‘And you look …’ She paused, the strength in her demeanour melting, giving way to a sorrow in her gaze I’m not sure I’ve ever seen from her. ‘Dylan, you look upset. You look exhausted. And then you tell me nothing is wrong, nothingis changing. You’re doing everything the exact same way as before. When it’s clearly not working for you.’
What was I supposed to say? The answer arrived in the form of a waiter, interrupting the heavy silence that had fallen between us.
‘Are you ready to order?’ he asked, looking awkwardly between us. Without missing a single beat, Imogen turned and ordered her lunch, a Greek salad. I mumbled the same, still struck by the emotional blow Imogen had dealt me.
‘Something needs to change, Dylan,’ she said as the waiter disappeared. ‘You have a lot of potential, and I can’t stand seeing it go to waste.’
I bit my tongue. What fucking potential? There was nothing fucking worse than somebody telling you that you were wasting your talent, your years of training. Like, what? I wasn’t trying hard enough? I wasn’t giving this my body, mind and soul?
And for another entirely unknown reason, I thought of Oliver, his last text left unanswered after Avery called. I thought of him, a stranger I’d met at a party I didn’t want to go to who believed in me. Who made a bet with me, and never let me feel like I hadn’t done enough.
‘I’m trying my best.’ I managed the four words. The four words I almost wanted to brand on my skin as a reminder to both myself and everyone else around me.
‘I know.’ She paused, taking a final sip from her coffee. ‘But you need to do something different.’
My hand curled into a fist under the table, nails digging into the bed of my palm as I tried to stop myself from running out of the restaurant.
‘How do you suggest I do that?’
Imogen leaned down, placing her purse on her lap. She dug a crisp white business card out and laid it on the table in front of me. I didn’t need to look at it to know whose name and details were embossed on the heavyweight card.
‘Give her a call,’ Imogen pressed, and it took the rest of my self-control not to crumple the card up, tear it into pieces, or steal the handheld blowtorch a nearby waiter was using to unnecessarily smoke something nearby while a fellow restaurant patron filmed for their social media.
I shook my head. ‘There’s no way she will help.’ The memory of our last interaction was hard to forget, even if it was over two years ago.
Imogen’s voice was firm as she continued, ‘She will because I asked her to.’
I allowed myself to pick up the card and feel the luxurious paper between my fingers. I looked back at Imogen. ‘You do remember I threw a paperweight at her head?’
‘And you missed. It’s a good thing you didn’t pick a sport where you need to hurl anything.’
I didn’t laugh, every single word of the argument that had led to the action from me still cemented in my head, replaying itself over when I couldn’t sleep in the early hours of the morning. Haunting me the night before every final. Following me every time I stepped onto a court.
‘Imogen … this is a bad idea.’
Imogen repeated herself. ‘You need help. You need her.’
‘You really think she will help?’ I asked, my words almost a whine.
Do you really think she will even pick up the phone?
Imogen nodded. ‘I do believe she can help. After all, it was Brooke who turned you into a pro.’
OLIVER
Congrats on the new coach! Good to see you’re working on our bet.
DYLAN
Yes, of course, this is all so you can keep my trophy.
OLIVER
Your trophy? Getting ahead of yourself, aren’t you?
DYLAN
Just getting you used to it.