The Tennis Balls

“What are you doing here, Maple?” I asked, pushing the heavy casita door open a few more inches.

The massive golden retriever let out a happy huff, her tail thumping a steady rhythm against the sun-warmed concrete. She dropped a soggy, dirt-covered tennis ball right onto the toes of my worn canvas sneakers.

She wasn't alone. Another identical retriever, River, trotted up to my left. To my right, a striking husky with piercing blue eyes named Storm flanked Maple like a furry bodyguard. My quaint front entrance suddenly felt terribly crowded with three giant, panting dogs occupying the small space.

I stared down at the sloshy tennis ball resting on my shoe, my chest tightening with conflict. Breaking the rules on my very first day was a terrible idea. Vaughn made his open hostility crystal clear yesterday afternoon. He preferred the company of these dogs over breathing the same air as me, and he wanted me gone.

I dropped to the damp grass, unable to resist running my hands through Maple’s soft fur.

“I really can’t play right now, guys,” I whispered, scratching behind her ears. “You saw how your grumpy hooman was with me, right? I might get fired on my first day if he catches us.”

Storm and River shoved their wet snouts into my sides, demanding the same affection I bestowed on Maple. I yielded, rubbing Storm's head and patting River's flank. Dogs were just better than people. Sometimes they offered more grace than humans ever could, and these three were quickly becoming my best buddies on this massive estate.

“Okay, here is the deal,” I murmured, keeping my voice low. “I promise to give you an extended playtime after I finish my chores. Sound good?”

Right on cue, a quiet ringing sound echoed from the direction of the main mansion. The three dogs froze. Their ears perked up, sensing the silent command. In a flash, they abandoned me, spinning around and bolting across the manicured lawn.

They ran straight toward the towering structure of the main house. Vaughn stood framed in the open double doors. He glared down at me, his dark, stormy eyes narrowed into lethal slits. He waited just long enough for the pack to slip inside before he gripped the heavy iron handles.

*Bang.*

He slammed the wooden doors shut. The thunderous echo rang across the quiet courtyard, shaking the morning dew from the nearby hedges.

I blew out a heavy breath, shaking off my new boss’s childish attitude. I went back inside the casita, poured myself a strong cup of coffee, and shot a quick text to my brother, Jonah. Then, I mapped out my strategy.

I spent my first day familiarizing myself with the sprawling layout of the estate. I avoided any sight of Vaughn, sticking to the shadows, the empty corridors, and the outdoor perimeters. I felt his presence everywhere, a heavy weight hanging over the property, but we never crossed paths.

While scouting the gardens, I ran into Vernon, the sweet older gardener. After a brief conversation about the rosebushes, Vernon let slip my boss's daily routine. Vaughn ran the perimeter of the property with the dogs every single morning at dawn.

Armed with this knowledge, I formulated a tactical plan. I would deep-clean the interior of the mansion only while he was physically outside. I was determined to make this impossible arrangement work. I needed this job far too much to fail.

I woke up well before dawn the next day, buzzing with fierce tenacity. I threw on my work clothes, ready to tackle the massive mansion and prove I belonged here.

But my jaw dropped the second I stepped out of the casita.

“You have got to be kidding me,” I breathed into the chilly dawn air.

The underwater lights of the pool illuminated a horrific sight. The pristine blue surface was choked with hundreds of floating, neon-green tennis balls. I remembered the pool being crystal clear yesterday afternoon. Now, it looked like a toxic bubble bath.

My fingernails bit hard into my palms. My fists clenched tight at my sides.

This was deliberate. This was an outright declaration of war.

Tennis balls didn’t just migrate into a swimming pool by the hundreds overnight. And the dogs didn't organize a mass dumping of their favorite toys. That towering, brooding bastard did this. If he thought a petty prank like this would break my spirit and make me quit, he was dead wrong.

I marched over to the maintenance shed and grabbed a long skimmer net.

It took an agonizing hour of freezing, soaking, back-breaking labor. The morning air was bitter, biting at my exposed arms and making my breath puff out in small white clouds. The water splashed over the concrete with every swipe of the long pole, soaking my sneakers and seeping into the bottom of my jeans until the heavy denim clung to my calves like ice. I leaned precariously over the edge, straining my aching shoulder muscles to fish out every bobbing sphere from the deep end. The wet balls were deceptively heavy in the net, slapping onto the pavement before I shoved them into thick canvas sacks. Every time I thought I had cleared a section, another dozen neon-green dots would float out from the shadows of the pool ladder, mocking my efforts.

