Page 36 of Game Point (Game, Set, and Match #2)

Dylan

From Now On – The Features

My fingers stretched out along the cotton duvet, searching for him.

My eyes barely open, the sunlight that trickled through the curtains blinding me.

The morning glow served as a reminder that my time with him like this was almost over.

The last of the sand in the hourglass had trickled down to the remaining grains.

When my hand only found more empty bed, I bolted up, all signs of sleepiness disappearing. He was gone. His side of the bed empty.

I looked around, searching for any sign of him. His shirt I’d clawed off, the shorts I’d thrown across the room. All gone, leaving me with only the scent of him on the pillowcase.

I launched myself out of the bed, grabbing a dressing gown and wrapping the material around my body as I stormed through to the guest bedroom.

The air mattress bed made up perfectly, no trace of him anywhere.

I ran down the stairs, feet almost stumbling over every second step. I crashed down to the ground floor, scrambling into the kitchen, looking out the windows into the driveway trying to see if I could find any evidence he’d ever been here, if he’d left me without even saying goodbye.

There was nothing but his trophy still standing on the shelf, almost mocking me with his absence.

I kept trying to convince myself he wouldn’t have left. Not without saying goodbye. Not after the shit he’d given me. But the clamminess of my palms, the pounding race of my heart was left unconvinced.

I looked at the clock on the bookcase, seeing that I’d slept into the late morning.

Maybe he’d caught his flight after all, last night was too much for him.

Maybe he’d gotten what he wanted and left.

I couldn’t handle the possibility, my knees weak under my weight, haunted by the memories of his kisses, his touch.

I’d have to burn this house down to escape the ghost of him. Maybe that would repair the tear I could feel in my heart, the pain in my chest that was so painful to breathe I wasn’t sure if I’d refractured my ribs.

How was I supposed to do this without him? I felt stupid and weak and disappointing all over again, too reliant on another person. He was my friend, my best friend , and without him, I had no hope.

I could live without more of last night. I’d survive on the memories. But without him around, his friendship and that stupid little smile. What would I do now?

‘Oh, you’re up.’ I span around, Oliver stepping in through the sliding back door from the yard. My heart fell into my stomach as his brows furrowed, his eyes looking me up and down. ‘Why aren’t you dressed yet?’

‘You’re … here,’ I managed, trying to organize the jumble of emotions, the dread turning into a relief that crashed into me like a wave.

His expression didn’t change as he said, in a firm voice, ‘I said I’d stay.’

I could hear the unsaid words. ‘ I said I’d stay if last night was the only night. ’

‘I know but …’ I tried to swallow down my desperation, willing him to believe I could separate what had happened from the rest of our friendship.

After all, that had been the point. To work it out of our systems. We could be friendly and professional and not distracted by how his muscled thighs looked in the tiny shorts he was wearing.

I continued, ‘Without you around I’d probably end up starting another fire trying to make myself a meal.’

‘That’s not true.’ A light smile curled onto his lips. ‘Even with me around, the chance of a fire is still extremely likely.’

‘Two idiots are better than one.’

He nodded towards the kitchen. ‘Anyway, are you hungry?’

I thought of my stomach, still in knots over the possibility that he had left. If I ate anything, I was pretty sure I wouldn’t keep it down. ‘No.’

‘Okay,’ he said. ‘I’ll see you out on the court in five?’

‘The court?’

He chuckled slowly. ‘While some of us were sleeping away the morning, the rest of us were being productive. I cleared up the tennis court round the corner. You said it’s communal but it doesn’t look like it’s been used in a while.’

I tried to mentally catalogue the sporting goods I had in the house. I knew I had a few good rackets, but most of my things were probably quite old, maybe even still at my parents’ house. ‘We don’t have that much equipment.’

Oliver shifted on his feet, looking down at the floor. ‘I might have been stocking up.’

‘When?’

