Page 41 of Game Point (Game, Set, and Match #2)

Dylan

Down Swinging – Holly Humberstone

I didn’t want to enjoy the thrill of watching Scottie Sinclair secure a point against an opponent.

But a few days after settling in Brisbane, when Oliver’s suggestion of a doubles match against the couple of Sinclair and Kotas had found us on the same team, battling against the boys, I found I had no other choice.

Across the net, Nico and Oliver yelled at each other, bickering over whose fault their last lost point was. But in truth, they didn’t stand a fucking chance against us.

Scottie beamed over at me like the ray of flipping sunshine she was, and all I could do was nod my head once in acceptance, the barest crinkle of a smile playing on my lips.

We were playing best of three, and into the second set after Scottie and I had taken the first – with a decent battle from the boys. But with the score 4–2 in our favour, I was starting to feel cocky compared to these suckers. Even a friendly match was still a match, and I loved winning.

We’d even drawn a little crowd as we played on the practice courts, fans who’d arrived early to the tournament gathering around the fence, celebrating as we scored against the boys.

‘Nico looks a little slow today. I think we can catch him out with that.’ Scottie met me in the middle of the court, the ball held in her hand.

I raised an eyebrow, looking from her to Nico. ‘You’re quick to turn on lover boy.’

Scottie twirled the racket in her hand. ‘When he’s on the other side of the court, he can wear the hell out of those tiny shorts all he likes, but I’m still going to fucking win.’

‘First of all, gross,’ I grimaced, trying not to think of Nico Kotas’s tiny shorts. Just wear some goddamn clothes that fit, man . ‘Second, I think Oliver will cover him. His ego is too massive to let us win just because your boyfriend is slow and old.’

Scottie smirked. ‘Just his ego is massive?’

I made a noise in disgust. ‘Really?’ I asked. ‘Are we playing tennis or are we having a sleepover, braiding hair and chatting about boys?’

Before we’d found common ground, Scottie and I had attended the same training camp, barely lasting a few weeks together. I couldn’t imagine the chaos of being trapped in a room with Sinclair, watching Sleepless in Seattle . Which one of us would make it out alive?

But instead of matching my horror, Scottie’s face lit up with delight. ‘Is that option on the table?’ She rested her racket on her shoulder. ‘Because I’ll call this right now. I have a hook-up on a chocolate fountain ready to go.’

I threw my head back, closing my eyes as I silently begged for strength and mercy. And try to forget about how good a chocolate fountain sounded. ‘No, it’s not an option. Just pass me the ball so I can serve.’

‘Not until you tell me if you’ve seen Oliver’s balls.’

‘Pass it over.’ I stretched my hand towards her.

She threw the green ball up in the air, catching it perfectly. ‘Spill me the tea.’

‘There is no tea.’ I gritted my teeth together, wondering if this was her revenge for all the shit I’d given her about dating Kotas.

‘Bullshit.’ She threw the ball again, teasing me.

I tried to snatch it from her, sick of waiting, but she only pulled away. ‘Ball, Scottie.’

She rolled her eyes before she threw it over. ‘One day, I’m going break you. Whether it be a chocolate fountain, a margarita machine or just desperation to dish over your boy problems.’

‘I don’t have boy problems.’ I turned, walking to the serving line.

‘I don’t believe you!’ She sang the words back, the distance still enough that it was tempting to throw the ball back at her, aiming straight for that pretty head of hers. One glance across at Nico Kotas – her growly fiancé/6’3” bodyguard – reminded me otherwise.

My serve, the shot flying over the net, finding Oliver’s racket. He swung, returning and we volleyed across the court, Scottie getting some great returns in as she broke up the play. As much as I liked to give her a hard time, playing with her like this was actually kind of fun.

She was fast, I could trust her to get a ball when it hit the other side of the court, and we didn’t have too many disagreements tactically; we knew each other well enough as players, it was like sharing a brain.

She returned the ball, a powerful shot fired right to the edge of the court. Only Nico, with his albatross-level wingspan, could manage to reach that, hitting it back over the net to open court.

On instinct, I ran towards it, pulling back my arm in preparation.

He hit it far, the ball just in, but that didn’t mean I didn’t stand a chance of reaching it.

I pushed my body, refusing to relent. With burning lungs, my trainers slid across the hard court, my legs staying strong as I closed the distance.

Closer and closer, the ball came within reach.

With a strike of my racket, I aimed the shot over the net, my eyes tracking its journey.

A groan ripped through me at the effort, the release of tension in my body a relief.

And then, under my weight, my ankle buckled, and before I knew it, my back hit the court, my leg under my weight, burning with pain. I cried out, unable to stop hot, panicked tears escaping me. The pain grew worse under even the slightest touch.

The first person who reached me was Scottie, her husky blue eyes staring straight into mine, a wild panic clear. Her hand reached for mine, squeezing as she wrapped her fingers around mine, her voice telling me it was going to be alright, asking where it hurt.

As the extent of the injury dawned on me, reading the realization in her face, my lungs grew tighter and tighter with anxiety, my sobbing began to turn into chokes for air, grasping at my rival.

Scottie moved, sitting behind me as she pulled my body back into hers, her hands softly touching my arms, running up and down to comfort me.

It was only when I saw Oliver’s face, the sheer guilt and fear etched across his features, that I realized even Mr Endless-Well-Of-Optimism had run dry of hope.