Page 5 of Clean Point

The metallic arch of the rim bent like rubber against the floor of the indoor court, before giving in to the force and shattering into bits. Even the string bed crumpled against the ground and lost any structure it once had. The sharp snaps and cracks bounced off the bare walls, ringing loudly in my ears, barely managing to drown out the voice inside my head repeating over and over.

Failure.

In mere seconds, the racket had fallen to pieces in the same way I’d been doing for months.

‘Are you done yet?’ Jon snipped, appearing at the edge of the court, his tall stature taking up the doorway. He walked over, an unusually light tone to his gruff voice. ‘Or would you like another racket to beat to death? Perhaps you could throw some balls toward the sun and launch them into outer space?’

I turned away, seething anger and frustration still coursing through my veins. I needed a moment to breathe. Struggling not to limp under the fiery ache in my leg, I stretched for my water bottle, taking a deliberate, prolonged sip, wishing I could perform some kind of miracle and turn the drink into whisky.

‘I’m fine,’ I ground out, tossing the bottle into my racket bag. I needed to massage my knee, work through the pain like the physio had shown me, but I wasn’t ready to surrender to that kind of vulnerability. Work through the pain. Pretend it doesn’t exist. It’s all in my head.

Ever since the accident, a simple slip during a match, my knee wasn’t the same. The fatigue of playing professionally had already taken its toll, but after the injury, the pain got worse until it was nearly unbearable to walk for days after competitions.

‘The racket begs to differ.’

I looked plainly at him, but he only shrugged me off. ‘How long have you been here?’

A quick glance at a clock on the opposite wall had me realizing how much time had passed. Hours in the gym used to be nothing to me. I couldn’t let it be any different now.

‘Couple hours,’ I lied easily. I’d had a restless night, pain waking me up at five in the morning despite the pre-bed ice pack. I’d learned the hard way there was no point in trying to get back to sleep, so I’d figured I’d try to train off the pain instead.

I was almost six months post-op, or more accurately six months post the first surgery, and the recovery process was still too slow. I spent weeks trying to distract myself from all the wasted time lying around. From watching old matches, studying opponents and game play, to letting my older brother drag me along to his weekly Dungeons & Dragons group.

At least that wasn’t a complete waste. I got my half-orc Barbarian to level twenty.

When the physio finally allowed me back to regular training, I had thought this would be it. This would be what my body had been begging me for, my feet on the court and a racket in my hand. Feed the hunger that had been building. And get me away from spending the rest of my orc life fighting imaginary goblins and kobolds.

The destroyed racket was evidence of how wrong I’d been.

‘Your physio said you’re allowed back with rest,’ Jon reminded me. His tone was soft, yet his words pricked my skin like tiny needles.

I shook my head. ‘I’ve rested enough.’ Reaching down, I grabbed another racket from my bag before looking back at Jon. ‘Can you just let me practise my returns?’

He didn’t move from his spot, his arms folded. ‘I think you’ve done plenty for today. Hit the ice bath, take a breather. Get out of the house.’

‘I go out,’ I argued back. ‘I’m here, aren’t I?’

‘I meant somewhere other than the gym. When did you last go anywhere other than home, here, and the physio?’ he interrogated. I didn’t answer. There wasn’t anything for me elsewhere. This was all that existed. Well, this and my brother’s basement, but I wasn’t telling Jon anything about game night.

Jon reappeared in my life three months back, sent by my previous trainer when my recovery became too complicated. Jon and I shared a history – buddies from way back when he used to coach me. We’d parted ways after he was poached by another player, but we’d managed to stay in touch, catching up over drinks in hotel bars wherever our paths crossed at tournaments. He’d been helping with the recovery, putting me in contact with his team of doctors and physios. Checking in every few days, he’d blend his analysis into the gameplay I was glued to, insisting on diversifying my watchlist. He forced me through the first Rocky film before I gave in, letting him queue up the entire series and the numerous spin-offs without much protest.

I shook my head and pressed a button on a remote. The machine set up on the opposite side of the net began to shoot balls in my direction. Grinding my teeth, I unleashed a barrage of returns, knocking each ball to the other side. I focused my attention on the fluidity of my movements, attempting to find the rhythm that once came so effortlessly. The familiar sound of the ball meeting the strings and the whip of the racket echoed in the air, and for a moment, I felt a glimmer of the joy this used to bring me. The sun’s heat on my neck, sweat rolling down; the echo of the umpire’s decisions, the relief when it went my way; and the true focus on the win, on my opponent. But every swing carried a reminder of the setback I’d endured, the months of frustration and slow progress. A pang of frustration gripped me, threatening to overshadow my determination. I fought it down, channelling my energy into each stroke, each return.

‘Stop favouring your left leg!’ Jon shouted as he stood on the sidelines. I swore under my breath. I knew I’d been doing it, but the weariness was returning, creeping into my vision. Pushing on, I took his advice and shifted my weight over to my right leg.

I ran back to return the ball, when my right leg shifted unexpectedly from under me. Falling forward, my leg collided with the ground. Groaning in pain, all the air left my body at once as I held my knee in my hands, lying defeated on the ground. Pain searing from the injury. I could feel the ugly scar, the freshly healed skin below my fingertips.

‘Are you going to listen to me now?’ Jon’s head popped into view, his body leaning over me as I laid useless. Deep ragged breaths escaped me as I tried to pull myself together.

‘Probably not,’ I managed, the sound escaping me on a wheeze.

‘Then I guess I’ll leave you here to limp home.’

‘Jon,’ I called out. He’d already disappeared from view, his footsteps echoing further and further away from me. Finally, I relented, frustration getting the better of me. ‘Wait. Fine. You’re right.’

There was a pause, as if he was revelling in the satisfaction of being so goddamn right before he reappeared in my view, a friendly smile and a hand offered my way.

‘Glad you could admit it,’ he said with a strain as he hoisted me up from the ground.

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