All-Star Love

Copyright © 2022 by Stephanie J. Scott

All rights reserved.

No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law without written permission from the author except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used factiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Cover Design: Qamber Designs

Edits: MK Books Editing

ISBN ebook 978-1-954952-12-6

ISBN print 978-1-954952-13-3

ASIN B09SDXPQR1

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Contents

1.Chapter 1

2.Chapter 2

3.Sports Beat!

4.Chapter 3

5.TV Insider News

6.Chapter 4

7.Chapter 5

8.Chapter 6

9.Chapter 7

10.Chapter 8

11.Chapter 9

12.Chapter 10

13.Chapter 11

14.Student Interview

15.Chapter 12

16.Student Interview

17.Chapter 13

18.Chapter 14

19.Chapter 15

20.Chapter 16

21.National Inquizitor Live!

22.Chapter 17

23.Teen Sports Enthusiast Hot Sheet

24.Chapter 18

25.Chapter 19

26.Chapter 20

27.Chapter 21

28.Chapter 22

29.Tennis Daily Reports

30.Chapter 23

31.Chapter 24

32.Chapter 25

33.Chapter 26

34.Chapter 27

35.Chapter 28

36.Chapter 29

37.Podcast Transcript

38.Chapter 30

39.Epilogue

Also By Stephanie J. Scott

About the Author

Chapter 1

Traitor.

The word came out in a cough—one of those not-actually-subtle cover-ups on a remark meant to be heard. I gritted my teeth.

Chin up, my bestie Nia said beside me, shrugging her gear bag over her shoulder. She nudged me forward. Let’s go.

So much for being a hot-shot senior. Four years ago when I started at Six Lakes Tennis Academy, I’d dreamed of walking into general session as a senior. All the groveling, the extra practices, would pay off. Once I dazzled the college recruiters, I could coast my way through the year, enjoying my senior status before heading off into the sunset.

That was all before. My life was split now: Before Scandal, and After Scandal.

People would pay attention to Maisie Maxwell all right. There’s a joke how nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition. Kind of like how nobody expects their school to succumb to financial scandal at the start of one’s all-important senior year. Or to expect said financial scandal to involve one’s own uncle, Coach Corbin Maxwell, who apparently took the advice to clear your head and take some time off too literally by fleeing the country along with tuition funds.

I couldn’t imagine anyone expecting that. Even my mom, who said my uncle was a dirt bag from the start, usually countered by Dad’s quick defense. Coach Max was his brother after all. Not even Coach Max’s string of Grand Slam victories in the 1990s or the fact he co-founded an affordable Midwest tennis school could excuse his running off.

So yeah, my uncle was a criminal. On the run.

I followed Nia through our academy’s lobby, an aging sports facility converted for our use. We headed to the academic corridor, ignoring the heat rising on my pale skin as my classmates lasered their scorn at me.

They should have known I was equally disgusted with my uncle for taking off. It wasn’t like my family knew where he’d gone. Even an FBI-led search turned up empty. I imagined him on an island south of the equator fanning himself with large bills, periodically tossing tennis balls fresh from the can into the surf. What a tool.

Ahead of me, Nia entered the assembly room. A room that had once seemed so prestigious with its thick, kelly green carpet and mahogany wood-paneled walls. Now the graduating classes framed along the walls stared back at us in horror. You tarnished our legacy!

Sorry! I sent back through time and space. Not all us Maxwells are low-lifes. I swear.

I stopped in the doorway. Something was weird about the room. Empty rows of seats, that’s what. Even with people still hanging out in the lobby, this turnout did not bode well. Our total full-time enrollment usually capped at fifty students—if that. I counted seven sitting down so far. Either everyone was late, or more families pulled their kids after the debacle.

My new reality: After Scandal.

Nia chose a chair in a middle row. I sat beside her and scooched closer. I needed her good vibes. She gathered her long black braids into a loose knot at the base of her brown-skinned neck. It’s not your fault. You know that.

I shrugged off her reminder, even though I appreciated hearing it. Did you hear Katie Mack dropped? I picked at a split fingernail. Allison’s gone too.

We both need to keep focus. We’re going to finish strong. Besides, the school has insurance for a reason. We might have a rebuilding year and all, but it’s not like the place is folding. The summer camps seemed to do okay.

Except we both knew the bad press still hadn’t died down weeks after the story broke. Now, Six Lakes wasn’t simply a middle-ranked academy in a less-than-desirable Midwest location (no sunny Florida or California year-round outdoor courts for us here in eastern Michigan). The scandal set us on course to place dead last on the annual ranked list of U.S. tennis academies. Even Bazooka Bill’s Buccaneer Training Camp outranked us. They’d just relocated to a new host club with custom clay courts. With Bazooka Bill’s face on the clay.

