Page 27 of Game Point
This was my legacy? Losing. My entire life’s work boiled down to being the biggest loser in women’s tennis. I counted over and over in my mind, recalling every painful loss, each scene still living in my head with perfect clarity. The wins, they all blurred together. They mattered at the time, but they burned bright and fast and then it was on to the next match, the next competition. But the losses, they stuck out like a painful blotchy bruise, changing colourand intensity with time, still hurting weeks after the initial injury.
The room around me grew tighter, the air hotter.
‘W-what was the question?’ I mumbled, my mind still rolling through the rest of her words.
Rachel’s lips pursed, as if I was putting her out by getting her to repeat her question. ‘With your goal to win at a Grand Slam, how does the knowledge of having the most runner-up positions in women’s tennis affect that? Does it change your goal?’
There was a vacuum of thought, a low hum playing like background music in my brain, replacing tangible words. I’d been asked similar questions before. How do you recover from this disappointing loss? What steps will you be taking in order to ensure victory next time you play? I always had an answer, a new strategy or point of training. I’d gone through coach after coach, all with their own theories until I’d burned through enough that I’d learned I knew my body better than anyone else.
I’d learned, revised and practised. I hit the gym seven days a week and lived life as half a person without caffeine. I’d dedicated myself to playing, because losing wasn’t supposed to be an option. Losing, like quitting, was a weakness and there was none of that to be found in me.
Except apparently the only thing I was good at was losing.
‘Dylan?’ Rachel repeated, pulling me back into the room, the silence cutting. It was all too much.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said, pushing up from my seat. ‘I need to go to the bathroom.’ I headed straight for the door. I didn’t dare to look back at her as I stormed out, almostrunning into one of those reflective light towers, the technician having to dodge me. I could barely apologize, turning and running down the corridor as rage began to burn me up inside.
The need to kick things. Throw things. Act like a child and scream as loud as I could until my lungs and throat burned. In my desperation to be alone, I hauled open the first door my hand could find and plunged myself into darkness.
8
Dylan
the grudge – Olivia Rodrigo
I didn’t know how long I was hiding in the closet for, the stale taste in the air far more welcome than staying a second longer in that room with Rachel. My anger was a furious beast, wild and untamed. A famously short fuse too easily lit, the rage had served me well plenty of times on court, kept me returning and winning against stronger opponents.
Never count Dylan Bailey out, especially when she got mad. And Rachel … it was like she’d run around threatening me with a tankful of petrol and a lighter. My phone buzzed in my back pocket.
OLIVER
How did the interview go?
DYLAN
I’m hiding in a closet.
OLIVER
???
Like … a literal closet?
Or is this your way of telling me you’re gay bc I thought we covered that already.
DYLAN
No a literal closet full of cleaning shit.
A phone call from Oliver filled my phone screen. My finger hovered over the answer button, trying to decide if Iwantedto speak to anyone. But Oliver wasn’t anyone. In the few weeks since I’d met him, he’d managed to place himself near the top of my list of people I seemed to have an infinite social battery for. And considering that list was only a couple of people long, he should consider himself lucky.
I pressed answer, barely able to get a single word out before Oliver blasted into my ear.
‘Can you talk?’ he asked, sounding a little out of breath.
I nodded, though he couldn’t see me. ‘Yeah.’
The low, joking rumble of his voice returned. ‘Is there a reason you’re hiding in a closet? It’s a pretty weird place to host an interview.’
