Page 42 of Game Point (Game, Set, and Match #2)
Dylan
when the party’s over – Billie Eilish
I lay still on the bed, trying to remember some of the visualization exercises Amy had taught me.
At first, I’d scoffed at the idea of imagining rivers and leaves but sometimes – late at night when sleep felt like an unfamiliar concept and anxiety was wreaking havoc on my brain – I found myself feeling desperate enough to try.
And as I lay there, my ankle on ice and elevated to try and take down the swelling, I felt that familiar hopelessness clouding me again.
What if this was it? The end. The cruel irony of my retiring, only to return and immediately fucking injure myself playing a casual doubles match would’ve had me giving up all over again if I still believed I had any actual control in all of this.
There was a quick knock and after a moment, Oliver appeared, apprehension clear across his face as he asked, ‘Can I come in?’
I swallowed, silently nodding my head.
He closed the door, reaching the bed in a few strides. His gaze lingered on my lifted leg. ‘How are you doing?’
‘Super,’ I answered dryly. ‘I’m living my best life here.’
‘I know this isn’t ideal …’ He trailed off, as if he hadn’t even thought of the second half of his sentence.
‘Ideal?’ I repeated, dumbfounded. ‘No, Oliver. This is fucking far from ideal.’
He opened his mouth to speak again. I bit my tongue, trying my best not to turn my fear and anxiety into anger, into a sharp tongue that took no prisoners. I didn’t want to hurt him like that. Not again.
I inhaled deeply, reminding myself not to lash out like after the crash. I’d hurt him, and I didn’t want us to go to that place again. I gripped the bed underneath me, taking in the hollow look in his eyes. The silence that filled the room was sending me spinning even further.
Another knock at the door, and Dr Reid, the on-call doctor at the private hospital they had taken to me, stepped inside.
He smiled softly. ‘Hello Dylan, how are you feeling?’
‘Elevated,’ I said, looking at my leg. ‘And cold.’
‘I know it can be uncomfortable but it’s the best way to get rid of the swelling.
’ He stopped at the end of the bed, still consulting his notes.
Oliver moved to me, stepping to the side.
‘We’ve taken a look at the results of your MRI.
’ I didn’t question when Oliver’s hand found mine and interlaced our fingers.
‘It looks like you’ve avoided a more severe ligament injury, and I’m confident that we are dealing with a moderate sprain. ’
‘Does that mean –’ I started to ask, but Oliver answered for him, turning to look directly down at me.
‘We can still compete,’ he said solemnly, with reassuringly soft eyes and a steady gaze.
‘Not at Brisbane,’ I answered.
‘But Melbourne … we have three weeks.’
‘With plenty more rest, ice, compression and elevation,’ the doctor said, interrupting our conversation.
‘I’m sure between your general doctor and plenty of physiotherapy, we have a chance of getting you back on the court.
But a moderate sprain typically involves partial tearing of the ligament, so you must give it the time to heal first.’
I nodded, trying to listen to everything else he said but I was already overthinking. The sprain wasn’t bad, but it wasn’t good either. If I wasn’t ready, or if I pushed too early, I could cause more damage and put even more at risk.
Eventually the doctor left, leaving Oliver and me alone again.
Oliver pulled his phone from his pocket, barely looking up at me as he texted furiously. ‘I’ll get the physio in Melbourne booked. She already knows we’ll be working with her but I’ll see if she has more time over the next couple of weeks.’
I nodded silently, trying to hold back tears. This was good news, right? There was a chance I’d make it. But I still felt deflated, unable to stop myself from tumbling down into an abyss. What if I wasn’t ready? What was this all for?
‘Are you okay?’ Oliver looked at me, a worried crease in his brow.
I nodded without a word, unable to bring myself to say anything without crying. My hand curled, fingernails digging in the palm. In less than a second, Oliver was beside me, pulling my body in towards him.
His warm chest pressed against me, his head tucked into mine, hands pressing into my back as he just … held me. Slowly the feeling of panic eased away, and instead, I wrapped my arms around him and allowed myself to enjoy the feeling.
‘There’s no doubt this is a setback, Dylan,’ he murmured into my shoulder, validating my disappointment. He moved slightly, looking at me directly. ‘But if anyone can do it, I believe you can.’
