Page 4 of Game Point (Game, Set, and Match #2)

Dylan

Risk – Gracie Abrams

The warm evening air was still a relief from the overflowing apartment, and it took me a moment to fully place myself in the city street, my eyes searching for any sign of Oliver.

I found him a little further down, his phone in his hand as he stood by the road. A white saloon drove past me, slowing down to pull up in front of Oliver.

In a panic, I shouted his name as I silently thanked my sensible choice in footwear. His head twisted from the car to me, his hand dropping from the door handle as surprise washed over him.

‘Dylan? What are you doing?’

I closed the gap between us. ‘You didn’t say goodbye.’

‘I did wave.’

‘That’s no way to say goodbye.’ I knew I was grasping at any old excuse now. ‘You were my wingperson after all.’

‘I’ll remind you my duties are completed. You looked like you were closing in there.’

‘He was boring. All he spoke about was tennis.’

‘All anyone in that damn room speaks about is tennis!’ His lips curled into a grin. ‘Still as picky as ever.’

‘I’m definitely proving hard to please.’ I realized I couldn’t exactly argue with his point anymore. ‘Are you going home?’

‘I have a hotel.’

‘Which one?’

His expression changed then, and with a slight twist of horror, I realized my mistake.

I raised my hands, ‘I promise I’m not making any moves here. You are totally one hundred per cent safe.’

‘You can’t blame me; you are trying to find out where I’m sleeping.’ There was a relief in his voice, and for a second, I wasn’t sure if I should be offended.

‘You’re really making me sound more like a stalker,’ I joked. ‘I was wondering if you wanted to get a drink.’

‘A drink?’ His apprehension reappeared, and I wondered if I was pushing too hard. I had just met him, but tonight was a bust and the only time I’d felt marginally better was when I’d spoken to him. Something about him, the friendliness he seemed to radiate, it felt familiar and comforting.

‘One tiny, totally innocent, completely friendly drink,’ I continued.

‘I realized … I might need a friend, instead of somebody I can’t stand talking to, and as we figured out, Inés is pretty busy.

Plus, you might understand,’ I reached out, my fist connecting playfully with his shoulder. ‘Second-place buddy.’

‘Second place isn’t bad, you know.’

I stuffed down the urge to scream. ‘Come for a drink, and you can try to convince me of that.’

There was barely a moment for him to consider my proposition before a voice shouted from inside the car, the driver clearly impatient to get on his way. ‘Are you wanting this ride or not?’

Oliver pulled open the back door and motioned for me to climb inside. ‘After you, stalker.’

‘Why thank you, victim.’

He followed me inside the car, saying a quick ‘thank you’ to the driver as he pulled away, rejoining the traffic.

‘I’m a little across town, at the Belmont Regency.’ Oliver said.

‘Same hotel as me,’ I grinned. ‘This is all very convenient for the murder plans I have.’

He turned to look out the window at the passing buildings, Manhattan speeding by. ‘I’ll start to worry if you’re on the same floor. I mean, chasing me up the street.’

‘I’m mostly harmless, I swear.’ I held my hand up, thumb holding down my pinky. ‘Scout’s honour.’

‘There’s no way you were a scout. None of us had time for that.’ He narrowed his eyes. ‘Besides, I’ve heard the opposite.’

‘Oh, so you’ve heard of me.’ Talking with him felt like filling up a balloon, my ego inflating with every word.

‘The wrath of Dylan Bailey is pretty well known.’

My cheeks burned hot as the balloon burst. A thousand different incidents played on my mind.

I knew who I was, knew how badly I had reacted to things in the past. Even this summer, when I thought Scottie, another tennis player, had cheated, I’d gone behind her back to her father.

I’d … I’d reacted, and while I hadn’t known the truth of the situation, I’d ended up making a bigger mess in my rage.

Now, I felt exhausted and burnt out by the constant let-down of second place, the spiral down only a step away.

The rest of the car journey was quieter, the radio playing some pop song in the background.

I kept looking over at Oliver, kept wondering what insanity had driven me literally running from a sure thing and down the street shouting his name.

I must’ve looked so desperate. When the car pulled up outside the hotel, I was beginning to rethink the entire thing.

I followed him out of the car, my hands wringing together as social anxiety started to kick in. Oliver was on his phone as we headed through the glass doors, entering the lobby of the hotel.

‘I think I’ll head up,’ I said, as he began to head to the hotel bar.

