Page 11 of Game Point (Game, Set, and Match #2)

Dylan

The News – Paramore

I didn’t know which maniac had scheduled me in for an interview and photoshoot in the middle of a training camp, but I had their number.

Slumping down into the make-up chair, I stared back at my reflection.

Fake lashes, make-up, my brown hair curled.

I looked like a Barbie doll a toddler had taken a crayon to.

I shouldn’t be here, locked away for an entire morning shooting a cover for a magazine nobody would care about. I needed to be out on the court, practising, running drills, getting ready for the China Open.

‘If you can wrap the interview up in less than thirty minutes, I can schedule some more court time for us to go through your inside-out forehand again.’ Brooke appeared, sitting down on one of the chairs next to me, her phone in hand as she furiously typed away.

Tiredness ached my body at the idea of following up this circus parade with more practice.

She’d been running me hard. The practice relentless.

And then there were my late-night sessions when sleep didn’t come because I was still trying to perfect the movement she had been torturing me all day with.

‘I’ve got some drills for us to go through and we can sort the bad habits you’ve picked up. You’ve gotten sloppy over the years with your technique,’ Brooke muttered. I squeezed down my retort, reminding myself how hard I’d begged her to work with me again.

Rage boiled up inside me at her words. Instead, I re-focused on the mirror, grabbing the wipes available and furiously removing the make-up from my face, pressing hard against my skin to scrub the mask away.

‘Dylan?’ I turned to find a smiling assistant standing in the doorway. ‘We are ready for the interview if you are.’

Brooke looked up at me, her expression stern. ‘Don’t say anything stupid.’

I could barely contain my eyeroll. ‘Thanks for the reminder.’

The hallway was busy with members of production moving around the equipment from the photoshoot, some of them side-eying me as if they were remembering all the times I had beaten their favourite player on court.

‘You’ll be through here.’ The assistant guided me to a small room, a large glass window revealing the city around us, two sofas sitting opposite each other.

As the door clicked closed behind me, the room’s white walls began to press in on me and my heart began to pound harder in my chest. I felt trapped.

I hated talking to journalists; the way they could take your words and twist them. I sounded enough of a bitch in context; imagine how much worse it was out.

Fame wasn’t why I played. Sometimes, it was like a surprise tax on following a public-facing career.

‘Hi, Dylan,’ another voice flooded the room. I turned to find Rachel Kenrick walking across towards me. I should’ve left when I had the chance . She continued, ‘It’s great to sit down with you. I’m glad the magazine put us together.’

If the devil walked the earth, it wore the skin suit of Rachel Kenrick, sports gossip columnist for the Daily Tea . She’d risen to power in the last few months, out of the burnt wreckage that had been the previous administration of the so-called ‘news outlet’.

They’d chased down celebrities for decades, always digging up some hot scoop paired with a scandalous and blurry photo to go alongside their eye-catching headline.

But when they’d been found to be in the pocket of some shady characters, the kick back from the public had been glorious and well deserved.

But like most things, the changes were cosmetic.

Out with the old administration, in with those they’d been teaching to follow in their footsteps.

Like the infamous Hydra, if you cut one head off the Daily Tea , three more appeared.

And one of those ugly heads was named Rachel Kenrick.

‘I thought it was someone else doing the interview.’ I sounded dumb, still wondering why Rachel of all people was here.

‘They’re sick and I was asked to step in.’ Her hand reached out towards me. I stared at it, wondering if touching the skin of Satan would leave me with third degree burns. ‘I’m sure it’s all the same questions.’

‘Sure.’ I said the words cautiously, as if even saying a single phrase out of step would land me in hot water.

Don’t say anything stupid , Brooke’s words echoed around my mind. She couldn’t have known … right?

‘Amazing.’ Rachel gestured towards the sofas, perching herself on one.

I made my way over, trying to find a way to relax.

I fidgeted, crossing and uncrossing my legs, only settling when I made eye contact with Rachel across from me, her beady eyes assessing.

She leaned forward, placing her phone on the table between us.

‘Well, congratulations on your run in New York.’ She kept her eyes trained on me. I swallowed, trying to push away my nerves.

‘It was great to be back playing.’

‘It must be,’ she agreed, ‘And then that final? Watching your racket break.’ She made a face, a twisted look of defeat. ‘How did you feel about your playing in that match?’

I searched for the right words to form into an answer. I only managed to come up with three. ‘It was unfortunate.’

‘For it to end so dramatically, and in two sets.’

‘Like I said, unfortunate.’

‘Your confidence must’ve taken a blow?’ What did she want from me? A dissection of my performance? A turn-by-turn analysis? Just be a good girl and answer the damn question.

I pushed down my frustration, smoothing it out like I try to do when things aren’t going my way during a match. This was no different, Rachel was my opponent, and this was the battle for the first set. Except I had no weapon, there was no racket in my hand. I felt defenceless without it.