‘Why?’ I asked. ‘It’s barely three weeks away. It’s too soon.’
‘We can rest up. Focus on your mentality. Follow the doctor’s orders to the letter,’ Oliver replied, his hands still holding me close. I didn’t move a muscle in case he pulled away.
‘I’m weeks away from the biggest competition of my life, my home slam , and I’ve sprained my ankle during a stupid friendly,’ I complained, the rising tide of stress growing, but still limited by his proximity.
‘And I don’t think you’re going to let it stand in your way,’ he said. ‘Just rest for now.’
I laughed bitterly. ‘I mean I’m hardly going anywhere fast.’
Oliver let out a heavy breath, his hands falling away from me. He looked sad as he said, ‘Dylan, I’m sorry.’
‘It’s not your fault.’
‘I arranged the match.’
‘Scottie said she’d call it off if I agreed to a sleepover,’ I countered. ‘Is it my fault for not agreeing?’
His hands rose to his face, rubbing his temples as if my stress and anxiety had transferred to him. ‘That’s not the same.’
‘You don’t know how serious that girl is about braiding hair,’ I joked. I shuffled over on the bed, patting the space next to me. If Oliver thought twice about joining me, it didn’t show. He pushed onto the small space, stretching out beside me, his legs hanging off the side. I needed him close.
‘I’m surprised she’d trust you,’ he remarked, his arms wrapping around me. He felt so good.
‘She absolutely shouldn’t.’
We stayed like that, lying beside each other, finding some peace in the comfort of him being near.
I knew I shouldn’t let myself enjoy it. But these days it was becoming close to impossible to pretend to myself that I didn’t have stronger feelings towards him.
That I didn’t think about him day and night.
That I realized the true depth of friendship because of him.
He was a reminder of how it felt to have somebody in my life who understood me, truly stuck by me, who allowed me to be myself and not some reduced, palatable version.
‘I thought we could stick around Brisbane for the first few days,’ Oliver said. ‘Check out some of the competition.’
‘Yes, my second favourite pastime, watching tennis.’
He patted my shoulder twice, laughter rocking his body. ‘That’s the spirit.’
My eyes caught on the soft curve of his grin, momentarily mesmerized by the casualness of him. ‘You better hope I stay immobile.’
‘You’ll be marginally easier to train,’ he scoffed in response. ‘You can get awfully violent.’
‘I didn’t mean to hit that ball at you.’ I rolled my eyes, thinking back to one of our practically relentless and brutal training sessions a few weeks ago where he’d made me run suicides before practising my returns. ‘It slipped.’
‘Maybe not the first. Or even the second,’ he countered. ‘But by the third and fourth I was growing suspicious.’
I struggled to contain a knowing smirk. ‘Like I said, it slipped.’
‘Sure, a seasoned tennis pro like yourself is unable to aim the ball,’ Oliver grumbled.
‘It happens to even the best of us.’
‘Maybe I should add more drills in that case,’ he offered. At first, the threat had me dreading our next practice, until I realized …
‘Got bad news for you, coach,’ I said, motioning to my leg. For a second, I wasn’t unhappy to be uninjured. ‘I’m benched.’
‘Shit,’ he swore, the thrill of winning our little argument causing my heartbeat to trip over itself. He hummed, the noise vibrating from his body and through my chest. ‘You know that excuse is going to have an expiry date.’
‘And then I should expect your wrath?’
‘My revenge will be unrelenting.’ His arms tightened around me, as if to trap me. But if his embrace was a prison, then find me guilty and sentence me to life.
‘Bring it on, coach.’
He laughed again, and I was a certified goner, the comfort of him almost too much.
How was I ever supposed to want anyone else again when he existed?
When it felt like this to be friends with him?
How much more would it be to kiss him, the ghost of that night playing on my mind?
I knew how those lips felt, what they tasted like, and I had a craving for more.
I’d take what I could get of him, never demanding more than he was willing to give, but trying to be satisfied with this was like trying to convince myself that a snack was as fulfilling as a four-course meal.
It simply wasn’t enough and I felt like I was driving myself insane trying to pretend like it was.
‘You got it, brat,’ he promised, his eyes bright as he teased me with his favourite nickname for me. If he knew what the word did to me, would he still use it?