al gritted his teeth, but Tony stepped in.

"I fail to see how it's your concern," he said stoically. "Unless you plan to force your way in again." Jim kicked at the ground.

"Why do you keep insisting on trying to be a part of this team?" he yelled. "You're never around. You aren't a part of it!"

"Fortunately that's not up to you, shortie," Mark snorted and looked back at Al. "You haven't answered the question. Unless you're not planning on taking part this year, I fail to see how hanging out with girls," he said it like it left a bad taste in his mouth, "like that one could possibly be helping you train. I'm going to wipe the floor with you at the qualifiers if you keep getting so distracted."

Victor lunged at Mark, but Al got there first. He shoved Mark back a few steps, and barely restrained himself from going further when Tony grabbed his arm. There was certainly no love lost between him and Mark, but he wasn't going to let Al land himself in any more trouble than he could handle at the moment. Mark's face was angry. The shove had backed  him up enough to accidentally kick Sylvia's racket where it had been leaning up against the wall. Tich's heart sank as Mark picked it up.

"What the hell is this trash?" he snarled, and Tich was so worried that he was going to do something to it that she ran around the corner and reached for it, putting an arm on Mark's shoulder to use for leverage. She wasn't tall enough though, and now Mark's full fury was focused on her. Although her momentum was enough that she took hold of the racket and almost succeeded in snatching it out of his hands.

"Please give it back," she begged. She'd never been the type of person to care about pride. She made her own happiness. But she had no way of wrestling something away from him.

"Is it yours?" he asked, very coolly. Her face faltered.

"No, but-"

"Then I don't see how it's your business," he said, and shook her off, so that she stumbled back a few steps.

"Oi," Jim yelled.

A tennis ball flew out of nowhere and would have caught Mark right between the eyes if he hadn't ducked out of the way. Sylvia's racket clattered on the floor. Mark had dropped it in his rush to avoid a black eye. He glowered at Al as the other boy lowered his racket. The expression on his face was livid as he picked up Sylvia's racket.

"Don't touch this," he said, very quietly, but just as angrily. Mark straightened and brushed himself off. Tich thought he was going to have some angry retort, but instead he was silent, regarding Al with judgemental eyes.

"Ok," he said at last. He could recognise when Al was serious about something. The other three seemed to relax a little. Victor and Tony exchanged significant glances, and Tich realised a little belatedly that Al had been fully in control of the ace he'd served in Mark's direction. Her mouth dropped open a little.

"I brought drinks," Marilyn said, coming round the corner with a tray loaded up with snacks and orange juice. Something about their stance must've shown they were in the middle of something, because she decided to completely shatter the tension. "And I really think you should stop fighting over me." Victor snorted, and Tich quietly started to shake. Al stared at her.

After a second, Tich opened her mouth and the laughter spilled from her lips. The uncontrollable kind brought on by dopamine imbalances in the brain.

"Honey," she said, looking at Marilyn with the greatest endearment, slightly bent over from the violence of it all. "You're obsessed." Marilyn grinned. Tich hadn't properly laughed in a long time.