Page 8 of Game Point (Game, Set, and Match #2)

Dylan

On nobody understood how hard it was to lose at tennis as much as Avery. We’d known each other since we were five, training together until I turned pro.

‘Focus on more spin; your kick serve is brutal.’ Was brutal. But I didn’t voice my doubts as the car pulled up outside the restaurant.

‘Yeah, I understand,’ I said mindlessly as I tried to find my bearings in the unfamiliar city. That had to be the hardest thing about being on tour, waking up in a new place every few weeks and never the place you want to be the most: home.

‘Are you listening?’ she shouted into my ear, and I winced, realizing I wasn’t giving my friend the attention she deserved. She was only trying to help.

‘Yes, sorry,’ I apologized, pressing the palm of my free hand against my face. I took a moment, inhaling a deep breath, a pang of homesickness hitting me as I instantly missed the crisp taste and smell of the clean air back home. ‘I’m running late for lunch.’

‘I’m trying to help.’

‘I know, and I appreciate that.’ I considered trying to put this call off again, but she was already pissed at me for avoiding her.

I took a quick glance at my watch, realizing how late I was for my meeting. What difference would another five minutes make?

‘How are you doing?’ I asked, trying to focus on her for what time I could give her. ‘I’m sorry it’s been so long since we spoke.’

‘I know! I miss you,’ she immediately said, her confidence renewed. ‘I’ve been good. I got a promotion at my job last week.’

‘Oh, congrats, that’s huge!’ Pride welled for my friend and the path she had forged outside of tennis. It wasn’t easy when the path you saw for yourself disappeared overnight.

‘Yeah, it’s a big deal.’ I could hear her joy down the phone, her tone light and a little braggy but in the way you can be around good friends. ‘It’s more work, but it’s what I wanted.’

‘I’m happy for you! That’s great news.’

‘When are you back?’ she asked. I tried my best not to think too much about how far away home was, how many months and weeks until I’d be back where I belonged.

‘I’m still in the US right now, so it will be a while.’ I pressed my eyes closed, missing my own home, my own mattress. There were only so many hotels and rented apartments I could handle before home wasn’t a want but a physical need. ‘But I’ll be back in the new year for the Australian Open.’

‘We should have a proper catch up then. I miss you so much,’ she repeated, tugging at my heartstrings from the other side of the world.

‘I miss you too.’ I couldn’t remember a time in my life without Avery on the other end of the phone. She always used to be my first phone call. Talking to her, she understood the pressure. Her career had been cut short, but she at least had the experience that my family did not.

I said the words to myself, as much as I said them to her, pressing the promise into my homesick heart. ‘I promise, I’ll be home before you know it.’

‘You better be!’ she replied before moving on. ‘I saw your parents the other week.’

‘Really?’ Surprise hit me. Avery knew them well. For ten years, our parents had shared the carpool responsibilities between practices and tournaments but I didn’t know she still spoke to my parents. ‘How are they doing?’

‘Both seem good! They were excited about your run in New York!’ My stomach turned over with shame.

I’d called them before the competition began, finding it easier to focus on the matches when I didn’t have to call home all the time.

I managed to keep the anxiety at bay without the constant reminder of how much they had given up for me to do this, how much of their time and money had been spent allowing me to compete in this sport and get to this level.

I searched for a home comfort in her words, at least knowing they were well and not overworking themselves like they had been known to do in my youth. ‘I’m overdue for a call,’ I said, trying to keep the stress from my voice.

‘They seem like they miss you. Your sisters were round too. When did your nieces get so big?’

I could see their faces, my two older sisters and their kids who were like tiny carbon copies of them.

I was the baby of the family, and the elected fun aunt on the rare occasions I was in town.

Catching up with my sisters was even more chaotic than the rest of my family, their kids and lives keeping them busy during the precious time I had to call them.

‘Only a few more months, and I’ll be back.’ My heart felt so heavy, like I was a sad disappointment of a sister, daughter and friend, all rolled into one.

‘Yeah, but only for a few weeks.’

I looked up at the bustling city around me, trying to distract myself from the hint of sadness that threatened to open up inside of me at her words. ‘I’ve got to run, but we can catch up soon. Maybe FaceTime.’

Avery began to protest, but I closed my eyes and willed myself not to cry.

‘Soon, Avery. I promise,’ I added. I let her get her goodbye out before I pulled the phone away from my face and pressed the ‘end call’ button. I stared down at my phone as the call screen disappeared, my lock screen replacing it. My own face stared back at me, my baby niece held in my arms.

That was three years ago now, and I could count the times I’d been able to see my nieces since then on one hand.

We’d FaceTime on birthdays and random calls I’d have to fight to stay awake waiting for, desperate for a little reminder of home.

But being there in person was different; it was being present and seeing them grow up.

A message from Oliver popped up on my phone, pulling me back.

OLIVER

How’s New York treating you?

I ignored the message, knowing I was already far too late, and headed inside the restaurant, spotting the familiar blonde hair of my old mentor inside.

‘I’m so sorry I’m late!’ I apologized, pulling out the chair across from Imogen Foster. The purse of her lips told me she was anything but pleased with my delay.

She was an icon, the queen of the tennis court.

Even ten years after her retirement, nobody had come close to rivalling her legendary status.

Imogen pushed up from her chair, leaning over to pull me into a quick embrace, her long, slender arms wrapping me, silver bracelets on her left arm jingling against each other as she moved.

‘I see you decided to show up after all,’ she complained as we pulled away, her sandy blonde hair brushing against my cheek.

