Page 133 of Game Point
I served again. She hit like it was her dying breath. But I won again, bringing me closer. I was close, too close to give up now.
40–30
I tried to focus on my heartbeat, my sweaty fingers re-adjusting on the grip of my racket. Panicking, I inspected the handle, expecting to see it cracking, falling apart all over again. But I found nothing but perfectly wrapped tape. Taking a moment, I self-soothed, doing a quick rebalancing exercise.
This grip was the first thing I learned in tennis. Mentally, I went through the list of basics. It was all practically muscle memory at this point, but here, in the final, being intentional allowed me to ground myself again. Find my way back through my anxiety and bring my head back to this court.
I remembered the second thing: where to stand. I found the baseline, placing myself behind it. Knees bent, weight on balls of the feet. I was ready, the basics all ticked off.
I served, hitting hard, this one a rocket as it flew over the net. She hit, I returned, praying that Chloe would fall or miss. But she disappointed me, and sent it back over into open court. I made the return, spiking it over the net to make sure she couldn’t fucking make another shot. But in my desperation, I misstepped, my leg rolling over my ankle.
6–5. I was ahead, but my injury was burning like a brand up my leg, making it hard to even make it to the sidelines. I collapsed into the chair.
‘I’m sorry, I need to call a timeout, I cannot play. I need the physio now,’ I said to the umpire, nodding, waving to the support staff behind the scenes as I slumped into my chair, my hands going to my tender ankle.
I had three minutes to recover as the trainer came out. I explained the problem to her as Chloe came into view.She stood at the net as I tried to discuss the problem with the trainer, but all I could hear was her loud American accent, her words cutting through the noise of the crowd as she shouted at the umpire.
‘She is faking it, you know that.’ Chloe pointed over at me. I tried to focus on what the trainer was saying, instructing me to lie on my back so we could elevate and ice my injury.
I was forced to lie there and listen as she continued to rant at the umpire. ‘I played her in Beijing and she pulled this stunt there too.’
I winced at her words, the reminder of my stupidity at that match. Chloe had said some things to the press after the match, unhappy that I’d collapsed on court. No wonder she thought this was the same. The trainer began to unwrap my ankle, preparing it for a new, stronger tape.
‘What are the rules? She can do this whenever she wants. But she’s lying, and we all know it.’
I closed my eyes and tried to shut her out, instead focusing on the ice pack on my ankle, taking in her words. The umpire was too softly spoken for me to hear her replies, and I was almost sure that Chloe was raising her grating voice to make sure I could hear her. She thought I was playing mind games, so she’s playing them right back.
‘But are you taking into consideration she’s looked fine playing this long? Almost an hour? And now she has this injury?’
I had to bite my tongue, the crowd around us beginning to boo at Chloe’s insistence. I dared to look at her and found her looking right back at me, a sneer on her lips. She looked pissed off.
‘I’m not sitting down. I’m not waiting around for her. I’m here to play.’
Chloe paced up and down the net like a wild animal waiting for its prey to come out of hiding, ready to eat me up and spit me back out. She was pissed, and I was already injured. We finished up, my ankle already feeling slightly better after the short rest and I slowly made my way to my side of the court, trying to get my ankle used to my weight.
I didn’t dare look up at the box, avoided seeing the worried look on Oliver’s face. The fear of letting myself unravel if I did, all the while sitting helplessly on the sidelines, was too much. Instead, I needed to get back on the court as quickly as possible, finish this. If I won this next game, I’d win the match. But I already knew she was ready to fight me for it, tooth and nail. I’d known coming out here that she’d give it her all. I could no longer underestimate the player she was.
She’d draw blood if it meant a win.
Her serve. She hit low, the ball nearly crashing into my feet as I swooped to return, tapping it straight back over. It was no struggle for her to meet me in the open court, her backswing now powerful and refreshed. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. We rallied, exchanging blows of the ball. She swung, aiming it into open court but I was ready, returning as quickly as I could, ignoring the burning pain in my leg. My heartbeat was cool and calm, my nerves under control. But I hit the shot too hard, and it landed out. Her point.
15–0
She won again. 30–0
I swallowed down the pain in my leg, pushed it away andremembered to breathe. There was more to me than this court, than this victory. There was a Dylan who watched films. A Dylan learning to cook. A Dylan who wanted to actually see the cities she visited. A sister. A daughter.
I was more than the person I was on this court. Win or lose.
30–15
I took the point.
40–15
One more and it would be hers. I walked off as the court moved around me, the ball people running in perfectly rehearsed synchrony around the court. My eyes caught on Oliver’s, my breath hitching in my chest.
He looked worried. But when didn’t he?
