Page 24 of Game Point (Game, Set, and Match #2)

Oliver continued, ‘And apparently, they are also terrible influences because it was them that brought up getting on the same plane as you and annoying you for the entire incredibly long flight. A plan that is going excellently, apparently.’

The brightness of his brilliant smile dimmed. ‘When I woke up, I wasn’t angry anymore. The storm had passed.’ He fell silent, the lump in his throat bobbing as he swallowed. ‘But something told me I wasn’t done yet. Not with you. I thought we could come up with a plan.’

I inhaled at the idea, the physical and emotional pain matching as I tucked his words away, somewhere deep where the idea of them couldn’t hurt me anymore. Instead, I dug up something else I’d been saving until I was able to see him in person.

‘I’m sorry,’ I apologized, ‘for everything I said.’

‘Or didn’t say,’ he added.

‘Are you the one making this apology or is it me?’

‘You might need to work on your delivery,’ Oliver teased.

I sighed, ignoring the stab in my ribs. I wanted to get this right, despite his need to interrupt me. ‘I’m sorry. For not listening. I regret it more than I can say.’

He paused, thinking through his response. ‘Thank you. I’m sorry for the ultimatum.’

‘It’s fine –’

‘No,’ he cut me off. ‘I had no right to demand that of you. It wasn’t fair or appropriate. It wasn’t what a friend was supposed to say or do.’

As much as I didn’t agree he needed to apologize, the words felt good to hear, like the argument was being fully forgiven. No more bad blood between us.

‘You had tried everything else,’ I reasoned, ‘I understand. Now. But in the moment, I didn’t give a fuck.’

He flashed me a knowing grin. ‘I noticed. How long is the recovery?’

‘I need a couple weeks to rest,’ I said, reciting what I had been told multiple times by the doctor. ‘Then gradually increase movement until it doesn’t hurt.’

He laughed. ‘Dylan Bailey resting? I’ll have to see it to believe it.’

I could only shrug. ‘Hey – doctor’s orders.’

I’d struggled with the idea at first, itching even in my hospital bed as I waited for an x-ray to confirm the injury. I felt like I was in hell when I first woke up, finally feeling the full extent of my injury after the adrenaline had subsided.

‘If a doctor had ordered you not to play in that final, would you have listened?’ he asked.

I hummed, pretending to even think about my answer.

‘No. But I know I need this.’ I tapped nervously against my thigh, trying to get my words right.

‘That’s why I retired. I … I can’t do this to my body anymore.

I’m tired, Oliver. I’m sick of having hope and being crushed every time.

It’s not like I can blame anyone else. It’s on me. ’

His eyes searched mine. I wasn’t sure if he’d found what he was looking for when he sat back in his chair. ‘I understand. If you say you’re done, then you’re done.’

I tried my best to look away, to not linger on the curve of his neck, the line of his jaw. Damn the English and their obsession with producing the sharpest cheekbones I’ve ever seen in my life. I sat back in my chair, my hand lingering on the armrest, tapping rhythmically.

I was done. Right? I was tired and exhausted and calling it. Cause of death: the China Open.

I was used to him being hundreds of miles away, only reachable by phone, a friendship built on text messages and phone calls and one silly little bet. But as I reached out, my hand finding his, the sparks I felt with the touch were anything but friendship.

‘I appreciate you hearing me,’ I said, my head dipping to try and meet his gaze, the longer strands of his hair falling into his face. ‘When we met, you saw how close I was to quitting. Before anyone else, including myself, had realized. It’s kind of weird when you think about it.’

‘I’m the Dylan whisperer.’

I was forced to suffocate a laugh. ‘You’ve looked out for me these past weeks. And I’ll be forever thankful for that friendship.’

‘But this is what you need?’

‘I’ve been homesick for longer than I can remember. It feels a little strange knowing I’ll get to stay in any one place for more than a couple of weeks.’

‘That sounds nice. Standing still for a while.’ His tone plucked at my attention, the longing almost matching my own.

I pushed the puzzle pieces together, our conversations on what comes next, if I’d ever thought about my career after tennis.

Maybe I wasn’t the only one here who needed something different.

Maybe that’s what had drawn us together in the first place.

‘You could stay with me,’ I suggested. ‘I have a place in Melbourne. I’ve only ever stayed there for a few weeks at a time, my sister upkeeps it for me, but it’s comfortable.’

I cringed at the thought of the close quarters, thinking of how awkward that might get. But we were both adults. In my youth, I’d roomed with other tennis girls with little complaint. I’m sure this wouldn’t be that much different.

Oliver’s smile pushed wide. ‘I mean, I assumed as much. I didn’t have time to book a hotel.’

