Page 80 of Clean Point

She only narrowed her eyes on me, clutching the material close to her body. ‘You stuffed vintage Versace in your tennis bag?’

‘It was safe there, and you wanted it back.’ I shrugged. She rolled her eyes at me, muttering some complaint about ‘children’ and ‘dresses are not play things’ all the while she refolded the dress perfectly, placing it delicately in her tote.

‘It’s older than you are,’ she noted, still holding a look of disdain in her eyes.

I waved her off. ‘Throw it in with your dry cleaning. It will be fine.’

‘You know, there’s a reason I got that particular dress.’ Her anger dissipated, the smile on her lips turning coy. ‘I waited a long time, made connections and friends in high places, but if there was one thing I wanted to remember my runway days by, it was this.’

We reached the cool down room, other players stretching out. Mum was temporarily distracted, eyeing the other athletes.

‘What is it?’ I pulled her attention back to me.

‘On this particular runway, I showed up puking my guts up. All morning the stylist was getting so irritated with me because I could hardly hold it together. She said, you shouldn’t party so hard if you can’t handle it. And then made some very harmful and outdated comments about it keeping me skinny.’ She rolled her eyes, her smile growing on her lips as she continued. ‘Which turned out to be very ironic because it was morning sickness, and I was about to put on a lot more weight.’

I paused, putting together her words. ‘You mean …’

‘You, my darling, were part of the Versace 1998 runway.’ She smiled, looking rather pleased with herself. ‘The entire London Fashion Week, actually. But this show was when I knew that you were with me.’

I paused, taking in the information, and found myself thinking that it was strange that it had been the dress I’d chosen to take to remind myself of her. For a moment, I felt myself mad all over again that I’d missed out on an entire childhood with her. She was young, had an entire career ahead of her. If I found myself in the same position, I wouldn’t be in it for long. But she’d still had me. I’d never asked her why. I tucked the question away for another time, knowing that no matter her choices, I was just happy she was here with me now.

‘That’s pretty cool.’ I smiled softly at her. ‘I need to shower, then can we meet? Maybe go watch a game?’

She nodded enthusiastically back at me. ‘I’ll go find us some Pimm’s to celebrate with,’ she said, before she leaned forward, kissing me softly on the cheek. ‘I’m so proud of you,’ she whispered gently against me, pulling me into another quick hug. ‘Now go shower. There’s only so much sweat this Chanel can take.’

I showered fast, keeping the water roasting hot to soothe my aching muscles, but as I was leaving the locker room, a familiar male voice rang from the row of lockers opposite mine, keeping me completely hidden from view.

‘What were you doing out there today? Your footwork was a complete mess.’

I’d have known that voice if it spoke quietly in a crowded room. It was Matteo. For a moment, I thought the words were aimed at me, as if he had come back to tell me off. But then I heard her.

‘My footwork was fine. I won after all.’ Dylan’s response was snarky. I could practically hear her furrowed brows and crossed arms at his comment. She’d been playing a different match today, and obviously, had walked away successful. Apparently, she still had to learn that it wasn’t enough for her new coach.

‘Barely! Did you forget you have a backhand? I couldn’t tell if you were avoiding it on purpose.’

‘I played like I normally play.’ Her response was flat, and I could hear her shuffling about as if she was emptying her locker, not even giving him her full attention. I felt a small pang of delight at that, at how angry that would make him.

‘Your game plan was non-existent. It’s like you were hoping your opponent would get bored and leave.’ He started to walk back and forth, so I creeped further up my row of lockers, making sure I was hidden from sight.

‘I didn’t like the game plan we had discussed beforehand. I made some adjustments, I didn’t wa—’

‘We only won because you got lucky.’

A moment of silence fell, only to be broken by a heavy exhale. ‘I,’ Dylan’s voice rang, tired and dry.

‘What?’ Matteo questioned.

‘I won. Not “we”,’ she corrected, her voice not losing her edge for a moment. A locker door banged shut, and then she continued. ‘I ignored your game plan because it was wrong. And I won.’

There’s a long pause, tension tightening in the humid air of the locker room. ‘Next time, you’ll play as I tell you to. Don’t forget, you signed a contract with me. You can’t use another coach, you can’t switch teams. You play with me, or you don’t play at all.’

I listened, committing every word he said to memory. Could he really put that in a contract? It couldn’t be binding? But Dylan didn’t argue. She didn’t say anything at all.

‘Now change and meet me in the car,’ Matteo instructed as he left, the room turning silent. I took a moment, unsure of my next steps. I thought about waiting until she left. I was almost sure she wouldn’t find me here and I could avoid the confrontation. Dylan had made it clear she didn’t want my help, but she didn’t know how much she might need it.

I curled my hand into a fist, fingernails digging into my palm as I reluctantly pushed myself out of the corner. Did I want to talk to her? No. But after everything that had happened, this still felt like my mess to clean up.

I swallowed down the lump in my throat as I crept along the row of metal lockers before, finally, I turned the corner to the row over, and found her sitting on the middle bench, still dressed in her usual Nike white skirt and top, her head held in her hands.

---