Page 90 of Game Point
I tried to snatch it from her, sick of waiting, but she only pulled away. ‘Ball, Scottie.’
She rolled her eyes before she threw it over. ‘One day, I’m going break you. Whether it be a chocolate fountain, a margarita machine or just desperation to dish over your boy problems.’
‘I don’t have boy problems.’ I turned, walking to the serving line.
‘I don’t believe you!’ She sang the words back, the distance still enough that it was tempting to throw the ball back at her, aiming straight for that pretty head of hers. One glance across at Nico Kotas – her growly fiancé/6’3” bodyguard – reminded me otherwise.
My serve, the shot flying over the net, finding Oliver’s racket. He swung, returning and we volleyed across the court, Scottie getting some great returns in as she broke up the play. As much as I liked to give her a hard time, playing with her like this was actually kind of fun.
She was fast, I could trust her to get a ball when it hit the other side of the court, and we didn’t have too many disagreements tactically; we knew each other well enough as players, it was like sharing a brain.
She returned the ball, a powerful shot fired right to the edge of the court. Only Nico, with his albatross-levelwingspan, could manage to reach that, hitting it back over the net to open court.
On instinct, I ran towards it, pulling back my arm in preparation. He hit it far, the ball just in, but that didn’t mean I didn’t stand a chance of reaching it. I pushed my body, refusing to relent. With burning lungs, my trainers slid across the hard court, my legs staying strong as I closed the distance. Closer and closer, the ball came within reach. With a strike of my racket, I aimed the shot over the net, my eyes tracking its journey. A groan ripped through me at the effort, the release of tension in my body a relief.
And then, under my weight, my ankle buckled, and before I knew it, my back hit the court, my leg under my weight, burning with pain. I cried out, unable to stop hot, panicked tears escaping me. The pain grew worse under even the slightest touch.
The first person who reached me was Scottie, her husky blue eyes staring straight into mine, a wild panic clear. Her hand reached for mine, squeezing as she wrapped her fingers around mine, her voice telling me it was going to be alright, asking where it hurt.
As the extent of the injury dawned on me, reading the realization in her face, my lungs grew tighter and tighter with anxiety, my sobbing began to turn into chokes for air, grasping at my rival. Scottie moved, sitting behind me as she pulled my body back into hers, her hands softly touching my arms, running up and down to comfort me.
It was only when I saw Oliver’s face, the sheer guilt and fear etched across his features, that I realized even Mr Endless-Well-Of-Optimism had run dry of hope.
31
Dylan
when the party’s over – Billie Eilish
I lay still on the bed, trying to remember some of the visualization exercises Amy had taught me. At first, I’d scoffed at the idea of imagining rivers and leaves but sometimes – late at night when sleep felt like an unfamiliar concept and anxiety was wreaking havoc on my brain – I found myself feeling desperate enough to try.
And as I lay there, my ankle on ice and elevated to try and take down the swelling, I felt that familiar hopelessness clouding me again.
What if this was it? The end. The cruel irony of my retiring, only to return and immediately fucking injure myself playing a casual doubles match would’ve had me giving up all over again if I still believed I had any actual control in all of this.
There was a quick knock and after a moment, Oliver appeared, apprehension clear across his face as he asked, ‘Can I come in?’
I swallowed, silently nodding my head.
He closed the door, reaching the bed in a few strides. His gaze lingered on my lifted leg. ‘How are you doing?’
‘Super,’ I answered dryly. ‘I’m living my best life here.’
‘I know this isn’t ideal …’ He trailed off, as if he hadn’t even thought of the second half of his sentence.
‘Ideal?’ I repeated, dumbfounded. ‘No, Oliver. This is fucking far from ideal.’
He opened his mouth to speak again. I bit my tongue, trying my best not to turn my fear and anxiety into anger, into a sharp tongue that took no prisoners.I didn’t want to hurt him like that. Not again.
I inhaled deeply, reminding myself not to lash out like after the crash. I’d hurt him, and I didn’t want us to go to that place again. I gripped the bed underneath me, taking in the hollow look in his eyes. The silence that filled the room was sending me spinning even further.
Another knock at the door, and Dr Reid, the on-call doctor at the private hospital they had taken to me, stepped inside.
He smiled softly. ‘Hello Dylan, how are you feeling?’
‘Elevated,’ I said, looking at my leg. ‘And cold.’
‘I know it can be uncomfortable but it’s the best way to get rid of the swelling.’ He stopped at the end of the bed, still consulting his notes. Oliver moved to me, stepping to the side. ‘We’ve taken a look at the results of your MRI.’ I didn’t question when Oliver’s hand found mine and interlaced our fingers. ‘It looks like you’ve avoided a more severe ligament injury, and I’m confident that we are dealing with a moderate sprain.’
