Page 5 of Game Point (Game, Set, and Match #2)

‘Fine. Child’s play,’ I waved my hand as if to push the idea away.

I took those matches so easily, so brutally and without a second thought to my opponent.

I left girls crying as they left the court, and I fucking loved that power.

In contrast, losing felt like a bucket of icy water to pull you from the haze.

‘And then I reach the final and it’s like I can’t keep it together. ’

Frustration had me fisting my hands so hard my knuckles turned white.

‘I’m tired of this,’ I admitted. Quitting was for losers, for people who gave up. I’d never ever considered it before, but now … ‘I’m tired of losing, and I know it’s still second place, and some players would kill for that. But I’m not doing all of this to be second best. I’m here to fucking win.’

He let out a heavy breath, and I felt the tension grow between us, heavy and tangible.

‘Sorry,’ I apologized. ‘I’m ranting and I’m ruining your night. I said a fun drink and here I am being bitter and stupid and –’

‘No, keep going. You said you needed a friend.’

I looked at him for a moment. Really looked. The softened gaze of his dark eyes, the relaxed posture as his long arms stretched out onto the table. He was listening, interested even.

‘I’ve known you for hours.’ The point felt moot, given everything I’d admitted. Feelings I’d never even told my best friends, things I keep buried and safe from my therapist.

Oliver shrugged. ‘Every friendship starts somewhere.’

‘I have a therapist,’ I said, taking another drink. ‘I should call them.’

‘Is it helping?’ he asked easily. ‘Therapy?’

‘Not really,’ I admitted, thinking over the last few weeks, few months.

Sadness coloured the memories blue. ‘I get so angry. It’s valid most of the time, but it makes this big mess.

I lash out and I’m mean. I’m so mean and …

’ I stopped myself from saying anything else.

What had happened with Scottie. I couldn’t have known, but maybe if I’d stopped and asked myself why.

Why her dad had taken me on to coach so easily. Why Jon, her coach, had taken her back.

‘I can relate.’ Oliver sounded just as grim as me. His head swayed from side to side, as if he was fighting some internal conflict. ‘I’m … There’s a lot going on in my life right now.’

He held up his bare left hand in answer, the saddest curve on his lips. ‘There’s nothing I could do to stop it. For years, it was fine, and then she – she wanted something different. And it wasn’t even her fault. It was nobody’s fault. But somehow it makes it feel worse.’

I didn’t think about it as my hand stretched out across the table towards his.

One big squeeze. It should’ve felt stranger, being this raw with someone I barely knew.

But maybe that’s how it was to be around Oliver.

Some people allow you to open up. More than a friendly demeanour and a fun time, somebody you could sit with in a crowded room, and they still managed to make you feel like the only two people there.

‘So,’ he cleared his throat. ‘What’s next?’

My shoulders slumped. Even the simple thought of the remaining tour was difficult enough. ‘It feels like giving up would be easier at this point.’

‘After all of this?’

I was scared of my own answer. Scared to admit to anyone how much it hurt to keep going when I kept ending up in the same position.

‘I’m alone a lot. I miss Melbourne. It’s nice to have a home open but it doesn’t mean I get to spend any time there. I miss my family and my sisters. It’s so loud and chaotic and they don’t put up with any of my bullshit.’

He chuckled, ‘I doubt you take that well.’

‘It results in a fight but it’s a sister fight: the next day, all is forgiven,’ I said, a little sad at the memories. I nodded down at his hand as I said, ‘So that’s why no ring?’

His fingers curled into his fist under the sudden attention. He stretched it out as if to fight the unwanted reaction. ‘It feels weird without it. I kind of miss wearing it.’

I nodded as if I understood, but I didn’t, no romantic relationship of my own coming anywhere near to even living together, let alone marriage.

‘How long were you together?’ I asked. I’d known his wife; she was a player too, a little lower down in the rankings, but good, nonetheless.

‘Five years.’

I winced, but Oliver just shook his head. ‘We’d been together so long. Even though it wasn’t a shock when the divorce came, nine months on, I … I’m still figuring life without her.’

‘I guess now you learn what it looks like.’ My humour was dark, a little dry, but he still cracked a slight smile.

His hand held his glass, tipping it absentmindedly. ‘Apparently it looks like a hotel.’

I related, instantly missing my own home in Melbourne. Missing Australia entirely, homesickness hitting me hard.

