Page 23 of Game Point (Game, Set, and Match #2)

Dylan

On Your Side – The Last Dinner Party

I was going home trophyless.

And to top it all off, I was three days into my retirement from professional tennis.

I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry as I slid into the business-class seat.

The bittersweet of getting to go home, the pain of all I’d put myself through still evident in my chest, the fractured ribs still a painful reminder.

Sitting as comfortably as I could, I scrolled through the texts I’d sent to Oliver. All still unanswered.

DYLAN

I’m heading back home the day after tomorrow, if you’d like to talk?

I’m sorry. Please, let me apologize in person.

I know I fucked up.

At least let me get you that round of drinks.

I couldn’t blame him for ignoring me. Not after how I’d treated him. I’d been blinded by my desperation for the win, convinced I was a match away from victory, but in reality, I was much further away than I’d been willing to admit.

Closing my eyes, I rested my head back on the comfortable headrest. The sooner the plane took off, the sooner I could try to let everything go.

With home on the other side of this flight, I knew once I was there, I could start to put myself back together, figure out how the puzzle pieces of my life fitted together without tennis.

I had no idea what was coming next, having never been still for longer than a few weeks. But I knew it would be less painful than continuing. I felt like I’d been banging my head against a wall for years, and now, the concussion was too much.

‘Is this seat free?’ a voice asked from the aisle.

‘Yeah, it’s 4D if that’s what you’re …’ I trailed off, peering up as my brain took a moment to translate exactly what I was seeing. A familiar stupid grin was wide across his handsome face as Oliver slid into the empty seat next to me.

‘What the fuck are you doing here?’ A few passengers turned at my words, but I ignored them completely, struggling to take in the sight of him above me.

‘ What the fuck are you doing here? ’ I hissed, much quieter this time.

He shrugged, the grin only growing wider. The delight was clear across his face. ‘I have a bet to win.’ He raised his arm, a teal velvet bag on the other end.

I looked between him and the bag, blinking as I tried to catch up. I still wasn’t sure this wasn’t a hallucination.

‘Did you bring your US Open trophy in your hand luggage? Did you take it all the way to China?’

‘Dylan, I know you’ve never won a slam so you might be unaware.’ He slipped out of his seat, moving his muscular body around the other passengers. ‘But trophies are much safer in hand luggage.’

He reached up, placing the bag in the overhead locker. The entire time, my brain buzzed the same words over and over.

THERE’S A FUCKING US OPEN TROPHY IN THE OVERHEAD LOCKER.

‘Okay, first of all, that was unnecessary.’ I scowled at him, scooting forward in my seat as I moved closer. ‘Second, what are you doing here?’

‘I’m here for you,’ he answered, as if it was so simple.

I rolled my eyes at him. ‘Well, I didn’t think you were here to see anyone else.’

‘Champagne?’ an attendant appeared next to Oliver, holding two flutes of golden liquid.

I raised a hand to decline, too busy trying to decipher Oliver’s half-answer replies, but Oliver cut me off before I could say anything. ‘Yes, two please.’

‘Jesus,’ I muttered, shaking my head. The attendant spared me a strange glance but held the glasses out to him anyway.

Oliver took one and handed it to me, an innocent expression on his face as he ignored my accusatory scowl. When he turned back to the attendant, taking the second glass, he said, ‘Thank you. We are celebrating.’

The attendant sent him a pleasant look. ‘Any specific occasion taking you to Australia?’

‘Training,’ he simply replied. Oliver faced me again, his hand stretched out as if to clink our flutes together.

I momentarily considered it, pausing as my brows pressed together. ‘I don’t know if you’ve heard the news, but I’ve retired.’

‘Oh, come on.’ He rolled his eyes, his glass raised as he took a sip. ‘One post on Instagram you probably made from your hospital bed high on pain medication does not make you retired.’

‘That’s not what happened.’ Around us, the plane started to taxi. ‘And it counts.’

Oliver scoffed. ‘You, Dylan Bailey, are not retired.’

‘And why not?’ I asked, washing away my annoyance with the champagne. It had been hard enough to write the post, let alone defend the validity of it.

‘Because I know you aren’t done.’

I wanted to tell him how wrong he was. That this was the end, and while it was bitter, it was still very sweet.

I was going home, to my family. Back where I belonged.

Somewhere I could lick my wounds and dig my feet into the sand and feel the sea breeze on my face.

Stop for longer than only a few weeks and just … breathe.