He looked out the window at the front of the house, avoiding my gaze. ‘All those deliveries that were for me and I told you it was just clothes or books … it was basic equipment I was storing for when you changed your mind.’

I shook my head at how convinced he had been that I’d change my mind. How well he knew me. I changed the subject. ‘I thought all your stuff upstairs was gone.’

‘I just don’t leave it lying around my room like a messy gremlin. There’s a closet for a reason, you know.’ He stepped back into the yard, the path at the back leading straight to the court. ‘Anyway, see you in five?’

‘Make it ten?’ I asked, earning my first scowl from Coach Oliver, his eyes piercing and narrowed. God, he looks dangerously good in coach mode. ‘I’ll be quick. I promise.’

He nodded once, and I shot off back upstairs, the ache in my body starting to nip at my strained muscles.

Last night had, on top of everything else, been a workout.

As I changed, I inspected the marks he’d left all over my body.

Hickeys down my neck, small bruises where his fingers had held me.

I wanted to tattoo every single one onto my skin.

Wearing an oversized top over a pair of mid-thigh shorts, my hair tied up into a messy bun, I stood across the court from Oliver. It wasn’t anything to write home about. The net a little tattered, weeds growing at the side.

But standing on that baseline, now that felt like home.

We’d started with a warm-up, some stretching and cardio before I was ready for the good stuff.

‘Okay, live ball drill. Let’s get those legs working,’ Oliver shouted. ‘Start with six crosscourts, then six down the lines.’ He picked up a ball from the cart next to him, hitting it over to the left side.

Immediately, I found my legs, running and positioning myself to intercept the ball. I pivoted, leading with my left shoulder, swinging the racket forward in a sweeping motion to connect with the ball. I watched every movement, tracking the shot as it arched back over the net.

‘Watch your elbow!’ he instructed, just as another ball came straight at me, and I repeated the movement, this time making sure to pay attention to the movement. Four more flew over the net, and I knocked every one back over.

I moved into the next position, hitting six more down the line.

It took a moment for my brain to turn on tennis mode, the wheels a little rusty after a few weeks off.

But it was second nature that I lived and breathed as he continued to feed balls.

I grew faster, hitting each down the line back to his side of the court.

‘Good, X-Drill!’ he instructed, hitting it to the opposite side.

Given a second longer, I would have complained, begrudging him for upping the pace and intensity.

I ran, both hands finding the racket handle.

I turned to face the sideline, planting my right foot as I continued my forward momentum.

I swung, meeting the ball, using my body rotation to generate power, sending it flying.

The next ball flew over, heading to the opposite side of the court.

My heart raced, sweat growing on my brow against the Australian sun.

But my body, even with my muscles burning and legs racing beneath me to make each shot, felt that ache that only anyone as sick in the head as tennis players could enjoy.

That burning satisfaction of making the return.

I grinned as he called another forehand, shooting it back over the net.

‘That looked good!’ he instructed again.

Oliver continued torturing me. Whenever I made a misstep, I’d hear him shouting at me to bend my legs, step earlier, a little piece of feedback that only half the time had me tempted to drive the racket into his head.

But it was the compliments I lived for. The ‘that was great!’, ‘keep it up’, the occasional ‘yas!’ paired with finger snaps that would have me grinning as I hit another shot.

Memories peeked out from behind the curtain I’d tried to pull over last night. The words he’d spoken as he slid inside me again, whispering gently into my ear, telling me how good I felt for him. How his brat was behaving like a good girl. It just made me ache for him all over again.

This was not the plan.

Attempting to outrun the thoughts, I hit another backhand, listening as he instructed for an overhead next. I ran, moving across the court to catch the ball. I stumbled, my feet catching on the ground, and I tumbled forward, slamming my side into the ground.

A sharp twinge of pain shot across my ribs, my injured side taking the blow. All the air was pushed out of my lungs on a pained gasp, my fingers going to my side as if to hold and protect it from any more damage.

