We had a week to go until the big tournament. Regional racquetball title. Amateur, but still heavy competition. Jeff and I were practicing more than usual, three times a week, two hours a day, all the spare time we had—practiced until we were in sync, power hitters, the team to beat. Jeff had a wicked backhand; my serves were practically unreturnable. Lightning-fast.
Too fast, in fact, if you got smashed in the nuts by one of them. Poor Jeff never knew what hit him. The doctor recommended ice, lots of ice. And no physical exertion for at least a week. Meaning, no tournament. At least not for the two of us.
“Go find another partner,” he told me. “Just for this one competition. Shame to waste all that effort.”
“But it’s too late. How will I find someone on such short notice?” I asked, not
