ONE
Cassandra
“Tennis. That’s your meal ticket.”
Those ironic words from my dad echo in my brain whenever I serve.
Although it’s August, today is a pleasant enough morning to hit some balls. My twin brother Herc woke me up a few minutes ago and told me to grab my racket before the temperature spiked.
I grumbled, but I wasn’t complaining. I love the sport. More importantly, I love beating my brother’s ass on the court. This morning is no exception, as he thunders like a Clydesdale up and down the court, dripping so much sweat he can barely grip his racket. Stopping on a dime is not in his skill set. Bless him.
“Do I need to call the paramedics, brother?”
Breathlessly, he spits back, “Shut your Reese’s hole.”
“Ooh. Good one,” I cackle as I slam the ball an inch above the net, and it bounces just out of his reach.
Poor thing.
Herc is a football fanatic and an up-and-coming linebacker for the school we both plan to attend in a few days. Still, we’re twins, and we like to work out together. Since he’s got about fifty pounds on me, I prefer tennis to his sport of choice. I don’t want to get tackled and injured before joining my new tennis team at Pine Mountain University.
The Treadways have always been an athletic family. When we were six, Herc and I worshiped our father, Dex, a legendary point guard who led his school to multiple NCAA championships. We’d begged him to let us try out for rec league basketball, but he’d surprisingly advised against it. “You won’t get anywhere with basketball in North Carolina. Too much competition. Stick to tennis. That’s your meal ticket.”
I think it’s odd that he’d care about that from such a young age instead of simply letting us have fun and worship our hero. Dad’s a wonderful guy but has always encouraged us to take our own paths, separate from his own. His athletic and career paths earned us an amazingly privileged life, a gorgeous home in the mountains outside of beautiful Asheville, and a beach house in the Outer Banks—both outfitted with regulation tennis courts. So, I don’t see what’s so bad about following in his footsteps.
I didn’t understand Dad’s dry sense of humor until I was an adolescent. “Meal ticket” isn’t something that applies to our family. We’re…how do I put this…rich.
Dad retired from the NBA because of an injury after only a few seasons. Shortly after that, he married Momma, and they bought the largest chain of massage spas in the United States. Notthosekinds of massage places, like the “happy ending” sorts of “spas” you see advertised to truckers along the interstates. Spas, as in sports and legitimate therapeutic massage. We’re in almost every mall in America; you’ve probably gotten a gift card to one at some point in your life, or you will.
People joke about college athletes majoring in business, but those spas were the best investment Daddy could have come up with. Herc and I never took the bus to school; we had a driver. Dad’s assistant would sweep in with a checkbook when the school needed anything.
The business does keep Dad too busy, though.
Mom was involved with PTAs and never missed one of Herc’s football games, my tennis matches, my cheerleading competitions, debate meets, or plays. But we seldom saw Daddy at one of our events. Occasionally, he’d show when we would advance to regional or state. I never held it against him, though.
Today, Dad has an early morning meeting at the central office downtown. After that, he’s made it clear he wants to spend the rest of the day with Herc and me before we head to our first year at PMU tomorrow. I don’t know who he’s having a meeting with this early on a Sunday, but I chalk it up to Daddy being a workaholic.
As Herc and I volley back and forth this morning, I can hear more traffic coming up the mountain road than usual on a Sunday morning.
“I wonder if that’s Daddy,” I say to Herc, knocking the ball deep and to his left.
“Should be,” Herc says, then grunts as he backhands it back at me. “He said he wanted to drive us to orientation tomorrow himself.”
I hope that’s him.
“You never know what can happen in this world; tennis will always take care of you,” Daddy likes to say. He never says that sort of thing about football. I wonder if that bothers Herc.
Herc hits the ball so hard that I have to jump to return it when it bounces.
“I can’t remember the last time I saw him drive,” I say after hitting it back.
“I hope he’s serious. If he’s not,” Herc says, hitting the ball back to my right, “we’ll have to let Titus know we need a ride.”
My stomach tightens at the mention of our best friend. We could always call for a car, but I’ll never dismiss the chance of spending time with Titus.
“Can he even fit all of us and our stuff in his truck?” I ask casually.
“Eh. Maybe?” Herc replies with a chuckle. “He’ll probably have a duffel bag and nothing else.”