We were worse than Bazooka Bill.

It killed me to have anybody look at Six Lakes like that. We were already underdogs, even though our academy sat on the grounds of a golf resort in a high-end community surrounded by beautiful recreational lakes.

I wore the underdog label as a badge, firmly affixed at any regional tournament. Think we’re low rent? Get on the court and let’s see what happens.

Welcome, students. Academy Director Deborah Debs Flannery positioned herself at the front podium wearing her trademark wind suit and gold jewelry. With short brassy hair and tanned white skin that had seen many summers courtside, she’d ruled tennis in the 1980s and was the type who could fit in a mixed doubles match and close a deal with a sports agent over her lunch break. She was like if one of the Golden Girls had been an elite athlete and time-traveled to this decade. Let’s fill in the front seats here. She looked our way and waited. Nia? Margaret? Please set an example.

Painful silence coated the room while Nia and I rose from our safe middle seats to move to empty chairs in the front row.Plus, Debs just had to call me Margaret when only my birth certificate did (and my mom when she was in a funk). If I could manage to call her Debs, she could manage Maisie.

A sarcastic laugh sprang up from the back. I turned in time to see the students from the lobby trickling in—all ten more of them. A smug-faced Caleb Thompson sneered my way. Don’t need her kind of example.

Debs kept smiling, undeterred. It took a lot to ‘terr Debs. As you all know, we’ve encountered changes in our coaching staff for this season. The good news is our head coaches Czarniak and Nelson are here to stay, as well as our assistant coach Michael Park. Come on up, coaches.

Czarniak, or Coach Zak, a hefty drill-sergeant type with pinkish-pale skin and a buzz cut, lumbered forward. He was followed by Coach Nelson, a former top-ranking player who trained internationally at an academy in Spain, though she was originally from Boise or someplace like that. We called her Killer Nelson. No pun or play on words. She just made you want to slowly sink into a fresh grave after hours of pre-season training.

Lastly was Coach Park who was seen less often in our training, but managed our tournament travel and lived in the bottom apartment in the boy’s dorm. He was way younger than the head coaches and a little easier to talk to, especially if the discussion involved any current pop culture references.

Thank you, coaches, Debs continued. We’ll have a smaller full-time class this year across all grades due to…unforeseen circumstances. Debs’ smile froze in place and she scanned the room, making sure each of us registered the things are going to be okay vibe pulsing behind her eyes. Meanwhile, we’re busy recruiting for our part-time, non-boarding program and camps. We also have plans in store for a bit of a shake-up.

To my horror, Debs held her hands up like she was holding castanets and mimed the shake, jewelry jangling and wind suit…wind-ing? Beside me, Nia made a nuh-uh sound only I could hear.

So, Debs went on. "Given our unforeseen circumstances, we at the Academy have been brainstorming how we can, let’s say, return to the public’s good graces. It turns out, we came across a wonderful opportunity." She clicked the remote to the TV at the front of the room.

The screen lit up, and familiar music played. A montage of prestigious-looking buildings and students in prep school uniforms appeared. Oh, right. This was from a reality show I’d seen in binges during recovery with my ankles iced up.

The Academy, the screen displayed in a fancy font. In a flash, a tennis ball graphic swooshed past the title, leaving a wash of yellow-green in its wake, followed by the word: Served.

Oh. My. God. Nia stared straight ahead at the screen.

What? I whispered to her. Oh—Ohhh.

Debs paused the TV. "If you haven’t guessed, we’ve been in talks with the reality TV series The Academy about featuring our very own Six Lakes for their upcoming season. They sent us this title promo just in time for our first General Session."

The boys who’d been slouched in their seats now sat at attention. The younger girls squealed and talked over one another.

Here? I said to Nia.

Her eyes lit up. They’ve already done a New York prep school and a London academy. Can you imagine? Us on TV?

For a national tennis match, sure. On a reality show? No, this could not be good. This meant more attention on the scandal. I’d be outed as a Maxwell immediately and probably accused of being an accessory to my uncle’s criminality.

Maisie, are you even listening? Nia swatted my knee. This is good. Quit thinking about your uncle.

Before I could reply, Debs cleared her throat. All right, settle down. Nothing has been confirmed yet. Of course, once we sign on, your parents will be notified through personal outreach. Nothing can go forward without their permission, and most importantly, from you. We’d love to know what you think. Her hands clasped together and the room fell silent. Right now. Let’s hear it.