His head twisted to look at me. ‘What happened to needing a friend to talk to?’

I shrugged, my entire body turning hot. ‘You were heading to bed. I feel like I’m being a nuisance and –’

‘You aren’t,’ he said, cutting me off. ‘Being a nuisance, that is. You’re saving me from being horribly boring and spending my last night in New York flicking through a hundred channels before settling on the first option.’

I could feel my anxiety pulling me towards the lift, the call of the relative safety of the empty room where I could overthink everything.

‘I need to get up early,’ he countered. ‘That’s why I agreed to one small innocent drink. Or is that not what you promised?’

‘Are you sure?’

He didn’t give me another chance to change my mind. ‘Come on. It’s on me.’

Taking a deep breath, we headed into the bar, patrons scattered around the wide space. Oliver walked right up, a kind smile on his face as he ordered his drink from the bartender.

‘Can I have a Jack and Diet Coke and …’ He trailed off, looking over his shoulder at me.

All other drink options left my brain, leaving me on autopilot as my eyes scanned the bottles at the back of the bar, before I found myself saying, ‘I’ll have the same.’

‘Two please.’

The bartender nodded, walking away to make our drinks.

‘If you find us somewhere to sit, I’ll bring the drinks over,’ Oliver instructed.

I swallowed as I looked around, trying to find a seat.

There were plenty of options, but my overloaded, overthinking brain refused to focus on a final choice.

I didn’t realize how long I had been standing debating the pros and cons of a booth over a table seat when Oliver came up behind me, passing my drink to me.

‘How about we sit over here?’ he said, pointing towards an empty booth. I nodded and followed him, still feeling an invisible tether between me and the elevators. How quickly could I finish this drink and leave him be?

Silently, I cursed Inés. This is exactly why I stay locked in my room for as long as possible. Being around people and champagne, after another loss, it loosened my lips. Oliver relaxed into the seat, smiling over at me as I struggled for an excuse to leave him alone.

He broke the silence. ‘What was wrong with him?’

‘Who?’ I lifted my glass to my lips, taking a sip of the sweet liquid.

‘Felix,’ he answered.

‘I mean … nothing really.’ I winced. ‘I didn’t think we had anything in common.’

‘Did you need anything in common?’ He almost laughed. ‘And tennis? Isn’t that enough?’

‘It’s like talking about work. Sometimes, you want a night off.’

‘And what do you think we are going to talk about?’

‘Touché,’ I said, finding the courage to ask the question that had been lingering on my mind all night. ‘How are you this cool about it? Second place.’

He scoffed, ‘I mean, I’m disappointed. It was a hard competition, and to come this close, only to lose to Ruari. But you know, it was the same at Roland Garros. He’s having a good year. You win some; you lose some.’

‘I haven’t won any.’

‘I thought you won Wimbledon a couple of years ago?’ His words were an unintentional gut punch, the pain of the old wound still not fully healed.

I took a long sip from my drink, hoping to drown the bitterness in my tone. ‘Doesn’t count if your opponent was disqualified for cheating. And imagine that being the only time you’ve won a slam.’

He winced at my words as if he couldn’t stand it himself. Under the table my leg began to bounce nervously.

‘You do make it to a lot of finals,’ he pointed out. I could see his thoughts written across his face: Lots of finals, but no wins.

‘I do.’ Countless finals ran through my mind. The exhaustion of them hitting me all at once. It was vastly underappreciated how much energy it took to get to the final round every single time. Vastly underappreciated the disappointment to walk away empty-handed as well.

His expression softened. ‘What happens?’

I snorted a harsh laugh. ‘I lose.’

‘No.’ He shook his head. ‘What I mean is, why do you lose? What’s different in you, in your play between that final match and all the others?’ A silence fell as we both waited for my response. ‘Sorry, if I’m digging too much.’

‘It’s fine.’ Anger and frustration bit at my words, but the feelings were not directed at him.

‘These are the questions I ask myself over and over. What went wrong? Why didn’t I make the shot?

I get so close sometimes only to fuck it up.

Did you see the score yesterday? She demolished me.

I should be embarrassed for losing like that. ’

He pulled back, sitting into the cushion of the booth, his eyes assessing. ‘Those matches are the worst.’

‘I wasn’t doing anything right. I made it so easy for her to win, I practically gave it away. I don’t even know why I kept going after the first set.’

‘But you do get there,’ he pressed. ‘How are the other matches?’