Page 30 of Risky Match (Royal Spies #1)
BLAKE
J osh and I arrive at Wimbledon two hours before my second-round match.
Even though it’s my opponent’s first-time here, I can’t take winning for granted.
When someone has nothing to lose, they often play their best and take risks that can lead to an upset.
It’s important for me to stay focused and stick to my standard pre-match warmup routine.
As we walk to the practice court, Josh asks, “What’s different today?”
“What do you mean?”
“Man, you’re humming and smiling. I’d swear there’s an extra bounce in your step.”
Was I really humming? Whenever a random thought from last night pops into my head, I can’t help smiling. I knew another night with Bri wouldn’t be enough. It just fueled my craving for her. But I can’t share that with Josh.
Instead, I simply say, “I’m feeling good about today after Bri and I won yesterday. That’s all.”
“If you say so. Don’t be overconfident though. You’ll need to concentrate. This new guy is solid.”
“Don’t worry. I’m here to win. I’m ready to warm up with groundstrokes.”
After 45 minutes practicing my ground strokes and volleys, I work on my serve.
Josh says, “Your serve is on fire today. Don’t forget to kick a few wide. Geoff tends to lean toward the center and won’t move fast enough to reach those.”
“Will do.”
Josh says, “That’s enough court time for now. Let’s move to the outdoor workout area.”
“Great. Let me grab a granola bar from my bag to eat while we walk and discuss strategy.”
After taking several gulps of a sports drink, I tear open the foil on my snack and sling my bag onto my shoulder.
As we walk off the court, I say, “I haven’t watched Geoff play much. He’s new to the higher-level tournaments. What else should I keep in mind?”
“He rarely comes to the net, so well-placed drop shots could earn you easy points. And his second serve needs work. Be ready to pounce on it and slam it back.”
“Got it.”
As we keep walking, I visualize shot sequences that will force Geoff into tough positions that I can exploit. By the time I’ve worked through several scenarios, we arrive at the outdoor exercise facility.
I head straight for the stationary bikes, put on my headphones, and hop on to keep my muscles warm. This is the relaxing part of my routine—I listen to the same seven songs every time. Like most pros, I’m superstitious, and changing my routine stresses me out.
The final song, Don't Stop Believin', begins playing. It’s a classic reminder of where my head needs to be.
When it ends, I signal Josh, and he hands me the resistance bands. I go through mobility and core exercises—leg swings, arms circles, and torso twists to loosen up and prevent injury. Given my history of injuries at Wimbledon, I’m taking all the precautions I can.
During my stretches, Josh and I chat about who’s making coaching changes, whose injuries are holding them back, and which players are dating each other. The rather mindless conversation calms my nerves.
A loud buzzing from Josh’s smartwatch signals it’s time to move to the next phase of my warmup.
First, I take a short break to chat with the other players who are standing around. Marco boasts about how great he’s feeling. Another top player, Thomas, complains that he’s sick of the rain delays.
“At least the rain—” I start, but Marco interrupts.
“Hey, Oliver! Bring some of those samples over here.”
A guy carrying a tray of cups joins us.
“Everyone, this is Oliver. His company makes amazing sports drinks. You should try them,” Marco says.
“Nice to meet you, Oliver. I’m always looking for new drink options.”
Thomas asks, “Are those the herbal-tea ones that I’ve been hearing about?”
“They are. It’s an herbal tea blend infused with horseradish. It opens your airways, which improve oxygen levels. There’s nothing else like it on the market. I brought samples for everyone.”
We each take a cup as Oliver continues, “It’s like a shot. Drink it in one sip for maximum benefit.”
Thomas says, “Okay. Bottoms up.”
I’m skeptical, but with two endorsements, why not.
As soon as the muddy brown liquid hits the back of my throat, I feel a vicious burn, and my eyes water. Oliver was right—my airways clear as if I’ve inhaled menthol. It must be the horseradish.
When the burn fades, I say, “Oliver, I’ll admit it opens things up, but it tastes awful. No wonder you told us to down it in one sip.”
Thomas says, “It wasn’t that bad.”
Marcos adds, “Agreed. The benefits are worth a little unpleasantness.”
“Maybe,” I say.
“Thanks for trying it. We’ll be reaching out to your managers with more information about sponsorship opportunities. Good luck in your matches,” Oliver says, then walks away.
I shake my head and grab my water bottle to rinse away the taste. That drink was disgusting. I understand the benefit, but yuck.
Rejoining Josh, I begin the final part of my warmup—jumps, sprints, and medicine ball throws—to further raise my energy level. My pulse rises quickly, and sweat beads on my forehead. I’m ready for battle.
I double-check the contents of my tennis bag.
Six racquets. Check.
Extra sweat bands. Check.
An extra shirt. Check.
Trail mix and drink bottles. Check.
Until this year, I assumed my coach properly packed my bag. Then one of my friends showed up on court without his racquets. We haven’t let him forget it. Since then, I’ve personally checked my own bag.
Hoisting my gear onto my shoulder, Josh and I walk down the tunnel toward the court. Along the way, fear rises. What if I have a panic attack? I quietly do the breathing exercises that Doc prescribed.
Suddenly, an image of Bri pops into my head. I smile. She promised to be here. I need to see her. Somehow, I know that will calm me.
At the end of the tunnel, I pause. When my name is called, I step onto the sunlit court. I wave to the crowd and search the section where Bri will be sitting. My heart sinks. She’s not there.
She’s probably just running late.
I unpack my drink bottles and set them in front of my bench. As I pull a racquet from my bag, I look again—still no Bri.
There’s a pit in my stomach, but I shake it off. She’ll be here. At least, I hope she will.
During warmups, I force myself not to glance at the stands. When the umpire signals the start of the match, I allow myself one last look.
Her bright smiling face locks on mine. I exhale. She’s here. That helps me even more than my breathing exercises.
The match begins, and soon I confirm that Josh was right. Geoff doesn’t like coming to the net. Taking advantage of that knowledge, I easily win the first game. During the break before the next game, I munch on a handful of trail mix to tame my grumbling stomach. Tennis burns a lot of calories.
Fifteen minutes later, I win the first set. But something is off. My energy is fading too fast. My stomach isn’t just growling—it’s queasy. It must be the heat. I need to hydrate better if I’m going to win two more sets.
Geoff’s first serve of the second set whizzes by me in a blur. I shake my head. What’s wrong with me? It wasn’t any faster than his prior serves. I shake my head, but that makes it worse. I’m overcome with dizziness, and a stomach cramp doubles me over.
Bloody hell. Don’t tell me I picked up a stomach bug at Wimbledon again.
I have to push through. I can’t fail again.
My palms sweat and heart rate soars. No! Not the fuck now. I can’t be having a panic attack too.
Barely catching my breath, I signal the umpire to call for a trainer to come. At the end of this game, they should be able to give me something for my stomach ache. That will get me through the match.
At the baseline, I try to focus on Geoff’s movements while attempting to block out the pain. I just have to last a couple more points.
Mustering every ounce of remaining strength, I return Geoff’s serve and dash across the court. Seeing the blurry ball cross the net, I stretch, barely getting my racquet on the ball. It skims across the net, dropping just out of Geoff’s reach.
As my body falls to the ground, the crowd erupts.
I try to stand but can’t. The pain is unbearable, and the dizziness is worse than any hangover.
I’m screwed.
The last thing I hear is the sound of fast-paced footsteps.
Darkness envelops me.