This was where Debs’ smile seemed like a cover barely stretched over her cracking composure. That smile pasted over a whole host of Oh Craps she’d probably been dealing with this summer. The academy Facebook page had derailed into a constant trash fire of angry comments.

Isn’t this just a last ditch effort to save the place after Coach Maxwell stole our money? Caleb asked.

I sank lower in my seat.

Nia raised her hand. I think it’s a great idea. I’m guessing the buzz from the show will help our reputation. Maybe dig us out of debt?

Debs smile remained. Something like that. And how about your feelings about being on camera. Anyone? Won’t it be exciting to see yourselves on screen?

The younger students shot hands in the air and shouted responses. A returning sophomore asked whether the coverage would boost chances to rank in the junior tournaments. Right. Because the whole tennis tournament system would decide to cater to Z-list celebrities on a cable reality show. Was this show even on streaming?

The only reality TV I liked was the English baking show where everyone was nice to each other. Definitely not the cooking show where the British guy yelled at everybody. Though he made Killer Nelson seem like Light Stab-wound Nelson.

Debs clapped. "Alright, thank you for your candid responses. The good news is, we are very close to a deal. The producers have already scouted our school and have done pre-production work. She said pre-production like she was introducing us to advanced level vocabulary. It turns out, their planned filming location for the season fell through at the eleventh hour, so they’re quite desperate."

And, apparently, so were we.

I have a question, Gretchen, a returning senior, asked from the second row. I heard Shane Wagner is enrolling. Is it true?

Nia gasped beside me.

What am I missing? I asked her in a whisper.

He just ranked number one, Maisie.

The number one junior player? Who in their right mind would transfer to a last-ranked academy thick in the throes of scandal? Unless the TV show was more of a done deal than Debs let on.

I swung my attention back to Debs for her response. "I believe we’re in final talks with Shane’s coach. If he accepts, he’ll be one of our new top talent recruits. Not every tennis academy can boast they have a television series—pending television series. Six Lakes can put a future tennis star in front of millions."

We might become minor basic cable celebrities, but would it help me score a full-ride to college? That was my reason for being here. This whole reality show sounded like one giant distraction.

Debs and the coaches talked through the weekly schedule. We started with early morning trainings two days a week followed by classroom time, lunch, and a study session. Practice in the afternoon every day. On Friday nights, the school planned activities for us, unless we had a scheduled tournament. Then there were off-court training times and mandatory rest days.

Debs dismissed us to change clothes and meet the coaches on the courts. Day one was always the best because we skipped classroom time. I had to work harder off the courts than on.

The moment we were let loose, The Academy was the only point of discussion. It looked like our enrollment was down by almost half, with maybe twenty-five students in the assembly room. With under ten seniors, we were looking at the smallest graduating class since the school’s first two years in business.

Since Nia and I had dressed in practice clothes, we skipped the locker room and headed straight outside. I shouldered the glass doors open leading to the outdoor courts. A reality show? I mean, how desperate do they think we are?

Nia flipped down her sunglasses from her head. This could work out for us. Six Lakes needs money and a better reputation. It might help me go pro.

I let my annoyance show. You know that’s not the kind of fame you want. You need to rank in the Top 100. You need the U.S. Open, and you can only do that by training and winning matches, like you’ve been doing.

It’s one thing to be the top player at your last-ranked academy and winning Midwest tournaments. It’s another to be shown dominating the court on TV. I might get a bigger name coach to take me on.

I shielded my eyes from the glaring sun. I can’t help thinking how Coach Max would hate this. He was focused on the game, not on image.

Ironic, since he ran off with the school’s money.

Nia wasn’t wrong. I spent just as much mental energy fighting the truth of the whole situation as I did trying to figure out why he did it. Why he’d been so desperate for cash to resort to stealing from his students.

From us.We each chucked our bags in our familiar zones along the fence beside the benches. A wheeled wire basket full of clean tennis balls waited courtside.

I unsheathed my racket and headed for the ball basket.

Nia was already trotting to the other side. We’d been running drills and working extra hours training together since freshman year. Another reason we came dressed to play so we could get a few minutes on the courts to ourselves.

I fed a ball to Nia, who hit a forehand lob down the middle of the court. I returned with a backhand, my strength, and the ball careened left of her. She circled around and whacked the ball, sending it whizzing past me. I looked back as the ball hit within an inch of boundary.

You trying to kill me? I called over to her.

I’m just getting warmed up over here.

I sent another ball over. Nia delivered it wide. I lunged and made it. The ball soared past her to the baseline, just inside the white stripe of paint.

