Page 18 of Game Point
Avery began to protest, but I closed my eyes and willed myself not to cry.
‘Soon, Avery. I promise,’ I added. I let her get her goodbye out before I pulled the phone away from my face and pressed the ‘end call’ button. I stared down at my phone asthe call screen disappeared, my lock screen replacing it. My own face stared back at me, my baby niece held in my arms.
That was three years ago now, and I could count the times I’d been able to see my nieces since then on one hand. We’d FaceTime on birthdays and random calls I’d have to fight to stay awake waiting for, desperate for a little reminder of home. But being there in person was different; it was being present and seeing them grow up.
A message from Oliver popped up on my phone, pulling me back.
OLIVER
How’s New York treating you?
I ignored the message, knowing I was already far too late, and headed inside the restaurant, spotting the familiar blonde hair of my old mentor inside.
‘I’m so sorry I’m late!’ I apologized, pulling out the chair across from Imogen Foster. The purse of her lips told me she was anything but pleased with my delay.
She was an icon, the queen of the tennis court. Even ten years after her retirement, nobody had come close to rivalling her legendary status. Imogen pushed up from her chair, leaning over to pull me into a quick embrace, her long, slender arms wrapping me, silver bracelets on her left arm jingling against each other as she moved.
‘I see you decided to show up after all,’ she complained as we pulled away, her sandy blonde hair brushing against my cheek.
‘I couldn’t get a friend off the phone.’ You’d think after years of friendship and mentoring, Imogen would beginto anticipate my lateness, but every time, she was left disappointed.
‘How are you doing?’
‘I’m fine.’ I looked around for a waiter, my need for a strong tea becoming desperate. When I looked back across the table, I found Imogen staring over at me.
‘Dylan, you lostagain,’ she began, her voice low. I swallowed down the unnecessary reminder. ‘How are you really?’
‘I’m …’ I considered telling her the truth. How I couldn’t sleep. How badly scared I was to get back onto a court. How I’d been blowing off my practice time to do literally anything else. ‘I’ll bounce back.’
The lie was easy, the words perfectly rehearsed since I’d been repeating them for a week. Even longer if we counted the competitions before.
‘Are you thinking of quitting?’
The sudden bluntness of her question left me almost lost for words, my stuttered response unconvincing. ‘N-n-no.’ I struggled to maintain eye contact. Coughing to clear my throat, I tried again. ‘Of course not. I’m not finished.’
Again, I looked around for a waiter, already regretting agreeing to this lunch and praying for an interruption. Imogen was always straight to the point.
‘But you aren’t thinking about changing tactics? Considering any other coaches? Are you still rebuilding your team?’
‘I like going it alone.’ I shrugged. ‘And I’ve still got some of my team.’ I thought of my hitting partners, my physio, my agent.
I’d gone through a lot of changes in the last year,jumping from coach to coach, and in some cases, using some of the people that they insisted on. Years of working with different people, different teams, trying to find the right fit, it had become as exhausting as playing. I knew I wasn’t the easiest person to work with sometimes.
Pig headed. Arrogant. Bitch. I’d heard it all, and in the last few months. But I knew my body, knew where to put my feet and how to hold a goddamn racket. The revolving door of coaches and the slog of other staff they took along with them made an even louder racket in the press, paired with articles about how ‘difficult Dylan’ couldn’t keep anyone around.
The entire thing made me feel more alone.
‘Really?’ Imogen asked, not bothering to hide the surprise across her features.
‘Imogen, what are younotsaying?’ I was getting sick of beating around the bush, of her playing games. She was supposed to be my mentor, not my therapist, she could tell me the fucking answers.
Her back straightened before she spoke. ‘You say you’re fine, but you just lost another final. And 6–1, 6–2?’ She gasped a laugh. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever watched anyone lose so badly in New York. She dominated you.’
‘Wow, thanks.’
She continued as if I had said nothing. ‘Then you come in here, late.’
‘I’malwayslate.’
