Advantage, Ford

The parking lot was clearing out. The sun was setting over the Pacific.

Maya sat on the hood of her rental car, icing her shoulder.

Ezra walked up. He stopped a few feet away.

"You lost," he said.

"I did," Maya agreed. "Did you see that drop shot in the second set?"

"It was decent," Ezra said. "A little high on the bounce."

"You came," Maya said.

"I couldn't stay away," Ezra admitted. He stepped closer. "You didn't play like a brat today, Maya. You played like a pro."

"I played like you taught me," she said. She slid off the hood. "My dad called. He saw the scores. He wants to talk sponsorship again."

"And?"

"I blocked his number," Maya said.

Ezra’s eyes softened. The stoic mask finally crumbled.

"I'm proud of you," he said. "Not because you made the finals. But because you didn't destroy yourself to do it."

"I missed you," Maya whispered. "I'm sorry I said you were jealous."

"I was jealous," Ezra said, closing the distance. "I was jealous of the tennis. Because it got to have all of your passion. I wanted some for myself."

Maya laughed, a bright, free sound. "Well, I have a torn rotator cuff. I can't play for six months. I have a lot of free time."

Ezra smiled. It transformed his face, erasing the years of burnout.

"I know a place in Ojai," he said. "It has a bungalow. Terrible air conditioning. But the coach is cute."

"He's a grump," Maya corrected, wrapping her good arm around his waist.

"He's working on it," Ezra murmured.

He kissed her, right there in the Santa Monica parking lot, under the palm trees. It wasn't a desperate kiss like the first one. It was steady. It was patient. It was a love that was built to last the long game.

"So," Maya pulled back, grinning. "Rehab starts tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow," Ezra promised, taking her hand. "But tonight, we rest."