Page 21 of Game Point (Game, Set, and Match #2)

Dylan

Smile – Wolf Alice

Bailey vs Murphy

Final – Diamond Court

It was the final set. Chloe’s serve.

Only a few months ago, she was defeated in the first round of Wimbledon by Scottie Sinclair.

At the US Open, she made it to the semis.

Now, here she was in the final. I rewatched her match against Scottie last night.

She’d played with a good arm, but lazy footwork.

That performance that was leagues apart from how she had been in this competition.

Today, she was fighting back, unafraid to move forward from the baseline, constantly challenging me with a strong backhand. Today, she was a formidable opponent that left me thinking, what the fuck had happened to this girl in less than two months?

She served, the ball landing perfectly in the box, and I pulled my body into position, returning into open court. We rallied, her matching my intensity with no problem.

She’d taken me by surprise in the first set. I’d been dumb and had underestimated her. Chloe had been average at the start of the tournament, catching lucky breaks to make it to the quarter finals. It was there she showed a bit of resolve, a bite on the court.

And now she was in full swing, matching me blow for blow.

I’d fought back in the second set, fighting back for control of the match. And while I’d been successful, my body had punished me for it.

The crash had left me bruised, blotchy brown and purple marks already forming on my chest where the seat belt had cut in. No doubt it had saved me from further serious injury, but when I breathed too deeply, there was a sharp pain against my ribcage I knew meant business.

As I ran at full speed across the court, spiking the ball over the net to win the first point, the sharp jab in my chest begged the question. Maybe Oliver had been right.

0–15

I’d convinced myself that fifty per cent of the pain I was feeling was because of his words. The ultimatum he’d issued before I’d kicked him out. I didn’t need him. Didn’t need anyone around me who was going to try and stop me from winning. This pain was manageable.

So manageable, I’d walked away from a car crash.

So manageable, it only hurt when I breathed.

Chloe served again, but this time the ball was fast, somehow catching me unaware.

I hit back, but she was the one to score the point.

She didn’t crack a smile when she won. Not even when she did the same thing, over and over, using her speed to her advantage and my pain to my disadvantage.

Before I knew it, the score was in her favour.

40–15

I wasn’t about to let this point go. Convinced I could fight back. I had to win this point.

She served, and it took all my strength to meet her intensity, the burn-out from the second round hitting hard.

The pain intensified as I sliced to return the ball.

My aim was off, the pain growing every time I swung.

The crowd gasped as I broke the rally with a drop shot, and I expected the point to be mine.

But Chloe was fucking faster. She saw the shot coming a mile away and she sprinted like hell, hitting it over the net.

I was too tired to even run to return. I watched, unable to move.

I knew I had to work harder somehow. We were allowed a quick break, and I could barely make my way to my bench without wincing.

The seconds ticked away fast, and I was still trying to figure out my strategy for the next point when time was up and it was my serve.

Every moment of the serve hurt like hell. The stretch up, throwing the ball, swinging my racket forward to meet the ball. It all intensified the pain, blacking out all other thoughts. If I had managed to think of any strategy at all, it was pushed from my mind.

The ball was called out. Swearing under my breath, I caught another ball, bouncing it against the hard-court surface. My hand shook as I served. Pain seared with the movement, but thankfully this serve was in, and Chloe leaped into action.

She won the point again.

0–15

And then again.

0–30

Until finally.

0–2

She was confident and cocky, twirling her racket, running around the court like she owned it because honestly … she did. This might not have been a Grand Slam but it was a huge tournament, and she’d reached the final and worse yet, she was winning.

I had years of experience stacked against her, and still she was beating me like I was a fucking amateur. Two more sets went her way, and I had given up.

I was fighting against a rising tide, against a tsunami.

My body was a useless thing, trained to run hard and swing and suppress everything else.

Losing again was not acceptable. Not with everything on the line.

Not when I’d done everything Brooke had asked of me.

And not when I’d pushed Oliver away for this.

I’d done all I could, and it hadn’t been enough.

We came down to the final point. For the first time in my life, I wanted to sob openly in court. Wanted to fall to my knees and cry for all my wasted time and effort.

I was done. I was fucking done.

And when the umpire called ‘Game, set and match,’ my legs lost whatever strength they had left and I fell to the court, the entire world going black around me.

DYLAN

You were right.

I’m really sorry

Can I call?