Page 90 of Heart Match

The security gives me a doubtful glance but decides to turn a blind eye after he checks Jules’ badge. Then I’m in. Finally.

‘Thank you so much for doing this, Jules.’

He looks back at me, amused as we walk through the crowd heading to the Centre Court in a hurry to catch the beginning of the match.

‘What?’ I say.

‘Nothing.’

I don’t know if it’s because he’s happy I’m here, or because his brother will be happy to see me here. Maybe both.

#

I find myself once again in front of a screen, this time in a private area inside the Centre Court building. I told Jules I’d rather not make an appearance at the player box right now. I have no idea how Luc will react when he sees me, it can be either bad or good, and I don’t want to be a distraction. I might have also taken the advantage of the private bathroom to freshen up. I’m sure I’ve made the right decision when I rinse my feet under the shower.

The match is about to start. Luc looks focused, but not nervous. I realise that when he enters the court he turns a part of him on and another off. His expression changes, his body language too. My heart is hammering against my chest, my skin is prickling.

He’s wearing the same white outfit from his previous matches. The cap backwards. He has ear buds in. I wonder what he’s listening to. He waves to the crowd and throws them a wide smile. Someone’s taking his and his adversary’s—Moretti—backpacks and places each on their respective benches. He picks a racket. He takes his jacket off. A coin is tossed. Moretti wins and is going to serve first. They begin the warmup. The crowd is loud, screaming both their names. Fans are holding signs with messages to their favourite player. A heart shaped one reads Marry me Lamaire. I shouldn’t be surprised. Still, I am.

The match begins, and I hold my breath. He loses the first and second games easily. Then he also loses the first set after 45 minutes. His expression hasn’t changed. He’s still focused and determined, but now sweaty. He’s doing that thing of his, tugging on his T-shirt on the shoulder, touching his nose then pulling a strand of his hair behind his ear before throwing the ball in the air and hitting it with his racket bouncing it to the other side of the net.

He loses the second set too, after forty minutes. My heart sinks. It seems as though the crowd favourites Moretti. Both players seem to be immune to the cheers and screams and whistles around them, theirs heads are somewhere else. On the game. On the title.

I’ve been sitting on a chair all this time, but when the third set begins I stand up. If he loses this set, he loses the match and the title. If he wins, he needs to win the next set too so they can go to the fifth set. Don’t even ask how I know this, the narrator just said it.

I bite my nails, I curse, I throw punches in the air, I scream yes. Moretti is winning 2-3, then it’s 3-3, then Luc is winning 4-3, then 5-3, then Moretti comes back for a 5-4 and 5-5. I don’t think I can watch this anymore. Luc wins another game, and now it’s 6-5, then he wins the next game, and the set too. I feel a rush of adrenaline take over me. He did it. He won the freaking set after almost an hour and a half.

While I’m going out of my mind, despite looking visibly tired and drenched in sweat, Luc seems focused, which seems to me is the most important thing in a game like this. He’s drinking water sitting on the bench, waiting for the match to continue, staring pensively at an invisible point somewhere in the middle of the court. I can’t imagine what’s going through his head now, knowing that he needs to win the next set for a chance to win on the fifth set. I don’t know how he can be so calm. But I guess that’s part of his job.

During the fourth set, he begins to let out his emotions a little. He mutters something to himself when he hits the ball against the net, or when he doesn’t manage to get to the short balls coming from Moretti. He cheers more when he wins a point, making a fist and flexing his elbow closer to his body. He looks at somewhere in the middle of the crowd, which I guess must be his family, Maurice and Daniel in the player box.

He rearranges the cap on his wet hair, which he tugs behind his ears. And now as he wins one more game against Moretti, he lets out a scream. Yes. It is as if it’s been trapped all this time, there’s so much emotion in that scream, I can see the veins on his face.

Luc’s winning 5-4 on this set. Now the crowd seems to be entirely in his favour. How insane is that? I guess people just enjoy a good fight, in this case, match. As it stands, if Luc wins the next game, they’re on for the fifth set.

Today at 5:31 pm

Me: I’m coming.

Jules: About time!

It’s time. As I walk away from the TV, my heart is upset with me. It hammers, it kicks, it rushes, it’s loud in my ears and has found its way up my throat. There’s no turning back now, I’m here for this, I have to do this, because I want to do this.

After walking through long hallways, turning a few times and asking people along the way for directions, I open a door and it feels impossible to control my heart and the goosebumps taking over my body at what I see. I find myself in the middle of the crowd in the famous green seats, the grass court and Luc just before my eyes. It’s a feeling I’m not able to describe. It’s nothing compared to watching on TV. It’s real, it’s huge. It’s Wimbledon. I stand there frozen, overwhelmed by the cheers. Everyone’s standing up from their seats to celebrate one more point, I can’t tell from which player, but considering how the crowd seem crazy about Luc’s comeback, I’m guessing it was his.

‘Olivia, here.’ I hear Jules almost shouting a few steps down to the left. He has a big smile on his face. He sits back on his seat next to his parents. I join them and sit between Jules and Annette.

I can’t believe I’m here. This is so insane my mind feels foggy.

‘Just in time,’ says Dom winking at me. Annette seems nervous, just as I am. She looks at me with a smile on her face and gives my hand a little squeeze, then looks back at court, fidgeting with her fingers on her lap.

‘Thank you,’ I say to Jules, who nods and winks at me.

I try to find myself in the game again, and Jules points out a big green sign in the back of the court where I can follow the game. It has an oversized Rolex watch with the players’ names and respective points under it, and for how long they’ve been playing. Just as I’m finding myself on the game again, I hear Luc letting out a scream and assume he just scored.

‘One more for Luc and the fifth set is on,’ says Jules.

Oh God.

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