Page 48 of Game Point
I wasn’t about to let this point go. Convinced I could fight back. I had to win this point.
She served, and it took all my strength to meet her intensity, the burn-out from the second round hitting hard. The pain intensified as I sliced to return the ball. My aim was off, the pain growing every time I swung. The crowd gasped as I broke the rally with a drop shot, and I expected the point to be mine. But Chloe was fucking faster. She saw the shot coming a mile away and she sprinted like hell, hitting it over the net. I was too tired to even run to return. I watched, unable to move.
I knew I had to work harder somehow. We were allowed a quick break, and I could barely make my way to my bench without wincing.
The seconds ticked away fast, and I was still trying to figure out my strategy for the next point when time was up and it was my serve.
Every moment of the serve hurt like hell. The stretch up, throwing the ball, swinging my racket forward to meet the ball. It all intensified the pain, blacking out all other thoughts. If I had managed to think of any strategy at all, it was pushed from my mind.
The ball was called out. Swearing under my breath, I caught another ball, bouncing it against the hard-court surface. My hand shook as I served. Pain seared with the movement, but thankfully this serve was in, and Chloe leaped into action.
She won the point again.
0–15
And then again.
0–30
Until finally.
0–2
She was confident and cocky, twirling her racket, running around the court like she owned it because honestly … she did. This might not have been a Grand Slam but it was a huge tournament, and she’d reached the final and worse yet, she waswinning.
I had years of experience stacked against her, and still she was beating me like I was a fucking amateur. Two more sets went her way, and I had given up.
I was fighting against a rising tide, against a tsunami. My body was a useless thing, trained to run hard and swing and suppress everything else. Losing again was not acceptable. Not with everything on the line. Not when I’d done everything Brooke had asked of me. And not when I’d pushed Oliver away for this.
I’d done all I could, and it hadn’t been enough.
We came down to the final point. For the first time in my life, I wanted to sob openly in court. Wanted to fall to my knees and cry for all my wasted time and effort.
I was done. I was fucking done.
And when the umpire called ‘Game, set and match,’ my legs lost whatever strength they had left and I fell to the court, the entire world going black around me.
DYLAN
You were right.
I’m really sorry
Can I call?
17
Dylan
Down Bad – Taylor Swift
I stared down at the unanswered messages to Oliver, guilt for everything I’d said to him a heavy anchor on my heart. Overwhelmed, I instead focused on my drink, lifting the glass up and taking a long, savouring sip. The bar was busy, full of people who thankfully hadn’t noticed my presence. I kept my head down, trying to hide, and let myself sit in my sadness.
It had been a few days since I’d gotten out of hospital. They had diagnosed me with exhaustion along with the injury, a realization that had left me laughing, and then rolling in pain. They had looked at me strangely, as if I didn’t already know I had been running on empty for months. Like I hadn’t reached back-to-back finals and picked up my racket the very next day for practice.
‘Hey, are you Dylan Bailey?’ I looked up to find a man, barely able to stand.Looks like somebody had one too many.I didn’t say anything as he slid a napkin across the table towards me, a pen in his other hand. ‘Can I get your autograph? My daughter’s a big fan.’
‘Sure,’ I muttered, just trying to get this over with. Hanging about in bars was never a good idea. There were always one or two fans.