‘I’ve been concentrating on my game play,’ I replied. ‘I’ve been working with a brand-new team to figure out what’s going on during my matches.’

Rachel nodded, her body shifting backwards. ‘Yes, you’re back with your old coach, Brooke. How is that going?’

I tried to fight the urge to say the words through gritted teeth. ‘It’s going great. It’s good to reunite with an old face. And we’ve been working to bring a new team together, based on my weakness on court.’

‘ A very expensive team ’ I didn’t add, but if Brooke thought they were necessary, we hired them.

‘There were rumours around that you didn’t have the best of partings.’ Rachel didn’t miss a beat, all but bringing up the paperweight incident. I knew I’d live to regret that, no matter how good it had felt in the moment.

‘Things can get heated, but that doesn’t mean you can’t behave like professionals. Everyone is doing what they think is right for them. Me and Brooke had worked together for a long time, it had felt like it was a good moment to go our own ways.’

Rachel looked happier now she was getting more of an answer from me, her crooked smile relaxing with thought. Every word circled through my head twice before I actually let myself say it, double thinking and anxiously trying to read all the ways they could possibly twist my words.

‘What brought you back together?’ she asked.

I repeated back everything I’d been told, by Imogen, by Brooke, when we sat down to ‘discuss’ my training plan. ‘I think there’s a need to go back to basics. Since Brooke was the one that taught me everything I knew, she felt like the right person to do that with.’

I understood the logic, it made sense and we’d tried everything else. I didn’t have any better ideas.

‘Looking ahead, the China Open,’ Rachel reflected, ‘What is your goal?’

I couldn’t help but scoff. ‘Winning would be nice.’

I almost cringed at the automatic response, but what else was I supposed to say? Oh, taking part is all the reward I need. No. Fuck that. I wanted to win.

‘Of course.’ She took a moment, taking aim, and then without restraint, she launched her first missile. ‘But what is your response to those who say you’ve had plenty of chances at the top? That you’ve yet to fulfil the potential you showed when you first arrived on the scene?’

‘Well, I don’t think there’s a limit to the number of finals somebody can get to. That would be stupid.’ I was dumb enough to let my first reaction escape me without any second thought. I pulled myself together enough to add, ‘And my track record is still impressive.’

‘You do have an impressive track record.’ Rachel’s smirk returned, clearly enjoying getting under my skin. ‘A world record for women’s tennis, actually. How do you feel about that?’

I pushed back, uncertain. It almost felt like a trick. Nobody had mentioned a record before. My eyes narrowed as I dared to ask, ‘What record?’

‘The record for the most grand-slam finals achieved, without being able to claim that top prize.’ Rachel said the words as if it was all a matter of fact, all totally reasonable. As if I should know.

This was my legacy? Losing. My entire life’s work boiled down to being the biggest loser in women’s tennis.

I counted over and over in my mind, recalling every painful loss, each scene still living in my head with perfect clarity.

The wins, they all blurred together. They mattered at the time, but they burned bright and fast and then it was on to the next match, the next competition.

But the losses, they stuck out like a painful blotchy bruise, changing colour and intensity with time, still hurting weeks after the initial injury.

The room around me grew tighter, the air hotter.

‘W-what was the question?’ I mumbled, my mind still rolling through the rest of her words.

Rachel’s lips pursed, as if I was putting her out by getting her to repeat her question. ‘With your goal to win at a Grand Slam, how does the knowledge of having the most runner-up positions in women’s tennis affect that? Does it change your goal?’

There was a vacuum of thought, a low hum playing like background music in my brain, replacing tangible words.

I’d been asked similar questions before.

How do you recover from this disappointing loss?

What steps will you be taking in order to ensure victory next time you play?

I always had an answer, a new strategy or point of training.

I’d gone through coach after coach, all with their own theories until I’d burned through enough that I’d learned I knew my body better than anyone else.

I’d learned, revised and practised. I hit the gym seven days a week and lived life as half a person without caffeine. I’d dedicated myself to playing, because losing wasn’t supposed to be an option. Losing, like quitting, was a weakness and there was none of that to be found in me.

Except apparently the only thing I was good at was losing.

‘Dylan?’ Rachel repeated, pulling me back into the room, the silence cutting. It was all too much.

‘I’m sorry,’ I said, pushing up from my seat.

‘I need to go to the bathroom.’ I headed straight for the door.

I didn’t dare to look back at her as I stormed out, almost running into one of those reflective light towers, the technician having to dodge me.

I could barely apologize, turning and running down the corridor as rage began to burn me up inside.

The need to kick things. Throw things. Act like a child and scream as loud as I could until my lungs and throat burned. In my desperation to be alone, I hauled open the first door my hand could find and plunged myself into darkness.