Page 37 of Game Point (Game, Set, and Match #2)

Oliver

Fortnight (feat. Post Malone) – Taylor Swift

‘You know, when you first forced yourself into my home –’

‘I’m pretty sure you invited me to stay,’ I interrupted Dylan before she could continue.

I stood beside her, Dylan lounging on the sofa.

We were a few weeks into practising, and the results had been mixed.

On one hand, it was great to see her on the court again, back where she belonged, and when she was focused, it was amazing to see a real force behind her, the full power of her playing skills unleashed.

On the other, I could see why she had struggled to keep a coach around. She was headstrong and seemed to always have a counter argument to everything I instructed. Somehow, it only made me admire her more.

And there were the short skirts. The crop tops. The knowledge of what the scraps of materials covered threatening to bring me to my knees. Those were their own form of torture.

‘That’s not how I remember it,’ she said, my heart skipping a beat at the brilliant smile across her lips. ‘I didn’t expect this to turn into a full slumber party kind of vibe.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘ I mean ,’ she motioned wildly around the living room, ‘the candles. The journaling. The cushions. What are we going to do? Huddle around to talk about our latest crushes and how good Nico Kotas looks in those short shorts?’

I looked around the room, the lights dimmed, one or two candles lit on the coffee table, two new notebooks I’d picked up during our last visit to the store. The playlist running in the background. Okay, maybe I could understand the vibe.

‘No,’ I said, ‘And Nico? Really? He’s like a hundred.’

Dylan looked at me a little too gleefully. ‘He’s only a few years older than you.’

‘What would Scottie say about you discussing her partner?’ I pointed out. She only waved me off.

‘She’d be the one leading the conversation. The girl is obsessed. It’s gross,’ Dylan retorted. I couldn’t help but laugh.

‘The slumber party vibe wasn’t what I was going for,’ I explained. ‘But I wanted to set a nice mood for your first journaling session.’ Dylan’s response was immediate, her body slumping, her eyes rolling deeply.

‘Are we really going to do this?’ she asked, before continuing, her tone of voice sweet and high pitched as she mimicked, ‘Dear Diary, today Coach Anderson was a dick and made me run crosscourt and down-the-line until I wanted to die. And then friend Oliver made me write in a diary like a little girl.’

‘Actually,’ I corrected, ‘this is more Amy’s fault.’

Amy was the sports psychologist we were working with to help Dylan with the stress and anxiety that seemed to plague her during the tournaments.

With Amy’s help and guidance, I hoped to limit the effect this could have on the outcome, giving her a decent chance of getting through the final without the shadow of self-doubt creeping over her confidence.

‘Yeah, but you’re the idiot making me do it,’ she replied.

‘It’s going to help.’

‘If I wanted to talk about my feelings, I’d give my therapist a call.’

‘You don’t have to talk about them, you write them down,’ I said, before pointing to her head. ‘Get the thoughts out of your brain.’

She started again with a high-pitched voice. ‘Dear diary, I think Oliver is stupid.’

‘If that’s how you feel, then write it.’ I started to regret ever suggesting the idea.

It was one of the many ideas Amy had suggested, journaling considered to be one the easiest and most effective ones.

Apparently, whoever had decided that hadn’t tried to get Dylan Bailey to take up the practice.

‘It’s about getting into the habit while things are calm.

And when the slam begins, you are already doing it. It can really help.’

‘Why are there two?’ she asked, sitting down next to the coffee table.

‘Well, I figured you’d say it’s stupid, so I’m doing it with you,’ I said. ‘At least if you think it’s dumb, we are being dumb together.’

‘It’s not that it’s dumb,’ she said. ‘It’s a waste of my time.’

‘Will it be a waste of your time if you win?’ I looked directly at her. Her gaze leaving mine, exploring the room looking for something else to cling on to, her jaw setting with reluctance. I continued, ‘No? Then let’s at least try.’

She bit her lip, searching for any excuse. She obviously came up empty. ‘Fine. But we are doing something fun after this.’

I forced a fake gasp, clicking my fingers. ‘There goes my plan to get you to meditate.’

She laughed. ‘You’d have to wrestle me to the ground.’ I sat down on the opposite side of the coffee table, stretching out my legs as she kept talking. ‘Jon tried to make me do yoga for a training camp. I kept getting a cramp in my leg and kicking everyone around me.’

‘Sure, cramp. That’s what we are calling it.’

‘It’s weird. I clear my mind and I get strangely violent.’

I hummed, beginning to question this entire thing. ‘Technically this isn’t about clearing your mind, just getting your anxiety out.’

She grabbed a plain blue notebook, her fingers flicking through the pages, ‘I am not an anxious person.’

‘That’s not what Amy said,’ I said, taking the other one, a pink fluffy thing I bought as a joke. I pulled the attached pen from its holder, looking at the plastic unicorn at the top. Should’ve known this is the one she’d leave me when I bought it.

‘Amy doesn’t know shit.’

‘Sure, let’s ignore her twenty years of experience and doctorate degree.’

‘Yeah, to tell me what some mindfulness Instagram page could tell me.’ She glanced over at me, her eyebrow raised.

