Page 68 of Game Point
‘I don’t know,’ I said, my voice quieter now, the doubts creeping in. ‘Maybe she was scared.’
Mum gave a small nod, acknowledging that possibility, but her expression didn’t change. ‘Or maybe she just … didn’t want to keep trying.’
I shook my head, trying to resist the pull of her suggestion. ‘No, she wouldn’t just quit like that. She loved tennis.’
‘She did. But love isn’t always enough. Especially when there’s someone else who’s always just a little bit better,’ Mum agreed, her voice steady. ‘Next time you talk to her, ask her.’
I was quiet, almost trying to convince myself she was thinking of the wrong person, or mixing my friends up. But I remembered that Avery had said she’d stopped by a bunch, and I didn’t have many friends that still lived locally. I swallowed down the discomfort, nodding and registering the reminder for later.
I inhaled deeply, trying to move on and get back to her original point. ‘Mum, I couldn’t do it anymore.’
‘Do what?’ she asked, her voice softening slightly. ‘What was so bad that you couldn’t call me or your dad and tell us yourself?’
I shook my head, ‘I want this. I’m done. It was too much.’
‘You meanlosingwas too much.’ Her eyebrows pushed up. ‘Second place. I read the news too, you know. Lennon helped me set up a Google alert and everything.’
‘No. Not just that.’ I sucked in a deep breath. This was the conversation I’d been avoiding. Oliver had been kind, letting me off the hook. And so far, I’d left most of my messages and calls unanswered. ‘That didn’t help. If I’m not winning, then what was it all for? But I’m exhausted. Burnt out. I needed to stop.’
‘You need a break,’ she said. ‘In ten years, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you take time off.’
I shook my head, denial on the tip of my tongue. ‘I’m done.’
She looked at me as if I was a child, refusing to eat their peas and carrots for dinner. ‘You are not done.’
My reply was just as juvenile. ‘I am.’
‘Dylan, I raised you. I know my daughter. When you were a kid, I used to have to drag you off that damn court to get you to sit down and take a break. You wore out tennis shoes like they didn’t cost the sun.’
‘That was years ago. I was a kid.’
‘You are the same determined girl. It was relentless. You are relentless. I’d say I didn’t raise a quitter, but you’ve never allowed yourself to even know the definition of the word.’ She stopped, as if I wassupposedto reply, but I didn’t have a goddamn thing to say because all I felt like – more than when I lost at Wimbledon, more than at the US Open, more than any time before – was a failure.
When I didn’t say anything, she softened a little more, her body relaxing against the counter. Perhaps she could see how deeply she cut. ‘I can deal with you coming in second. I can deal with you getting past the first round and failing on the second. I’m still very proud.’ The emotion was welling in her eyes, as if she felt my frustration as much as I did. She blinked a couple of times, taking a deep breath before she continued. Meanwhile, I continued feeling about three years old. ‘You’ve always been tough on yourself, pushing yourself past your limit. If you took a moment to enjoy what you have instead of what you’ve lost, maybe you’d see it.’
I couldn’t help but ask, my voice quiet. ‘See what?’
‘That you have won. Plenty of times. You have your beautiful house –’
‘That I never use,’ I muttered.
She raised an eyebrow, continuing, ‘A family that loves you.’
‘That I never see.’
The next look she sent me was scary, but scary in that ‘I’m your mum, now listen’ way. ‘You have the power to change all of that. Spend more time at home, concentrating on this side of the world. Don’t enter every single tournament and give your energy to every single competition. Settle, Dylan. Settle with being happy and satisfied and having fun. Because recently, you do not look like you are having any fun, and that breaks my heart more than anything.’
Neither of us said anything for a while. I wasn’t quite sure if there was anything more to say. I wasn’t ready to consider her words; instead I tucked them away for another time. A time when I felt ready. Maybe when I started to miss the feel of that fuzzy green ball against my fingertips, the strength I had with a racket in my hand, the fresh air, the sun burning on the back of my neck.
The next thing I knew, my mum’s arms were around me again, pulling me into her, despite her smaller height. Her hands stroked my back.
‘I don’t want you to turn around in a few years and regret it. You can have both things, a life and tennis. It’s about learning how to balance.’
‘Thanks, Mum.’ I swallowed uncomfortably, knowing better than to argue with her. My eyes involuntarily shifted to Oliver, spotting him hand in hand with two of my nieces, running around and around.
How had he made himself at home this quickly?Literally in the time it took me to turn my back and get us a drink.
Somehow, as Mum released me, a more hopeful smile replacing the frustrated press of her lips. I felt like he might have the answer, or something close to an answer.It sounded like something he’d advocate for, everything he’d promised me on the plane here when he’d pitched coaching me. But a new coach meant returning. Was I ready? Did I still want this?
