Page 106 of Game Point
His forehead tilted forward, meeting mine. ‘You make me happy.’
‘But is it enough?’
His eyes gazed into mine, his hand moving to caress the line of my jaw as his lips found mine again, kissing deeply. ‘Dylan,’ he said between kisses, ‘just as long as you’re mine. No matter the label, there’s no need for one until you’re ready. But justmine.No one else’s. Because I know I’m already yours.’
‘I am,’ I said, my heart squeezing tightly in my chest as my own fingers found his arms, gripping at the muscles as if I was holding onto him for dear life. ‘I’m yours, and you’re mine.’
‘Then I’m the happiest man in the world.’
35
Oliver
The Kill – Maggie Rogers
Bailey vs Petrovic
1st Round – Margaret Court Arena
Dylan’s serve sliced through the air with a sharp crack, the ball arcing over the net with precision and landing in open court.That’s my fucking girl.
I sat on the edge of my seat in the players’ box, my eyes tracking every single movement of her powerful body. She was built for this, for on-court battle. And today, the satisfied curve of her lips told everyone watching how much fun she was having dismantling her Serbian opponent, Mila Petrovic’s, plays.
The fight continued and I tracked Dylan’s braced ankle, studying it for weaknesses. The joint had rested sufficiently that the physio was happy to sign off on her playing in the tournament. Thankfully her seed was high enough she didn’t need to play in the qualifiers, getting direct entry into the competition and giving us an extra week to ease her joint and body into increasingly intensive movement.
AD–40. One more point, and the game would be hers. The first set was as effortless for Dylan, and now, 4–1 into the second set, victory was only another two games away. The crowd cheered loudly, trying to rouse Dylaninto another victory. My heart skipped a beat at the return of her smile, watching her soaking up the energy from the crowd.
She served, firing the ball like a bullet over the net. It landed with a thunderous thud on the hard court, the snap of strings indicating Mila’s quick return. Dylan unleashed a powerful backhand, gripping her racket in both hands as the swish of her equipment cut through the hushed quiet of the arena. They battled it out relentlessly, the speed of the ball like flashes of lightning, each tired groan from the players growing more laboured.
My head was turning to track every motion of the ball as it flew across opposite sides of the court. They traded shot after shot, the speed and intensity building.
Mila tried to catch Dylan off guard, aiming into wide open court, but Dylan was fast, sprinting across to catch it, pivoting her body to return the hit. As the strings of her racket connected, Dylan lost her balance, her body slipping.
She hit the hard court, the ball still travelling across the court, her eyes not leaving it for a second. Not as my heart stopped in my chest, a band across my ribcage pushing all the air from me as I was forced to watch the scene unfold. The cry that escaped me was lost in the noise of the crowd, the entire arena letting out a gasp of horror at Dylan’s fall.
It felt like time stood still as she regained her balance, keeping her feet beneath her, a free hand going to stabilize her. Barely a second passed before she was pushing up and away from the ground, lunging towards the ball. Her racket sliced through the air, meeting the shot witha satisfying thwack. Mila was caught unawares, underestimating Dylan, her tenacity, and as the returning ball hit the baseline the crowd broke into a frenzy.
Relief clenched at my heart as it pounded in my chest, still unsure how she’d managed to keep her freshly repaired ankle from keeping her down.
The game was hers, and soon after, the set, her comeback from the fall acting as a launchpad for her to claim the next point in very little time. I stood on my feet, whistling and cheering after her with the rest of the crowd, Dylan a favourite in her hometown.
She took a moment after meeting Mila at the net to shake her hand, standing in the middle of the blue court. She stood tall, looking every bit as triumphant as I knew she felt, soaking up the atmosphere of the crowd. There was something about a home crowd, the energy they gave off had the potential to alter the course of an entire set.
Her eyes found mine, the delighted grin turning cocky.
‘See,’ she mouthed to me, indicating the court as if to say,Look, I got this. This is mine.
I nodded once, pride replacing the anxiety that had been building in my chest, managing to exhale properly for the first time in forty-five minutes. She span, the skirt of her bright-red outfit twirling around her, revealing tanned thighs I was more than familiar with.
It was only when she limped over to the bench to collect her bag, giving the crowd another wave, the all-too-familiar anxiety began to bite back, the evidence of her slight injury gnawing at the back of my brain. I knew she could do this, I’d never had any doubt. But I was certain we hadn’t seen the last of this sprain. Competing at thislevel, with this intensity and pressure, was hard enough on the body and mind.
If something aggravated her injury, it could spell catastrophe. Could spell the end of her career, and it would be all my fault. She was my responsibility, my player on court, my Dylan off.
36
Dylan
C’est Comme Ça – Paramore