By the time the last neon-green menace was out of the water, I was shivering. My skin was pale and wrinkled like wet paper. The icy water soaked me to the bone, making my teeth rattle in my skull. I sneezed, desperate for a dry change of clothes, but there was no time. The sun was already creeping over the horizon.

I dragged my exhausted body inside the climate-controlled mansion to begin my actual cleaning duties, only to freeze in my tracks.

The grand marble hallway was littered with hundreds more of the neon-green tennis balls. They dotted the sweeping mahogany stairs like some kind of twisted obstacle course. They clustered in the corners of the immaculate gourmet kitchen, wedged under the gleaming stainless-steel appliances and the island counter. I stared at the neon green dots scattered across the expensive Persian rugs in the living room. I was surprised he hadn't stuffed the oven and the refrigerator full of them just to be thorough. The sheer scale of the mess was baffling.

I wanted to grip my hair and pull it out by the roots.

"Keep your cool, Frey," I sighed to the empty room. I glanced at the ceiling corners, aware that he might be watching my breakdown through hidden security cameras. "Your boss is nothing but an overgrown man-child. Keep that in mind."

To endure the exasperating humiliation of the tedious task, I anchored my mind to the only things that mattered. I thought of Mom's peaceful breathing when she rested comfortably. I thought of Jonah's bright future. I pictured our rickety trailer haven. I reminded my aching muscles that this physical exhaustion was a tiny sacrifice for my family's survival. If picking up a thousand tennis balls kept Jonah in class, I would do it every single day.

I grabbed a fresh trash bag and got to work.

I crawled under side tables. I stretched behind plush velvet sofas. I climbed the grand staircase, snatching up every single orb. By the time I gathered all the scattered balls, hauling them outside to fill ten heavy canvas sacks stacked neatly by the edge of the pool, my lower back throbbed with a dull, persistent agony.

I stood over my conquered mountain, hands on my hips, chest heaving with exertion. I glared at the bags. Was this his diabolical plot to make me quit? Did the man even sleep?

My dark thoughts about Vaughn's psychotic mess were interrupted by a chorus of joyful barking.

Maple, Storm, and River barreled around the corner of the house toward me. They charged at full speed, stopping just short of knocking my exhausted body right onto the pavement.

“Where did you guys go?” I cooed, a genuine smile breaking through my fatigue. I knelt to pet them as they swarmed me with wet noses and wagging tails.

Directly behind the pack emerged Vaughn.

He stepped out from the trail leading behind the casita. His dark jogging clothes were soaked in fresh sweat. The morning sun caught the hard planes of his face, making his deeply tanned skin look like an immaculate artwork forged by the gods, slick and powerful.

I stopped my eyes from trailing down his muscular chest. I forced my gaze up, locking onto his face as his brooding, assessing gaze swept critically over my towering, perfectly organized sacks of tennis balls.

Not an ounce of surprise crossed his features.

I rose slowly to my feet, pasting a curt, plastic smile onto my lips. I crossed my arms over my damp shirt, refusing to show him how much my body ached.

“Good morning, sir,” I stated, my voice restrained.

He tipped his strong chin up, unfazed by my monumental effort to fix his mess. “Did you make breakfast?”

My jaw ticked.

This arrogant prick expected a hot, gourmet breakfast immediately after forcing me to clean up his estate-wide prank? He spent the night trashing his own mansion, went for a breezy morning jog, and now demanded a meal?

“I was waiting for you,” I lied, locking eyes with him. I refused to back down. “I didn’t know if you were allergic to anything. Wouldn’t want to accidentally kill you with the very first meal I make.”

Perhaps it was just a hallucination born of my exhaustion, but I could have sworn I saw the microscopic ghost of a smile flicker across his sharp lips. It was there for a fraction of a second before vanishing behind his usual stoic mask.

He took a step closer, towering over me. The scent of pine and sweat drifted in the morning breeze.

“I’m not allergic to a damn thing,” he said, his deep voice scraping over my frayed nerves. “Daphne told you that, so stop making pathetic excuses and do your job.”