Page 9 of Game Point (Game, Set, and Match #2)

Oliver

Friends – Band of Skulls

I swung, the strings of my racket meeting the shot in mid-air, directing it over to the other side of the court. Another followed, and I kept the same backhand slice, matching the pace of the ball machine firing on the opposite side.

The Davis Cup in Manchester was due to kick off the next day, and I was burning off some nervous energy with a bit of late-night practice. The rest of the practice courts were empty, the long room only lit up at my court, the rest in darkness.

Just me, the court and a racket.

I tried to stop my mind from straying to thoughts of the first match tomorrow. I knew my competitor well, had played and beaten him before. But even before New York, something felt off in my playing. My attention was too easily distracted.

Focus. Body side on. Move forward. Elbow bent. Wrist firm. Keep the racket high, 90 degrees. And slice. Hit ball. Reset. Repeat. Focus.

Repeating the motion over and over, I tried to commit it to muscle memory.

I was between coaches, not yet able to find somebody I worked well with.

Every time we sat down to discuss goals, they had these big ideas of Grand Slam finals and how to work on my footwork.

Truthfully, they sounded like they had more ambition than I did.

As I returned another ball I heard my phone, the vibration rattling the frames in my bag, splitting my attention.

I tried to fight the urge to check it when another shot fired into the side of my body.

With a yelp, I looked across the court at the reloading machine.

Finding the remote, I paused the barrage of balls before giving into the urge to check.

DYLAN

You up?

A grin broke out across my face, shaking my head at the message before I opened the camera up, snapping a selfie with the court in the background.

DYLAN

My inside-out forehand is off.

Can you help?

I didn’t waste another moment, my finger automatically going to her contact and calling her on FaceTime.

Ring. Ring. Ring.

Maybe I’d been too hasty. Should’ve just texted her back instead. She accepted, her tanned face filling the entire screen, the phone a little too close as her brows pressed together in confusion.

‘I was going to send you a video.’ Dylan pulled the phone away, allowing me to see her from the shoulders up, revealing the oversized green T-shirt she was wearing. Her long brown hair was pulled back in a bun, her cheeks flushed pink from exercise.

‘This is easier,’ I shrugged, sitting down on the bench. ‘Set up your phone and show me what you’re doing.’

Dylan knelt down, placing her phone on the ground. She struggled to prop it up, the phone falling as she swore under her breath. I sat down, taking a sip from my bottle, almost unable to tear my eyes away from her.

She moved back behind the baseline, pressing the button on the remote of her own machine.

A couple of balls flew past her before she started moving forward on her left foot, rotating her upper body and shoulders.

She loaded the backswing, the racket pulled back, primed and in position to create maximum power, and as the ball arrived at the perfect spot, she swung, brushing the strings up the back of the ball with topspin.

She reset, moving over and over again to hit each shot that flew her way.

I analysed each movement: her footwork; the power of her swing; timing, waiting to see the issue she was speaking about. She headed back to the phone, her skin flushed a deeper pink, a light sheen of sweat across her brow.

‘Well?’ she asked, looking unsure.

I paused, trying to understand. ‘Who said there was a problem?’

She sat down on the ground, her exhaustion clear. ‘Brooke’s been on my ass all day about it.’

I paused, considering my reply. ‘I don’t know what to tell you, Dylan. It looked fine to me. Is it your shot selection she had a problem with?’

‘No, it’s this specific movement.’ Her head fell backwards with a groan.

‘We ran drills all day and then she kept hauling me over my positioning, my footwork. I laid in bed for hours trying to understand the movement. I can’t tell you how long I spent in front of the mirror trying to get it the way she kept telling me to do it. ’

I tried to pick my words carefully. ‘Did you think there was a problem before?’

She bit her lip, my attention caught on the pull of her teeth. ‘Not really. I think she’s still punishing me for the paperweight.’

It had only been a week since the news broke that Brooke was rejoining Dylan’s team.

She’d been whisked away to some German training camp in preparation for the China Open later in the month.

I’d seen it work out with other players before, going back to basics with a coach who knew you well.

But Brooke had a reputation. She was an effective coach for the right kind of person, but Dylan did not strike me as that kind of person.

