Page 4 of Risky Match (Royal Spies #1)

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TODAY

M y heart rate soars. Sweat coats my palms. My chest tightens.

No! Please, not now. Not again.

I take a deep breath, exhaling slowly.

It doesn’t help. My heart continues to pound. I can’t catch my breath.

Think. What did they tell me to do?

Repeat calming thoughts. That’s it.

I’m going to be okay. Breathe in.

Winning is not everything. Slowly exhale.

I’m not in real danger. Breathe in again.

This is temporary. Slowly exhale.

Unfortunately, repeating my mantras only helps a little. My brain is on autopilot, inserting unsettling thoughts between the positive ones.

“This time has to be different.”

“I can’t fail again.”

“Everyone is counting on me. I can’t let them down.”

The overwhelming sense of anxiety is more than I can handle. I need out of this bloody car, so I can sprint down the road until I’m too tired to think. Unfortunately, there’s nowhere my driver can pull over, and I don’t want him to know what’s happening to me.

Trapped in the backseat, I keep taking slow, deep breaths and hope the calming thoughts will eventually prevail, allowing my heart rate to slow to a reasonable level.

This predicament is all my fault.

I shouldn’t have let my business manager talk me into hiring a driver today. But I didn’t want to explain why I preferred to drive myself to the rental house near Wimbledon. It’s none of Noah’s business, but the last thing I needed was all this quiet time to think.

If I hadn’t been hellbent on protecting my secret, I wouldn’t be stranded in this freaking car where I can’t escape.

So far, I’ve hidden my recent panic attacks from everyone except my coach and my new sports psychologist. I can’t let the press or my opponents know. If my anxiety makes headlines during the upcoming tennis tournament, my opponents will have an advantage, and that will make my anxiety even worse.

Unfortunately, I’m sitting alone in the back seat for the hour-long drive from the center of London.

It’s only about ten miles, but heavy traffic allows time for my mind to repeatedly play worst-case scenarios, letting self-doubt creep in yet again.

Until recently, I’ve never experienced these frightening physical manifestations of stress.

I’ve always been the strong, determined winner that everyone feared on the court. How could this have happened to me?

I grab my mobile phone and start the app that’s supposed to calm my thoughts. I should have remembered it sooner. As the app plays sounds of nature and guides me through a counting sequence, my heart rate slows.

Finally, the rental house comes into view. Thank fuck.

The luxury, three-story-plus-basement home built with tan brick, accents of yellowish stones, and white-rimmed windows matches the photos Noah emailed. The best part is the parking for six or seven cars inside the wrought-iron gated entrance that will provide privacy.

As the car passes through the gate, relief floods over me with my escape in sight. I practically jump out of the backseat when the vehicle comes to a halt. The fresh air hits my face, and my breathing eases further.

The driver emerges from the front of the car, and I ask over my shoulder, “Can you bring my bags in? If you don’t mind, they go in the primary bedroom at the top of the first flight of stairs.” At least that’s what Noah’s email said.

“Of course, sir.”

Fortunately, I don’t think the driver noticed my situation. That gives me some solace. I can’t afford him gossiping to the press.

Hustling to the door, I pull out my phone to search for the keypad code. At first my sweaty fingers slip on the buttons, so I dry my hand on my shirt and try again.

As I successfully punch the numbers in, my pulse and breathing are finally back to normal. It’s amazing that the change of focus helps. I’m still struggling to understand what is going on with me, but I’m grateful that the current attack is fading.

Walking inside, I call out, “Anyone home?”

Silence.

Where’s my team? They arrived last night, so someone should be here. My frustration grows as I wander around the ground floor in search of them with no luck. I was counting on a chance to talk with my sports psychologist followed by a hard workout to reset myself.

Until recently, I was a laid-back guy off the court because I work hard and expect the results to follow.

My nerves before and during tournaments have always been just enough to keep my energy level high so that I play well.

Players have even called me the Ice King because I don’t get frustrated during tennis matches even when I’m behind. That is, except at Wimbledon.

In the past, I’ve shaken off the Wimbledon losses as mere flukes. There was always a viable explanation as to why it wasn’t my year to win. Each time I’ve assumed that I’ll win the next year.

