Page 110 of Game Point
I restrained myself from violence. ‘Of course.’
‘You aren’t worried about further injury?’
The post-match conferences were sometimes more exhausting than the matches, from the repetitive nature of their questions. ‘I’ve got the green light from my team to compete, the injury was minor. I feel ready to be a strong competitor.’
The reporter nodded, finishing with a softly spoken ‘thank you’ as he sat back down in his chair. Meanwhile,every other hand in the room shot up, each person begging for their slice of me. I looked at Oliver, letting him select the next one.
He nodded towards a man in the centre. I held my breath as he asked his question, hardly missing a beat as he asked, ‘Who are you wearing today?’
Part of me didn’t know what kind of questions I liked more. Injury-related ones, or disgustingly sexist questions instead.
‘Do you ask the men this too?’ I swallowed down the more offensive things I was tempted to tell him, and instead, saved myself the hassle. ‘Um … ELITE.’
‘Great, thanks.’
I looked at my phone, saw the time and mentally calculated the minimum number of minutes I had left in this godforsaken room. Two notifications caught my eye, a missed call from Scottie, and a text from Avery.
AVERY
Caught the last of your match! Quite a fall you took. We should get a drink.
I pushed down the niggling in my gut caused by her text and instead glanced to the side of the room where Oliver was, searching his face as if he would have the answer to why Scottie would’ve called me, but instead, he was already picking out the next reporter.
The devil in the skin suit of Rachel Kendrick stood up and my fingers curled into a fist at even the sight of her, our last chat, the interview, still freshly scarred in my mind.
Her perfectly manicured red nails drummed on herphone as she began to speak. ‘You’ve changed coaches four times in the last year. Do you think the chaotic changes behind the scenes of your career are the reason for your mixed performance on court?’
‘Mixed performance?’ I questioned, a hint of apprehension in my voice.
Whatever she was after, her expression gave nothing away. ‘Your recent displays in Wimbledon and the US Open, on the tour as well. You missed the French.’ she listed them off like I didn’t reach the final of every single one. Like I didn’t come second. And fuck, I knew it wasn’t first. I reminded myself of that all the goddamn time. But I’d hurt myself enough with that information that when she used it to infer that I’d failed at those tournaments, it didn’t have the same sting as before.
‘I did well in those tournaments.’
Her next three words are sharp, aimed directly at my heart. ‘You didn’t win.’
Months ago, those words would have sent me into a spiral and left me feeling like a failure. It’s what I’d called myself for many years, beating myself up, allowing coaches and the media to tell me the same.
I thought of that shelf that had stayed empty. Telling myself that everything I had accomplished was for nothing. I’d belittled everything I’d worked for because it wasn’t first and it never led me anywhere, only leaving me burnt out and homesick for a country half the world away.
‘Listen. I understand coming first is important, I’m the competitor in the room, I want it more than anyone.’ I looked around, the silence striking. ‘But most of the workI’ve been doing recently is to show up and do my best. And maybe if second best is all I can do, then fine.’
The confession lifted a weight from my chest, as if the acceptance of this limitation, whatever caused it, helped ease the anxiety. ‘But I’m still competitive, and blood-thirsty, as some of my opponents can attest to.’ I grinned. Some would understand, some wouldn’t. All of which was out of my control. And didn’t really matter.
What did matter was Oliver’s expression, his beaming pride. I could already feel the hug he’d give me after this, his arms pulling me into his warm body.
Oliver moved on, picking another journalist.
‘How do you think this new mindset played into your performance today?’ a tall, clean-shaven man asked.
‘I was determined to win,’ I replied. ‘And I wasn’t going to let a slip take a single point away from me.’ I thought back to the match. I could have stayed down, not pushed through. But I wanted every single point. Even one missed was an opportunity for her to steal the victory from me.
The reporter nodded, taking in my answer, before looking between Oliver and me. ‘One more question?’
Oliver looked to me for confirmation, before agreeing with the journalist. I readjusted myself on the chair, impatient for this to be over.
The journalist coughed to clear his throat, before speaking. ‘We’ve had word that Inés Costa has crashed out of the Australian Open. We know the two of you are close, do you want to make a comment?’
My heart stopped in my chest. ‘She’s out?’
