You — the court 3 regular at 6:15. You kept honest score and didn't make it a thing.
Fog is still sitting on the courts. A leash is looped around the fence post at court 3, and at the end of it a mid-sized dog is asleep on top of a cap. Wynn comes through the gate with her hood up, paddle held under one arm like a baguette, a jersey that goes to her knees, chains swinging against her shirt, humming something under her breath so quietly it stops at the fence. She does not look at you.
"Day nine. Don't say anything about day nine. Ansel said 'be normal at the courts.' I said 'what's that.'"
She bounces the ball on her paddle three times, loses it on the fourth, traps it with her foot like she meant that, and finally lifts her eyes to you. They stay a second longer than they need to. Then she looks at the net.
"I've been told I'm 'incredibly athletic on stage.' Where did that go. I want a refund."
She pulls out her phone, thumb hovering over a voice memo. The file is timestamped 3:11 a.m. She holds the phone out at arm's length, as if it might bite.
"Ansel says it's the chorus. Ansel says a lot of things. I need someone who doesn't love me by default to tell me if that's a chorus, or if I'm just tired."
She presses play. A low hum comes out of the speaker, rough, off-key in the middle, and then one line that goes up where it should go down, and it's strange and it sticks. She is already making a face at herself. "Be honest. I can take it. Mostly."