‘Shit, Dylan!’ I heard Oliver swear. I watched him running towards me, leaping over the net like it was nothing, before he slid down next to me, his hands hovering over me like he didn’t know where to touch, if he should touch.

I rolled onto my back. ‘Crap, that hurt.’

‘How badly?’ His voice trembled. ‘Do you think we need to go to the emergency room?’

I sucked in a deep inhale as if to test my chest. The doctor had said to start with ‘light’ exercise, but I’d been more than happy to feel the racket back in the palm of my hand, the power it gave me. I hadn’t realized how much I had truly missed playing.

Maybe I missed playing without the looming pressure of a competition, without a coach screaming at me.

When there was no burning pain in my chest, I knew I was safe, the ache in my ribs growing duller and duller with every passing moment.

‘I think I’m alright.’ Apprehensively, I moved forward, testing my limit. My muscles ached, but I’d woken up that way. My chest, ribs and lungs all felt fine, if a little bruised.

‘You don’t look okay,’ Oliver said, his voice tinged with worry.

‘That’s because my muscles are in recovery.’

The space between his brows creased closed, ‘After barely thirty minutes of practice?’

‘No,’ I pressed my hand to the ground, pushing myself to my feet. ‘After last night,’ I added thoughtlessly, my hands brushing against each other to get rid of the dust from the court. When my attention slid back to him, his shoulders sloped, his throat bobbing.

‘Oh,’ he said, the air turning tight and awkward.

I realized my mistake. ‘Sorry. I didn’t realize we weren’t supposed to talk about it.’

‘It’s not like that,’ he said quickly. ‘It’s just …’ he trailed off, but he didn’t need to finish his sentence.

It’ll be easier to go back to being friends if we don’t.

‘It’s okay,’ I said. ‘I know. Friends.’ I forced a smile, watching as the nervous look across his face smoothed out.

He swallowed. ‘Best friends when we aren’t courtside. Coach and player when we are.’

I raised an eyebrow, a hand on my hip. ‘Does that mean I can complain about my new coach to my bestie?’

‘Only if I can complain about the brat I’m training.’

‘I am not a brat.’

‘Oh yeah?’ He smiled cunningly. ‘Let’s see some suicides.’ Instantly, my shoulders collapsed at the thought of the drill, running from side to side relentlessly until he said stop.

‘Come on!’ I complained, my body already feeling the pain of the exercise. I folded my arms. ‘Really?’

He nodded once. ‘Really.’

‘I was supposed to start with light movement.’

Oliver shrugged his shoulders. ‘This is a light movement.’

‘Maybe in hell.’

‘Quit being a brat and get on with it.’

Instantly my gaze snapped back to him. Was I supposed to feel this way about that nickname? I shook my head, trying to push away the thought. It was nothing, just a stupid name that made me feel as if my already thumping heart required cardiac assistance.

‘You know I’m starting to regret agreeing to this,’ I complained, walking behind the first sideline and getting into position to run the first set.

‘Hey,’ Oliver said. ‘Say the word and I’ll go back to England. Still have that plane ticket.’

I didn’t dare to reply, half convinced I’d tell him to go. Instead, I started to run, reaching the other side, tapping the ground and running back. Each time I passed him, I stuck up my middle finger at him, taking whatever sweet revenge I could gain.

He laughed, the sound still sweet, even if it had the Coach Anderson evil edge to it. And all I could think about was his full-bodied laughter last night, when we fell off the bed. How we laughed into each other, my head in the crook of his neck.

It was then I realized that while it might be easier to go back to being friends if we didn’t talk about it, it didn’t mean I couldn’t not think about it.

It might have been easier too, forgetting every beautiful sin I’d committed, if I stopped with each memory as if they were precious jewels I was afraid to let slip through my fingers.

One night, we’d promised. Sworn to each other. But now I had tied myself to him, caught up in his pull. Helpless to whatever would come.