The referee called it out.
Fourteen–thirteen. Match point.
Brittney turned with both fists raised.
Taylor didn’t move.
Taylor felt the ball barely touch one finger.
“Touch.”
The applause stopped.
The referee leaned forward. “What?”
“I touched it.”
The call changed.
“Nobody called it,” Brittney said.
“I touched it.”
The next serve came short. Taylor passed too close to the net. Brittney barely reached the ball and sent it high toward the middle. The blocker pressed over and threw it down.
Fifteen–thirteen.
Match over.
Brittney walked straight to their bags.
“Can we talk?” Taylor asked.
“No.”
“Brittney.”
“Not yet.”
Taylor waited while Brittney stuffed clothes into her backpack.
“I know you’re mad.”
Brittney stopped.
“Do you?”
“Because we lost.”
“Because you made a decision for both of us.”
“The ball touched me.”
“Nobody saw it.”
“I saw it.”
“What was I supposed to do?” Taylor asked. “Lie?”
“I wanted five seconds to be angry before you became the most honest person on the beach.”
“That’s not what happened.”
“It kind of is.”
“The answer was simple.”
Brittney pulled the backpack onto one shoulder.
“The call was simple. The consequence wasn’t.”
She walked away.
Four days later, Taylor found Brittney sitting on the retaining wall after practice.
“I would make the exact same call again,” Taylor said.
Brittney stared at the water.
“Great start.”
“I’m not going to pretend I wouldn’t.”
“I never asked you to.”
Taylor sat beside her.
“I kept defending the call because I thought feeling sorry meant admitting it was wrong.”
“And?”
“It wasn’t wrong.”
Brittney groaned. “Taylor.”
“But I am sorry.”
“For what?”
“For thinking your anger meant you wanted me to cheat.”
Brittney looked down at her hands.
Taylor continued.
“You sacrificed for that tournament too. You wanted the final too. Every time you tried to tell me that, I explained the touch again.”
“I didn’t want you to lie.”
“I know.”
“I wanted you to care that telling the truth cost me something.”
“It cost me too.”
“I know.”
Neither spoke for a while.
“I’m still mad,” Brittney said.
“Okay.”
“I might be mad next week.”
“Okay.”
“Don’t try to fix it.”
Taylor nodded.
Brittney looked suspicious. “Can you?”
“Probably not.”
Brittney smiled despite herself.
The following Saturday, they entered another tournament together.
Late in the second game, Brittney tried to block a hard-driven ball. It grazed her left arm and landed outside the sideline.
The referee called it out.
Point Brittney and Taylor.
Brittney stood beneath the net.
Taylor knew before asking.
“Touch?”
Brittney nodded.
Nobody else had seen it.
For one second, neither moved.
Then Taylor looked toward the referee.
“Tell them.”
Brittney did.
They lost three rallies later.
Afterward, Brittney dropped beside Taylor near their bags.
“Don’t say anything.”
“I wasn’t going to.”
“You were.”
“I was going to ask how your integrity feels.”
“Expensive.”
“Very.”
Brittney picked sand from her knee.
“I hated making that call.”
“Me too.”
Brittney looked over.
“That helps.”
They kept playing together.
Sometimes they disagreed over marks. Sometimes they replayed points. Sometimes one was certain and the other wasn’t.
“Did you see a touch?”
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“Okay.”
Years later, Taylor was coaching when one of her athletes stormed off a court.
“We lost because my partner called a touch nobody saw.”
“Did she touch it?” Taylor asked.
“She said she did.”
“Do you believe her?”
The athlete hesitated. “Yes.”
“Are you still mad?”
“Yes.”
Taylor handed her a water bottle.
“Both can be true.”
The athlete sat quietly, then stood.
“Where are you going?”
“To talk to her.”
She took two steps and turned back.
“What am I supposed to say?”
Taylor looked toward the court, where the partner was sitting alone.
“Tell her the truth.”
“Which truth?”
Taylor watched the athlete grip the water bottle.
“Start with the one that costs you something.”
The athlete walked away.
The call had taken one second.
The conversation lasted much longer.
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