‘I couldn’t get a friend off the phone.’ You’d think after years of friendship and mentoring, Imogen would begin to anticipate my lateness, but every time, she was left disappointed.

‘How are you doing?’

‘I’m fine.’ I looked around for a waiter, my need for a strong tea becoming desperate. When I looked back across the table, I found Imogen staring over at me.

‘Dylan, you lost again ,’ she began, her voice low. I swallowed down the unnecessary reminder. ‘How are you really?’

‘I’m …’ I considered telling her the truth. How I couldn’t sleep. How badly scared I was to get back onto a court. How I’d been blowing off my practice time to do literally anything else. ‘I’ll bounce back.’

The lie was easy, the words perfectly rehearsed since I’d been repeating them for a week. Even longer if we counted the competitions before.

‘Are you thinking of quitting?’

The sudden bluntness of her question left me almost lost for words, my stuttered response unconvincing. ‘N-n-no.’ I struggled to maintain eye contact. Coughing to clear my throat, I tried again. ‘Of course not. I’m not finished.’

Again, I looked around for a waiter, already regretting agreeing to this lunch and praying for an interruption. Imogen was always straight to the point.

‘But you aren’t thinking about changing tactics? Considering any other coaches? Are you still rebuilding your team?’

‘I like going it alone.’ I shrugged. ‘And I’ve still got some of my team.’ I thought of my hitting partners, my physio, my agent.

I’d gone through a lot of changes in the last year, jumping from coach to coach, and in some cases, using some of the people that they insisted on.

Years of working with different people, different teams, trying to find the right fit, it had become as exhausting as playing.

I knew I wasn’t the easiest person to work with sometimes.

Pig headed. Arrogant. Bitch. I’d heard it all, and in the last few months.

But I knew my body, knew where to put my feet and how to hold a goddamn racket.

The revolving door of coaches and the slog of other staff they took along with them made an even louder racket in the press, paired with articles about how ‘difficult Dylan’ couldn’t keep anyone around.

The entire thing made me feel more alone.

‘Really?’ Imogen asked, not bothering to hide the surprise across her features.

‘Imogen, what are you not saying?’ I was getting sick of beating around the bush, of her playing games. She was supposed to be my mentor, not my therapist, she could tell me the fucking answers.

Her back straightened before she spoke. ‘You say you’re fine, but you just lost another final. And 6–1, 6–2?’ She gasped a laugh. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever watched anyone lose so badly in New York. She dominated you.’

‘Wow, thanks.’

She continued as if I had said nothing. ‘Then you come in here, late.’

‘I’m always late.’

‘And you look …’ She paused, the strength in her demeanour melting, giving way to a sorrow in her gaze I’m not sure I’ve ever seen from her.

‘Dylan, you look upset. You look exhausted. And then you tell me nothing is wrong, nothing is changing. You’re doing everything the exact same way as before. When it’s clearly not working for you.’

What was I supposed to say? The answer arrived in the form of a waiter, interrupting the heavy silence that had fallen between us.

‘Are you ready to order?’ he asked, looking awkwardly between us. Without missing a single beat, Imogen turned and ordered her lunch, a Greek salad. I mumbled the same, still struck by the emotional blow Imogen had dealt me.

‘Something needs to change, Dylan,’ she said as the waiter disappeared. ‘You have a lot of potential, and I can’t stand seeing it go to waste.’

I bit my tongue. What fucking potential? There was nothing fucking worse than somebody telling you that you were wasting your talent, your years of training. Like, what? I wasn’t trying hard enough? I wasn’t giving this my body, mind and soul?

And for another entirely unknown reason, I thought of Oliver, his last text left unanswered after Avery called. I thought of him, a stranger I’d met at a party I didn’t want to go to who believed in me. Who made a bet with me, and never let me feel like I hadn’t done enough.

‘I’m trying my best.’ I managed the four words. The four words I almost wanted to brand on my skin as a reminder to both myself and everyone else around me.

‘I know.’ She paused, taking a final sip from her coffee. ‘But you need to do something different.’

My hand curled into a fist under the table, nails digging into the bed of my palm as I tried to stop myself from running out of the restaurant.

‘How do you suggest I do that?’

Imogen leaned down, placing her purse on her lap. She dug a crisp white business card out and laid it on the table in front of me. I didn’t need to look at it to know whose name and details were embossed on the heavyweight card.

‘Give her a call,’ Imogen pressed, and it took the rest of my self-control not to crumple the card up, tear it into pieces, or steal the handheld blowtorch a nearby waiter was using to unnecessarily smoke something nearby while a fellow restaurant patron filmed for their social media.

I shook my head. ‘There’s no way she will help.’ The memory of our last interaction was hard to forget, even if it was over two years ago.

Imogen’s voice was firm as she continued, ‘She will because I asked her to.’

I allowed myself to pick up the card and feel the luxurious paper between my fingers. I looked back at Imogen. ‘You do remember I threw a paperweight at her head?’

‘And you missed. It’s a good thing you didn’t pick a sport where you need to hurl anything.’

I didn’t laugh, every single word of the argument that had led to the action from me still cemented in my head, replaying itself over when I couldn’t sleep in the early hours of the morning. Haunting me the night before every final. Following me every time I stepped onto a court.

‘Imogen … this is a bad idea.’

Imogen repeated herself. ‘You need help. You need her.’

‘You really think she will help?’ I asked, my words almost a whine.

Do you really think she will even pick up the phone?

Imogen nodded. ‘I do believe she can help. After all, it was Brooke who turned you into a pro.’