Page 110 of Clean Point

This was what it had come down to. One last match. Take a single misstep, and the entire thing could unravel before me. Or I could keep my nerve, hold that breath, and win. Finally win.

I pulled out my racket, the black ELITE-branded metal gleaming in the sunlight, before turning to Nico. ‘Ready for this?’ I looked to him expecting confidence, that predator-like focus to be ready and in place.

But there was a frown to his lips, an unfocused look in his eyes, like he was moments from vomiting into his kit bag.

My eyebrows creased together as I turned fully to him, closing the space and keeping my voice low. ‘Is it your knee?

He shook his head, his focus pointed down, his large hands turning his racket over and over, feeling the weight of it, assessing its grip. ‘I need a moment.’

My hand went to his shoulder, squeezing gently, feeling the tight muscles beneath my fingertips as I tried to soothe his anxiety.

‘Hey, we got this.’ I reached up to his chin, slowly redirecting his gaze, so it met mine. I kept my eyes sharp and fixed, lip pressed into a serious line. ‘Just play like we do in practice.’

Any trace of doubt slowly faded as the storm in his grey eyes turned to a determined steel. I watched as the lines on his face flattened, a steadiness locking in his jaw as if sculpted by the sheer force of belief.

‘Just like we practised,’ Nico repeated.

In turn, his confidence fuelled my own, the nerves in my stomach now settled, and instead I was finally ready for this fight. There was no option for defeat. I fucking hated that feeling too much to accept it now. I was hungry for the win, starved for the glory, and I refused to let us walk off this court empty-handed.

A coin toss determined who served first: us, and we took our places. Me at the net, Nico at the baseline, serving. I stared straight ahead, my eyes stuck on our competitors, both waiting and ready for the first game to finally begin.

We were here. At the final. Centre Court. I’d thought revenge would be getting here alone, without him. Proving to myself that I could do it. But peace was far more rewarding than revenge could ever be.

And Nico Kotas, he was my peace.

The clap of strings meeting the ball cracked through the silence of the area, the powerful serve flying past me and beginning the first game. Wilson and Carter jumped into motion, Carter easily returning the ball as the rally began.

We had our game plan, our positions and tactics were second nature to us, and we had each other. I sprinted across, easily meeting the ball as we swapped positions, covering for each other, every step we took calculated to ensure we didn’t leave ourselves undefended.

I glanced quickly over my shoulder as we secured our third point, meeting Nico’s confident smile. We were assured in our own skill as single players, but confident and assertive as a doubles team.

They took the next two games, followed by a stupidly mistimed step from me, which allowed Wilson to level the game score, reminding us of what kind of opponents they were. I’d known Carter off the court, and she was friendly, but on grass she was a killer with the forehand.

3–3

With the set score tied, the pressure intensified. I served with precision, forcing Wilson to make a desperate return. We clawed our way back. Nico seized any opportunity that allowed him to unleash his forehand volley and left our opponents scrambling. The crowd erupted in cheers as we clinched the crucial break. The set was ours. One down, one to go.

I couldn’t help but take a moment to celebrate, turning to Nico. ‘Keep it up, old man.’

He smirked. ‘Let me show you how it’s done, katsarída.’

I twirled my racket in my hands, my lips twisting into a playful, teasing expression, feeling a little lighter, more confident, and ready for the second set.

Carter opened with a serve, their tactics becoming increasingly unpredictable, testing our adaptability. We just about kept up, sensing the new game play, and between points, we were forced to strategize, finding new ways to exploit the small gaps in our opponents’ game. Yet Wilson and Carter fought back fiercely, and the set teetered on a knife’s edge, each point a battle for supremacy.

4–3

Two more games and the set would be theirs. I could see the frustration building in Nico. He had begun to hesitate when judging each return of the ball. Our opponents were showing their teeth, proving to us what a danger they could be.

We fought on, returning their powerful serves, both Nico and I battling for every single point. Carter angled a volley over the net, almost catching us off guard. I sprinted, the top of my racket just managing to find the ball in time. The rally continued, and they were determined to win this point, Wilson powering the ball over the net, down the middle of the court. It was too fast for me, flying past me.

I followed the ball, sure the point was over, only to find Nico charging for it. He swung, slamming the ball back over, but he didn’t stop, gliding across the court and falling forward with a hard hit.

The ball hopped over the net, catching our competitors out and winning us the point, but my attention was firmly on Nico, who wearily got to his feet.

40–30

‘You okay?’ I asked.

---