Especially since the entire tour knew of their past together.

‘It’s going well then?’ I joked lightly, pushing myself up from the bench to begin cleaning up the balls that sat abandoned across the court.

‘She’s always been a hard ass,’ Dylan complained, climbing to her feet, copying me as she cleaned up her own court, dragging the ball basket in her free hand. ‘But I swear it’s like she thinks I’m still a child.’

‘How long did you work with her?’

She sighed so loudly I felt like even without the call, I’d be able to hear it from Manchester. ‘Too long. But she took me pro, taught me a lot. I felt like I owed her.’

‘I understand.’

Even playing singles, it could start to feel like a team sport, especially behind the scenes.

At the height of everything, with your coach, trainer, physiotherapist and an agent to tie it all together, it could become a tight-knit group.

And while you’re the boss, you don’t exactly feel like one.

It can be a good working relationship with the right people, or descend into a circus act with the wrong.

‘But you know you don’t owe anyone anything except respect when you pay them.’

‘Respect went out the window with the paperweight.’

‘I hope you’ve worked on your anger issues since then.’

‘My therapist taught me some breathing exercises.’

I shook my head at her. Maybe while we were at it, we should get her a better therapist, the advice was about as useful as giving her a stress ball.

Dylan grabbed the opportunity to change the subject. ‘How are you feeling about tomorrow?’

I almost winced at the question. ‘It will be fine.’

Her eyebrows pushed up. ‘Glad you’re feeling confident then.’

‘I am confident.’

‘You don’t sound it,’ she said. ‘That, and the fact you are also out on a court in the middle of the night.’

‘I couldn’t sleep.’ I shrugged. ‘Thought I’d tire myself out.’

‘Is it working?’ Her voice rang from the phone, breaking the quiet of the night. I looked around, the courts to my side empty.

‘Well, it might’ve but then I got a booty call.’

Her expression flattened. ‘This was not a booty call.’

‘Sending “You up?” isn’t a booty call to you?’

She shrugged, a sly grin on her lips. ‘I wanted to get your attention.’

We’d been texting ever since the party, but this was the first time we’d FaceTimed – or called for that matter – and now we were, I realized the ease of conversation with her.

I was surrounded by friends on the tour, people I’d known for years, but I’d never felt so alone as in these past few months.

Now it felt like every time I had a wash of the same loneliness, my phone buzzed, and I’d find Dylan complaining or threatening to steal my trophy early, or anything, as if she could read my mind from across the sea.

‘Certainly did that.’ I smiled before relenting, allowing myself to be a little more honest with her. ‘I feel fine about tomorrow. It’s the match after that, and the one after that, and so on.’

She rolled her eyes. ‘Confidence clearly isn’t the issue here.’

I laughed, but barely, growing afraid of what I’d admit, what words would escape me, and I’d realize how much I’d been lying to myself. And for how long. ‘I think I’m feeling burnt out. Like … have you ever wondered what else is out there?’

‘Like aliens?’

‘Like career paths.’

Dylan paused. ‘Does it sound cocky if I say no?’

‘You sound like a tennis pro.’ I wasn’t surprised.

For a lot of us, it felt like our parents put a racket in our hands immediately upon our exit from the womb.

The choice for this career path was made early, and it was less a decision than a gruelling amount of work, body and mind conditioning, and a level of dedication that bordered upon self-harm.

Considering another career path was admitting defeat.

And for professional athletes – we don’t adjust well to defeat.

When I looked back at my phone, Dylan’s expression had softened. ‘This is all I’ve ever wanted,’ she admitted. ‘Well, not this exactly, I imagined a couple more trophies, but I have a certain bet that ensures I’ll at least walk away with one this year.’

‘Very funny.’

‘You agreed to it!’

‘Don’t remind me.’

She laughed, the noise breaking the silence. ‘All I do is remind you.’

‘Which is why I’m asking you to stop.’

She ignored my request. ‘While I can’t say I’ve considered what comes next, I have considered doing literally anything else.’

I could relate. When the going got tough, the hard practices, the games you lost despite every best effort, anything seemed better than tennis. But my problem wasn’t the relentless grind. It was that I was finding myself increasingly unmotivated.

‘What keeps you going?’