Page 22 of Game Point (Game, Set, and Match #2)

Dylan

Down Bad – Taylor Swift

I stared down at the unanswered messages to Oliver, guilt for everything I’d said to him a heavy anchor on my heart.

Overwhelmed, I instead focused on my drink, lifting the glass up and taking a long, savouring sip.

The bar was busy, full of people who thankfully hadn’t noticed my presence.

I kept my head down, trying to hide, and let myself sit in my sadness.

It had been a few days since I’d gotten out of hospital.

They had diagnosed me with exhaustion along with the injury, a realization that had left me laughing, and then rolling in pain.

They had looked at me strangely, as if I didn’t already know I had been running on empty for months.

Like I hadn’t reached back-to-back finals and picked up my racket the very next day for practice.

‘Hey, are you Dylan Bailey?’ I looked up to find a man, barely able to stand. Looks like somebody had one too many. I didn’t say anything as he slid a napkin across the table towards me, a pen in his other hand. ‘Can I get your autograph? My daughter’s a big fan.’

‘Sure,’ I muttered, just trying to get this over with. Hanging about in bars was never a good idea. There were always one or two fans.

‘Pity about the final,’ he said, as I signed my name. ‘You know, you keep talking about injuries, but from where I’m standing, it just looks like you can’t handle the competition anymore.’

I stared up at him, blinking as I tried to figure out who this stranger thought he was, giving me advice. I’d like to see him with a tennis ball flying at him at 110mph, but then the pain in my own ribs reminded me that I wasn’t exactly in the position to be challenging anymore.

Maybe he was fucking right.

A group of men at the other side of the bar yelled as he returned to them, waving the napkin like it was some kind of prize. My attention turned back to my glass of white wine, downing the rest of the liquid so I could get the hell out of there.

Against the table, my phone buzzed. My heart squeezed tightly in my chest at the noise, visions of Oliver on the other end.

The tightness loosened at the sight of the screen, but I’d already pushed away one friend, who was I to decline another.

‘Hi,’ I answered, homesickness doubling as I answered the FaceTime call, her blonde-framed face taking up the screen.

Avery laughed. ‘Wow, you look miserable.’

‘Thanks,’ I replied plainly, trying to remember how she’d always been a little sharp, a little too truthful. That’s what you wanted in a friend, right?

‘Well, I’m sorry you lost but I’m always honest with my best friend,’ she said.

‘I know, I know. I’m sorry,’ I apologized. ‘How are you?’

She took a sip of her wine, placing the glass off screen as she shrugged. ‘I’m fine. I just wanted to catch up, see how you were doing?’

‘I’m okay.’ I lied. The less I spoke about it , the better.

‘It was a rough match,’ Avery consoled. Despite the years that had passed since I’d seen her on a court, Avery still carried herself with the confidence of a seasoned player, her posture straight as she sat up.

‘You can say that again.’

‘You’ll bounce back,’ she insisted, her voice lacking its usual bite. ‘You always do.’

I tried to force a smile, but my heart still sank at her dismissiveness. I’d have thought that if anyone could understand this feeling, it would be Avery. I wanted to believe her. But after everything, her words rang more hollow than normal. Like empty promises in the face of crushing defeat.

‘I hope so,’ I said quietly. ‘But sometimes it feels like I’m fighting a losing battle.’

Avery let out a scoff. ‘Oh, come on, Dylan. You’re better than this. You need to get back out there and work harder.’

I bit my lip, washing Avery’s simplistic advice away with the last of my wine.

If only it were that easy. Why was that everyone’s advice?

Work harder. Keep going. Fix your serve, or your backhand, or stick to the baseline when there was nothing wrong with the way I played. It was me that was the problem.

‘Seriously? You should be grateful for this,’ Avery reminded, her voice changing. ‘Do you know what I would do for second place? To play at this level?’

Embarrassment ate away at me with her words. Of course, she was right.

I still remembered getting the call while I was out on tour.

She’d been in an accident, her leg injured from the crash.

They weren’t sure if she would ever play tennis again.

She was in rehab for months, we used to joke she was rebuilt stronger than I was and how badly she was going to beat me next time on court.

All the while, I kept in close contact, trying to keep up to date with her progress, convincing my coach to give Avery some attention, to consider taking her pro too.

In the end, she’d never recovered enough to return to the court.

‘Yeah, you’re right,’ I said, a lump in my throat. ‘I know. I’m sorry.’

‘Sorry? That’s all you have to say?’ Avery’s voice was tight, almost brittle. ‘Do you even understand how lucky you are? How much I would give just to stand on that court again?’

My eyes tried to blink away stinging tears. ‘Avery, I –’

‘No, Dylan,’ she interrupted sharply. ‘You don’t get it. You’ve got everything I lost, and you’re just going to throw it away because you didn’t win one match?’

‘It’s not just the one,’ I protested. ‘It’s every match. I can’t keep going like this, feeling like I’m failing every single time I step out there.’

‘When are you going to stop whining? You think you’re failing because you’re not winning everything? That’s not failure, Dylan. That’s life. You keep fighting, you keep pushing. That’s what we do.’

‘But what if I can’t keep pushing?’ I asked the question I’d been avoiding for months, desperately trying to outrun the answer.

‘Then maybe you need to accept that you just don’t have it in you.’

Maybe her words were supposed to spark that fire of fight in me again. The fire that had been relit over and over. But now, the once-raging bonfire felt like nothing but smoking ash. There was no more fuel. No more fight. I was done. Exhausted. Homesick. Lonely. Pained. Empty.

‘What are you going to do?’ She almost laughed as she said the word: ‘Quit?’

‘Maybe,’ I said, the idea sounding better with every second that passed. What if I was just delaying the inevitable. Brooke had quit. Imogen hadn’t even called. I’d driven Oliver away. What was I still fighting for? A trophy.

Oliver had said it best himself, ‘ It’s just a piece of silverware. ’

‘Don’t be ridiculous, Dylan,’ Avery began to rant. ‘With all the work you’ve put in? What is everyone going to say? You are really going to let them call you a quitter? Come home, tell everyone you threw away your potential? After all this time –’

‘Avery. I can’t talk right now.’ I cut her off, not needing to hear any more from her. I ended the call without any further warning.

I sat there, staring at my phone for a long moment. Finally, for the first time, feeling as if I knew exactly what I needed. After voicing the feeling, the thought of quitting, of walking away from everything I’d worked so hard for, felt like a weight lifting off my shoulders.

Maybe they’d call me a quitter. But so be it. I was done burning myself out for nothing. Done working with coaches that didn’t care about me, only results, and living with a homesickness so severe I felt the ache down into my bones.

I wanted the beach, and the freshly ground coffee only Melbourne seemed to get right. I wanted my family, my hometown, the heat of the baking sun. Being quick to act, I typed out a quick, simple message, not even allowing my finger to linger over the send button.

It was time to take control of my life, to stop living in the shadow of what I thought I should be and start living for myself.

Stop pretending I ever stood a chance.