The day was sweltering and so were you—who knew Connecticut could rage with heat like this in April? Tennis courts were unforgiving for their lack of shade; you were braving the sun because at Washburn Prep, only three things mattered: money, your surname, and your athletic ability. Sports were the peak of sophistication—to be on a team was a boost in status, to exceed was a distinct achievement, considering everyone around you had poured thousands of dollars into being superior to you.

After an intense rally where he narrowly won, Rhett Archer—the cold team captain who’d been on varsity since freshman year—approached the net and stuck out his hand. He must’ve seen talent from in you that couldn’t be bought. You were drawn to him. “Not bad for an underclassman,” he scoffed. “But your form needs work.”