‘Hotels suck. I mean, sure –’ I gestured at the modern luxury around us. Everything was perfectly appointed, the comfortable leather chairs, the marble tables and gold-foiled bar. Even the air was perfectly scented. ‘But …’

‘It’s not home,’ he repeated. There was a moment, a silence, when I wasn’t sure what to say next, how to ask him if he was okay when he was clearly heartbroken.

‘Do me a favour?’ he asked, his attention meeting mine again.

‘Beat your ex-wife on the court?’ I joked.

He raised a single eyebrow. ‘You have already, and you know it.’

I grinned, a little twisted with confidence and ego. It had been an excellent match a few seasons ago, the kind when you enjoy destroying somebody’s game probably a little too much.

‘Don’t quit,’ he said, our eyes meeting.

I tried to keep the surprise from my voice as I defended myself, ‘I was joking.’ I was, right? Or had Oliver seen something I hadn’t?

‘I know, but just … don’t.’

I swallowed the uncomfortable lump in my throat, the feeling of him seeing right through me growing intense. Maybe I’d shown too much, dipped the cards too low.

‘You’re closer than you know, Dylan.’ He said the words with such assurance, I wondered to myself if I’d ever match his confidence. ‘You’ve gotta keep your head on straight.’

I laughed, trying to escape the tension. ‘Easier said than done.’

‘If you can keep your cool in the final, you’ll win. Panic, and you’ll end up in the same place.’

‘Has anyone actually ever calmed down after being told not to panic?’

‘I mean it.’ The intensity of his words had me still in my seat, my attention entirely his.

‘Sometimes you need somebody who believes you can do it. Someone with no investment in your success other than wishing you the best. I’ve seen you play; you’ve got a killer instinct.

Nobody on the tour looks forward to a match against you. ’

I didn’t answer him, struck a little by his enthusiasm.

‘I bet,’ he paused, thinking to himself. ‘If you give yourself a chance and cut yourself a break with the pressure, you can win the Australian Open.’

I looked at him. ‘You bet?’ His answer was a single nod. ‘And what do I win if you’re wrong?’

‘Well, if I’m right, and you keep going and finally take the final in Melbourne, you have to buy us a round of drinks.’

‘A round of drinks?’ I looked around as if I was being punked. ‘What? Because you can’t afford to buy your own?’

‘I did just have to pay a divorce solicitor so I’m very out of pocket,’ he pointed out, before continuing, ‘But I’ll make sure it’s an expensive round of drinks.’

‘And if I lose?’

‘I’ll be your wingperson for life?’

‘After tonight’s performance? I don’t think so.’

‘I’ll remind you it wasn’t me who bailed on Felix.’

‘Left him high and dry too.’ I smiled, almost beginning to regret abandoning poor Felix now.

At least with him, I wouldn’t be spilling my guts and making bets with relative strangers.

I tried to focus on what I’d want from this stupid bet.

I wasn’t going to walk away from the court, I knew that.

But if I lost again at the Australian Open, it’d sure be nice to win something at least. I took a moment, looking around the bar as if I wanted anything there.

My eyes caught the TV screen, a recap of today’s events, Ruari holding a trophy high above his head.

Jealousy twisted in my gut, and before I could take a moment to double think it, I answered.

‘Alright, fine,’ I said, ‘If I lose, I get one of your trophies.’

‘A trophy,’ he repeated, dumbfounded.

I nodded, ‘The US Open one looks nice and shiny, and it’s made by Tiffany.’

He stared at me blankly for another beat. And then another, his mouth opening and closing. He pulled himself together enough to repeat me. ‘You want my US Open trophy? The one from last year.’

‘If I lose, I’m going to need something to put on the goddamn shelf.’

His arms folded over his muscled frame as if he was battling with himself on whether to agree. I realized then I’d set a trap. There was no way he’d agree to this, especially a Grand Slam trophy. This way, he’d back out and I was free to do whatever I wanted and –

‘Okay. Fine.’ His words struck me cold. ‘If you lose, you can have it.’ I swallowed down my surprise; after all, now either way, I’d be a winner. ‘You have to stick it out, make it to Melbourne.’

‘Excellent. I agree.’ I stretched my hand out towards him without any hesitation. He looked at it, still considering exactly what he was agreeing to.

‘I feel like I’m paying up a lot more here.’ For the second time that night, Oliver’s hand slid into mine.

‘You did say it would be an expensive round of drinks.’

‘Better make it a bar tab.’

‘Too late now, you’ve already agreed.’

He tipped his glass towards me. ‘To the second-place losers.’

I couldn’t help but return the smile, his words echoing mine. ‘To the second-place losers.’