That changed about eight months ago with the arrival of the first of several mysterious emails.

Ultimately, they led to me parting ways with my old coach and hiring a new one.

Beginning this year with a new coach meant he wanted to change things about my game.

Changes often mean I play worse before improving. That sucked and added to my stress.

Then things went further downhill two or three months ago when I started having nightmares where I was a gray old man who still hadn’t won Wimbledon.

The crowds boo me, the press harangues me, and little kids point and laugh at the old man still trying to win the one Grand Slam tournament that has eluded him his whole life.

Soon after the nightmares began, I had my first panic attack. I didn’t know what was happening. I’d never experienced anything like it before.

I thought it was a heart attack, so I went to the nearest Urgent Treatment Centre in London. While my symptoms could have signaled a heart attack, I learned that in my case, the heart palpitations, sweating, churning stomach, and overwhelming sense of dread were the result of a panic attack.

Relieved, I assumed this was a one-time thing and went back to my normal life. Then it happened again when I was practicing with my coach. A young boy pointed to me and loudly asked his dad, “Isn’t that the guy who’s never won Wimbledon?” Suddenly, my nightmare was a reality.

I rushed off the court. For 30 minutes, I stood in the shower, letting hot water rain over me as I tried to calm myself.

Now I’m struggling with my fear of playing in front of strangers.

It’s complicated. Not only are the panic attacks debilitating and draining, so is the fear of having one in front of fans.

Josh, who has been my coach for a few months now, and Doc, who joined my team recently, are helping me through this, but it’s difficult.

Noticing a fruit basket on the kitchen counter, I grab an apple and head upstairs, climbing the steps two at a time. My legs are tight from the leftover tension radiating through my muscles.

This must stop. Wimbledon begins in a week. I can’t let the opportunity to finally lift the trophy slip through my fingers yet again. It’s time to focus on the most important tournament in my career, which starts with a strategy session with Josh and a talk with Doc.

Reaching the top of the stairs, I text my coach.

Me: Can we go over strategy this afternoon?

Josh: Absolutely. When do you want to meet?

Me: I just arrived at the house. Where are you?

Josh: Running an errand. Will be back at the house soon.

Me: I’ll unpack and meet you in the study in an hour. Can you also let Doc know that I need to talk?

Josh: I’ll message Doc. See you in an hour.

I set an alarm on my phone and walk into the bedroom that Noah assigned to me.

My bags are waiting, thanks to the helpful driver.

Surveying the area, there’s a king-size bed, a desk with a chair, and a door leading to a private bath.

It’s yet another perfectly nice place. I’ll spend two or three weeks here and then promptly auto-erase it from my memory as I move on to the next tournament in a couple of weeks.

Part of me longs for more time at my permanent home in London surrounded by my own things. To have that would mean my tennis career is over. The end is coming soon enough, but I’m not ready to call it quits yet.

Banishing the desires for another life, I start unpacking. I hope it was the right decision to arrive at Wimbledon this early. My team thought it was too soon, but I wanted sufficient time to settle into a routine. In the past, I’ve always felt rushed here, and the results weren’t good.

By changing things up, nothing will get in the way of my success this year. It’s worth every pound I’m paying to rent this enormous house for three weeks because it has a gym, hot tub, study, enormous kitchen, and enough bedrooms for my entire team.

My coach and Doc are critical to my training, strategy, and mental health.

But ultimately, they aren’t the ones who have to win on the tennis court.

That’s the beauty of playing singles instead of doubles.

I’m in complete control of the outcome of my matches.

If I play my best, I win. If I don’t, then I lose and only have myself to blame. I like it that way.

Unfortunately, my current obstacle is me, but Doc is helping.

As I put away the last of my toiletries, the alarm sounds, so I go downstairs to the study, which is near the front door.

Josh has his back to me, concentrating on his tablet.

I know he’s in a serious mode when his white baseball cap is on backwards containing all the long ends of his wavy, dark brown hair.

He may be a retired-player-turned-coach, but based on his level of fitness, most would think he’s still playing.

He can still give me a run for my money in the gym.

That’s one reason we’ve been a good team so far.

“Coach, you’re early.”

He turns quickly, saying, “I knew you would be anxious to begin. How was the trip from London?” Josh asks.