Chapter 8 Two years later (21 years old)
My hands burned under the heat of the fish and chips box I held. After setting it onto a table full of condiments, I grabbed the tomato sauce, its nozzle splattered in leftover bits of dried red. I squeezed the bottle, producing a pathetic squirt of sauce that barely covered the chips. Squeezing harder, the bottle let out a hollow burble, releasing nothing but air.
Ugh, forget it. It was as empty as my stomach. Giving up, I swiped a few napkins, cupped my fish and chips box with them, and strode off to find Liz.
The outside of Ken Rosewall Arena bustled with activity. Everywhere I looked, people milled about, some holding giant tennis balls waiting to be signed.
I made a beeline for an area packed with lawn chairs, my sneakers squelching on the