I laughed, unable to keep the volume under control as I shook my head at him. Good thing it wasn’t only one bedroom, or he’d be crashing on the couch.

‘How long is your visa for?’ I asked, hoping he’d at least sorted that out before boarding; otherwise, things were going to get real dicey on the other end of this flight.

I wasn’t sure if he’d even been able to catch an episode of Border Security: Australia’s Front Line , but if you had a suitcase full of seeds or hadn’t sorted out the right visa, you were about to be in a lot of trouble. And possibly on daytime TV.

‘It’s valid for a year,’ he said. He’d be used to the visa process, given he’d been multiple times for the competition.

‘Planning on staying for a while, huh?’

‘Only as long as it takes for you to realize you miss playing.’

‘That might take longer than a year, mate.’

He sighed, his attention leaving me. It felt like the sun had disappeared behind clouds, his spotlight had been so warm. Then it returned, the relief of it overwhelming as he declared, ‘I give you two weeks.’

I was weak to the smile that broke out across my face, unable to fight it.

He was the only person that could make me feel like this, give me that buzz of electricity, make me feel like my old self again.

It had been hard enough with him on the other side of the phone, of the world … and now he’d be staying with me?

How long could I pretend?

My eyes narrowed playfully. ‘That sounds like a new bet.’

‘Well, seeing as you claim to be retired,’ he said. I softly jabbed my elbow into his side. ‘I’ve won the last one. If you change your mind, let me train you.’

I cut him off. ‘Who said anything about you training me?’

‘I did. Just now,’ he sounded very pleased with himself. ‘I think I want to move into coaching. I’ve been thinking about it for a while now, and I think I’d be good at it.’

‘Feeling confident in your teaching skills, are we?’ I joked, but even as I said the words, I could see it for him.

Everything he’d said to me. The reassurance he’d offered.

His practical on-court experience. Of course there would be a learning curve, figuring out who best he would work with, but he could do it.

I’d bet Oliver Anderson could do anything he set his mind to. And even as I tried to push the idea away, I could see it. Us, working together. Us, together.

‘Well, I mean I am a Grand Slam winner. I think I’m somewhat qualified to give advice.’ He stuck out his tongue at me. ‘You come back, be my test subject for coaching, and of course, we can continue our bet. If you lose again, you get my trophy. Win in Melbourne, and you pick up my bar tab.’

‘I thought we said it was a round.’

‘I’m offering you free coaching.’ Oliver reasoned. ‘The tab is the least you can do.’

I rolled my eyes. ‘It is a pretty trophy.’

‘It’s Tiffany, you know,’ he recalled, a knowing look on his face. I remembered saying those words the first night we met. Who knew it would take us this far? The very trophy sitting above our heads.

‘I wonder if I can drink out of it.’

‘You can, in fact,’ he replied.

I turned to face him properly. ‘You didn’t!’

‘Mind you, the champagne tasted a bit weird, but I did wash it out first.’

I shook my head, wishing I could believe he was kidding, but it did seem like an Oliver thing to do. ‘I’ll keep that in mind.’

‘What do you say, roommate?’

‘Roommate?’ I laughed. ‘I think lodger overstaying his welcome might be more accurate.’

‘Now, Dylan, you can’t lie to me.’ He smiled, self-satisfied and goofy. He somehow could pull off both at the same time. ‘You know you’ll be begging for me to stay.’

The way he looked at me, the teasing glint in his eye, warmed something strange in my chest. Was it just me, or had somebody turned up the heat in this cabin?

It had all started at that party in New York, a spark, even then, but one I’d managed to contain, to push down, to remember that big red stamp on his forehead that read ‘FRIEND ZONE’.

But now, more than ever, could I risk wanting more with him?

I chuckled softly. ‘Maybe after a week of living with me, you’ll be praying for border control to change their minds and kick you out.’

‘So, you agree?’

‘I agree to you staying with me. Nothing else. I’m retired, and I mean it,’ I said firmly, needing my words to be heard. It would be nice to have company, but his coaching offer, it would have to be for somebody else. No matter how good it sounded.

He nodded, looking a little disappointed but smiling softly at me, nonetheless.

A feeling of déjà vu hitting softly. Everything had changed since that night in the hotel bar. And at the same time, so little.

With a squeeze of courage, I broke the silence between us. ‘But expect to be in charge of doing the dishes if you’re staying rent free.’

Oliver laughed, throwing his head back, and I tried to ignore how much I enjoyed the sound.

‘Glad we could come to some sort of arrangement, roomie,’ he said, something in his wild lopsided grin telling me I was absolutely going to regret agreeing to this.