‘Well, quit your complaining because we are going to do fifteen minutes,’ I said, unlocking my phone and scrolling to the clock app.

‘Fifteen?’

‘A full quarter,’ I nodded.

She sighed, picking up a pen from the table, inspecting it as if she expected something more interesting like my fancy unicorn pen. ‘I don’t think I have enough thoughts to fill a full fifteen minutes.’

‘From the length of time you have spent complaining, I’ll be surprised if you can fit it all in,’ I joked.

I set the timer, placing it on the table between us.

‘Okay, remember what she said, write it down. It doesn’t matter what you want to do, a stream of consciousness, focus on a topic and explore it.

But try .’ I said, looking over at her. The reluctance was clear across her face, her displeasure at the task.

‘Fifteen minutes, then we can do something fun.’

‘Fine,’ she ground out. ‘Let’s get this over with.’

I beamed over at her. ‘That’s the spirit.’

Before she changed her mind, I reached over, pressing start on the timer. I watched as she tossed her hair over her shoulder, moving to sit at the opposite side of the table, her dark eyes glued to mine as she clicked her pen loudly, before turning her attention to the diary.

‘Dear diary …’ she said aloud as she scribbled onto the page.

I paid no attention, instead letting go as I focused on getting some of the thoughts out of my own brain.

Most of it was tennis, going over some game play tactics I had been thinking over, some training schedules I had been planning.

But then it switched to Dylan, starting with a recap of the week we’d had together, how I’d seen her progress, some of the weaknesses I hadn’t dared to bring up – yet.

I glanced up at her, expecting to see her bored out of her mind, doodling or some shit. But instead, her head was propped up on her hand, her elbow resting against the table, still writing on the page.

She looked lost in the moment so I dared to look at her for a little longer as she absentmindedly pushed an escaped strand of glossy brunette hair behind her ear.

I’d seen her do it before, that night we weren’t supposed to think about, but all I did was think about it.

When she was strutting all over that goddamn court and I had to force my eyes not to check out her perfect ass.

When she brushed against me, and I instantly remembered how her skin felt against mine.

My pen hovered over the page, every word pushed from my brain, and leaving me with only thoughts of Dylan.

I didn’t want to write any more about her, afraid of what would come out.

I couldn’t even bring myself to write her name, as if committing it to paper would make what we did real, permanent somewhere other than in my memory.

The alarm from the phone saved me from having to come up with anything else.

Dylan slamming her diary closed, her pen clicking again. ‘Thank God that’s over.’

‘You don’t want to read it out?’ I joked, a nervous edge to my voice.

‘Nope.’ She pushed back to sit up on knees.

‘You seemed really into it.’ I playfully raised an eyebrow. ‘Like you had a lot to say there.’

‘I started debating which film I was going to make you watch after this was over and then I wrote the same thing over and over.’

‘Somehow I don’t believe you.’ I shook my head at her, opening a side drawer of the coffee table, placing my notebook in there. I looked at her, watching as she reluctantly picked up her journal and placed it next to mine.

‘Too bad you’ll never know,’ she said as I slid the small drawer closed. ‘What did you write down? All your hopes and dreams?’

‘I was coming up with new ways to torture you on the court.’

‘I honestly wouldn’t put it past you,’ she said, her pursed lips catching my eye, reminding me how good they had felt against my skin. How much I wanted to feel that again.

When she’d suggested the idea of having one night – and one night only – to get over whatever this was between us, I’d jumped at the opportunity. To have the privilege of feeling her against me, of being able to touch her, even for a few hours, had been too tempting an offer.

I’d convinced myself that this was the only answer, the only way we could keep our friendship and train, while satisfying the craving we both had.

I woke up that next morning still starving for her touch.

I was trapped, feeling like every inch of skin she’d touched had been tattooed with ink only I could see.

I was left, covered in the memory of her.

‘I think I’m going to head to bed early,’ I rasped, pushing myself up from the floor. Every extra inch of distance I created between us felt like a prick against my skin.

‘You promised me we’d watch a film!’ Dylan cried, looking up at me with big, sad eyes.

The other day, she’d come back from a visit to her parents, a DVD player held proudly in her arms. I’d only shaken my head at her, telling her we weren’t even plugging it in until practice was over.

Since then, I’d run her ragged around the court and as a reward, she’d picked a movie from her collection for us to watch.

‘I’m exhausted.’ The little white lie forced a yawn from my lips. I was tired, but I could’ve stayed up with her, watching whatever film she’d pick. But all I’d do was sit there, remembering our one night together, more mesmerized by her than the film.

She was like a drug I needed some time to be sober from. Even if it was just a night, pretending to sleep on the air mattress, waiting for her to go to bed so I could sneak back downstairs and sleep on the sofa.

‘Okay,’ she said, exhaling softly. ‘I’ll see you in the morning.’

‘Seven am sharp. We’ve got a big day.’

Her hand curled into a two-finger salute. ‘You got it, Coach Anderson.’

A strangled laugh escaped me. She’d been calling me that since our first practice session, teasing me with her new nickname.

‘Goodnight, brat.’ I turned to leave, catching only a quick glance of what I swore were rosy red cheeks and a suppressed smile.