Page 61 of Game Point (Game, Set, and Match #2)

Dylan

The Alchemy – Taylor Swift

Bailey vs Murphy

Rod Laver Arena

The buzz of the crowd was electric, the noise echoing around the arena as we walked from the tunnel, out onto the blue hard court.

I’d played here before, but every time I was left awestruck by the size and intensity of it.

The home crowd did not disappoint with their support, even a quick glance had my eye finding a dozen Australian flags.

They were here for me. To watch me win this.

My eyes found my box. My parents, even my sisters were sitting there, cheering me on. I remembered the empty box in London, and again, in New York and how goddamn lonely I had felt standing in the middle of the court. How tired and exhausted.

Compared to the girl I’d been then, I felt like an entirely different player.

Oliver was sitting beside them, his eyes on me. His hand raised, his lips moving to mouth three simple words. I didn’t need to hear them to know what he said.

I love you.

I took in a deep breath, knowing that I was ready to be brave. He was important to me, and maybe … maybe I didn’t mind who saw it, who knew.

I mouthed those three words back to him, knowing that there was more than likely a camera tracking my every moment. Maybe they’d assume I was saying it back to my parents, maybe they wouldn’t even care. All that mattered to me was Oliver, and the smile that grew across his lips.

Setting up my bag and pulling out my racket, my attention turned to the blonde sitting down the sideline from me.

Chloe Murphy. She’d destroyed me before, in the China Open.

And now, she was the player that put both of my friends out of the competition.

I inspected the grip of my racket, making sure it was perfect, the strings tensioned.

She looked relaxed, almost slumped in her chair like she was at the goddamn beach.

I took a quick drink from the isotonic pouch, trying to get myself ready and focused. We’d spent the last few days preparing for this match, studying Chloe’s play and tactics, breaking down her strengths, figuring out the best way to beat her.

A voice over the tannoy broke out around the arena, a regular announcement but it brought my attention down the court, back to where Chloe was sitting, her glare boring into the side of me.

She didn’t look away either. My hand clenched into a fist, a quiet fury overtaking me.

If she wanted to play games then she was in luck, because the match was about to begin.

The coin toss went my way, and I chose to serve first. I wanted her to know I wasn’t fucking scared of her.

The ball hit the ground in open space. She returned in my direction, and my easy backhand sent it flying over the net. She grunted as she returned, but her effort wasn’t enough, and it bounced into the net.

My point. The crowd cheered, almost drowning out the call from the umpire. And I smiled triumphantly as the score board updated.

15–0

Let the match fucking begin.

I took the first set, but not without Chloe almost meeting me point for point.

Now onto the second set. She was winning but I’d fought my way up from two games down.

She was doing everything she could to win the match.

She broke my fucking serve, spiked the ball, challenged at every point she could.

Chloe was relentless and vicious … and honestly so much goddamn fun to play against.

During the breaks, Chloe was no longer sitting back relaxed in her chair; she was slumping forward, towel over her neck as she drank from her water bottle.

Better yet, her inexperience at this level was beginning to show.

She’d had a great run, amazing even. But I was here to end her.

Every time I felt that prick of anxiety, I let it go.

Imagined it on a leaf or a boat or a goddamn shoreline and let the bitch of a tide take her away.

5–5. We were tied in the second set. Two more to go. Two more and I’ve won.

My serve. I dropped the ball, hitting it against the ground and my racket, trying to decide how I was going to play this.

Allowing myself another moment, I looked up, finding him.

The love of my life. Oliver was watching me like a hawk, his head held in his hands, leaning forward, his stress clear from here.

I laughed, determined that I was going to show him I could do this, what he had given me.

I quickly served, and we fell into an easy volley, both of us battling it out across the court.

Each pop of the racket felt like a heartbeat.

She chased down every ball, even ones I was sure were too far from her.

It seemed she was intent on taking every single point.

She fired across the court, and caught off guard, I lobbed it back over, pushing it too high and far.