The plane rotated on the runway. I adjusted in my seat before changing the subject. ‘How on earth did you manage to book the exact seat next to me?’

He laughed. ‘Honestly, this airline made it appallingly easy to book the chair next to you. One mention at the desk about how I wanted to surprise my girlfriend –’

‘ Girlfriend ?’ I sputtered, nearly spitting my mouthful of champagne into the chair in front. He looked rather pleased with himself as he waved a hand.

‘It was only an excuse. Don’t get ahead of yourself, Bailey.

’ He winked at me, and for a second, I had to remind myself that Oliver was not flirting.

That he was unavailable and entirely uninterested.

No matter how easy it would be to read into his actions and come up with a more complex answer, we were only friends.

‘They recognized me, because, how could anyone forget this handsome face.’ He placed a hand under his chin, framing his face as if he was a model.

I could only roll my eyes. ‘And then one small lie about a romantic surprise proposal on the Gold Coast, and a lot of money, and I had a business-class ticket sitting right next to you.’

I motioned to our surroundings, keeping my gaze trained on him. ‘You know this is a twelve-hour flight?’

‘I have flown down under before,’ he forced a terrible accent.

I rolled my eyes. ‘I’m sure I can convince my friends at border control to turn you away for that travesty of an accent.’

‘You can try,’ Oliver teased, smiling again. ‘But we are still going to spend the entire time planning out the next three months.’

‘Three months?’

Oliver nodded once. ‘That will get you to Melbourne.’

He was planning for the Australian Open.

My heart fell straight into my stomach, a wave of nausea overcoming me at the very idea of standing in that stadium and losing again .

My reluctance must have been clear on my face because Oliver inched closer, the proximity of his body to mine only heightening my panic.

‘Come on, your home slam! I know what that means to you, what it means for any of us. To win there …’ He trailed off, and I knew he was reliving his own Wimbledon, only months ago.

Despite everything, he was right. The home slam is something entirely different.

The crowd is louder, the atmosphere is electric.

Your entire country has your back for two full weeks and the support is enough to carry you through the first few rounds alone.

The further you get, the crazier the competition becomes.

But the higher the reward, the harder the fall. A fall I’d survived before, but could I really survive another?

‘Oliver …’ I trailed off, pulling my bottom lip in between my teeth. I couldn’t even bear to look at him, his eyes full of an overwhelming hope. ‘I can’t.’

‘You can,’ he pressed, as the seatbelt alarm went off a final time, the plane prepared and in position for take-off. ‘We’ve got a good couple of months to make sure you do.’

‘I’m tired,’ I whined, hoping he would understand and accept what I was telling him already. I felt awful as the plane took off. This was why he was here, why he had trapped himself on this insane flight, for me.

The plane levelled, a second buzz of the seatbelt sign reminding us not to get out of our seats just yet. I made the grave mistake of looking back over at Oliver, who instantly re-started his pitch.

‘We will do it right,’ he said. ‘Together. We can schedule rest time; it won’t be intensive.’

I closed my eyes, trying not to grow frustrated with him. ‘It’s training for a Grand Slam. Of course it’s intensive. I’m exhausted. I’m done. Finished.’ I tried my best to keep my voice low. ‘I can’t do it anymore.’

He grinned, still undeterred. ‘This is why I thought I’d trap you on a flight with me. Plenty of time to convince you otherwise.’

I gripped the armrest in annoyance, wishing this could be over. ‘Is it too late to turn back and kick you off this flight?’

‘Yes,’ Oliver laughed. ‘There’s absolutely no going back now.’

‘Damn,’ I swore, letting out a slow, heavy sigh, the pain in my ribcage still reminding me of my injury.

I looked over Oliver’s clothing, a light, blue linen shirt and a pair of long shorts, a pair of trainers on his feet that were tucked under the seat in front of him.

He wasn’t exactly dressed for a very long flight, not compared to my comfy clothing.

‘How long have you been planning this?’ I pointed a finger, indicating around the plane.

He hummed. ‘Since last night.’

‘That last minute?’

‘After the final, I was so angry at you. I thought about leaving, catching the first flight back home but …’ he paused.

‘Honestly, after leaving England, I wasn’t sure where that was anymore.

If I had one.’ Oliver looked to me. ‘So, I stayed, kept working with Jon. I tried drinking with Nico and Scottie. But the pair of them together are very annoying.’

It was still true. I’d spent enough time with the two of them to know how sickening they were together. Sickening, very cute and deeply in love. Gross.