Dang it, girl! Nia turned toward me after watching the ball bounce out of reach.

We played back and forth a few more times before switching sides. Now the sun hit me head-on. I adjusted to the glare and focused on returning every ball Nia hit my way. When my head was in the game, everything else slipped aside. Obsessive thoughts over college scholarships took a seat while front row attention went to each forehand delivery. I was going to nail my forehand this year.

Hey, Maxwell! Way to skip out early. Can’t handle the criticism?

Stupid Caleb again. I ignored his comment and slammed a backhand return.

Nia returned mine. The jerk taunted with garbage about my uncle. Son of a— I put all my strength into my next forehand. The ball torpedoed over the net, not even bothering to bounce within the boundaries. Nope, that sucker was headed for the fences.

Ahh!

A figure in the distance went down, knees to the court. A crowd of students suddenly appeared, gasping and rushing over.

You hit him! someone shrieked.

I caught a flash of red splattered against the green court.

My breath lodged in my throat. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry! I jogged over, terrified to breathe until I knew my accidental victim was okay.

Caleb directed a dirty scowl at me. You really are the worst, Maxwell.

I angled to see the fallen student. I’m so sorry!

Oh, Maisie, Nia mumbled, now beside me.

I’m okay, the guy on the ground said, attempting to stand. His sun-bleached brown hair was unkempt and curling over a tanned white forehead. That perfectly shaggy look some guys could get away with. He wasn’t a returning student. The face turning toward me could easily belong on a clothing website, the kind with ninety-dollar T-shirts with holes in them for a distressed look. Basically, he was very attractive. A swath of blood streaked across that very attractive face.

That part was definitely my fault.

Sorry floated across my tongue, but my lips couldn’t form the word under the pressure of so many glaring classmates. Any hope of being an admired senior this year shriveled and burned like a tissue set aflame.

He accepted a clean towel and pressed it to his nose. I expected I might not be welcome here, but your forehand really confirmed it.

Way to go, Maxwell, Caleb said with a sneer. Is this any way to welcome Shane Wagner?

Oh. Wait, what? You’re … you’re—

Shane Wagner, the bloody-faced model boy said through the towel.

Shane Wagner. The Shane Wagner. I just nailed the face of the number one-seeded player in junior boys’ tennis.

Chapter 2

Chalk up day one as a total disaster.

After pelting Shane Wagner in the face, things pretty much slid further downhill. I hadn’t beaned anyone else with my forehand, so that was a win. But during practice, I missed shots. Easy ones. Caleb continued to remind me I’d sent the top junior-ranked player in the nation to the school nurse before he’d even dusted off his racket.

This was not how I’d envisioned senior year.

I couldn’t wait to get home. Home, as in the dormitory apartment I shared with Nia. I zipped up my gear in record time and split the second the coaches released us.

I don’t understand why Shane Wagner chose Six Lakes of all places, I said to Nia once we were out of earshot from everyone else. I thought Debs said they were still talking with his coach.

Nia snapped her gum as we left the fenced-off courts to the path leading to the on-site boarding residences. Maybe after today, he won’t come back.

Okay, I felt bad about that. Except, it was too fishy why someone with Shane’s ranking wouldn’t be at one of the elite facilities in Florida or the west coast.

He’s not here for the weather, that’s for sure, Nia said.

Michigan—my beloved home state—featured weather only a true Midwesterner could love. Hot and humid summers with sharp winters lingering into dreary, gray-clouded springs. None of that was really so bad, except when those weather trends happened in the span of a week. Most tennis academy brochures were stuffed with images of palm trees and outdoor pools. We practiced on outdoor courts until snow or rain forced us inside. Personally, I thought it all made us tougher players.

The path ended at the ancient apartment buildings that had been converted into residences for students. Each building was divided by gender, with staff apartments for supervision.

We trudged up the stairs to our second floor unit. Nia unlocked the door and slipped inside.

From behind us, remaining seniors Gretchen and Krista entered the hall and stopped at the door across from us. I’d known them both since freshman year. Gretchen, petite, with golden suntanned white skin and a lean build looked almost doll-like beside her roommate Krista, nearly a foot taller. Krista’s dark hair, paler skin, and wide shoulders set her apart from Gretchen even more.

Strange, isn’t it? Krista said to me as she fished out her own key. So many people gone this year.

I know, it’s weird. I chewed at my lip, waiting for the inevitable insult.

Beside her, Gretchen rolled her eyes. Come on, Krista. Hurry up. She grabbed the key and opened their door in a huff. She disappeared inside their apartment, an identical layout to ours.

Krista shot me an apologetic look. Her dark hair had a fading