The ball hit out, and I handed her an easy point.

0–15. Okay, she can have that one. I’ll recover.

My serve, two bounces, and deep breath. I missed, the umpire calling the shot out.

Second serve, and this time I hit it wide in the box.

Chloe had to move far and wide to return, but she managed.

She started to run back to cover the open ground as I hit.

Seeing the opportunity, I kept my aim to the right to thread the needle, she stumbled slightly, and … my point.

15–15

Let’s fucking go. The match continued, each of us taking our chances.

She was clearly tired, struggling in this second set but she was still incredible.

A formidable opponent. I needed to be better than her.

She called every shot she could, and when the hawk eye came out with the ball being in by mere millimetres, her effort was rewarded with another point. Bringing us equal.

30–30

I served again. She hit like it was her dying breath. But I won again, bringing me closer. I was close, too close to give up now.

40–30

I tried to focus on my heartbeat, my sweaty fingers re-adjusting on the grip of my racket.

Panicking, I inspected the handle, expecting to see it cracking, falling apart all over again.

But I found nothing but perfectly wrapped tape.

Taking a moment, I self-soothed, doing a quick rebalancing exercise.

This grip was the first thing I learned in tennis. Mentally, I went through the list of basics. It was all practically muscle memory at this point, but here, in the final, being intentional allowed me to ground myself again. Find my way back through my anxiety and bring my head back to this court.

I remembered the second thing: where to stand. I found the baseline, placing myself behind it. Knees bent, weight on balls of the feet. I was ready, the basics all ticked off.

I served, hitting hard, this one a rocket as it flew over the net.

She hit, I returned, praying that Chloe would fall or miss.

But she disappointed me, and sent it back over into open court.

I made the return, spiking it over the net to make sure she couldn’t fucking make another shot.

But in my desperation, I misstepped, my leg rolling over my ankle.

6–5. I was ahead, but my injury was burning like a brand up my leg, making it hard to even make it to the sidelines. I collapsed into the chair.

‘I’m sorry, I need to call a timeout, I cannot play. I need the physio now,’ I said to the umpire, nodding, waving to the support staff behind the scenes as I slumped into my chair, my hands going to my tender ankle.

I had three minutes to recover as the trainer came out.

I explained the problem to her as Chloe came into view.

She stood at the net as I tried to discuss the problem with the trainer, but all I could hear was her loud American accent, her words cutting through the noise of the crowd as she shouted at the umpire.

‘She is faking it, you know that.’ Chloe pointed over at me. I tried to focus on what the trainer was saying, instructing me to lie on my back so we could elevate and ice my injury.

I was forced to lie there and listen as she continued to rant at the umpire. ‘I played her in Beijing and she pulled this stunt there too.’

I winced at her words, the reminder of my stupidity at that match. Chloe had said some things to the press after the match, unhappy that I’d collapsed on court. No wonder she thought this was the same. The trainer began to unwrap my ankle, preparing it for a new, stronger tape.

‘What are the rules? She can do this whenever she wants. But she’s lying, and we all know it.’

I closed my eyes and tried to shut her out, instead focusing on the ice pack on my ankle, taking in her words.

The umpire was too softly spoken for me to hear her replies, and I was almost sure that Chloe was raising her grating voice to make sure I could hear her.

She thought I was playing mind games, so she’s playing them right back.

‘But are you taking into consideration she’s looked fine playing this long? Almost an hour? And now she has this injury?’

I had to bite my tongue, the crowd around us beginning to boo at Chloe’s insistence. I dared to look at her and found her looking right back at me, a sneer on her lips. She looked pissed off.

‘I’m not sitting down. I’m not waiting around for her. I’m here to play.’

Chloe paced up and down the net like a wild animal waiting for its prey to come out of hiding, ready to eat me up and spit me back out.

She was pissed, and I was already injured.

We finished up, my ankle already feeling slightly better after the short rest and I slowly made my way to my side of the court, trying to get my ankle used to my weight.