Page 104 of Drop Shot
Conor manages to squeeze out the tiebreak win, sending the match into the fourth set. My anxiety is rising with every second and the jittery feeling in the crowd around me isn’t helping to level out my racing thoughts.
You can do this, I think toward the spot where Elias sits, sipping on water.Don’t get too in your head. Focus. Win this. I believe in you.
As if he can sense my thoughts, he turns his head and finds me in the box. He winks and that stupid gesture has my stomach doing somersaults.
Why did I tell him we couldn’t try this thing out for real?
Oh, right, because I’m clearly an idiot.
What am I so afraid of? Heartbreak? It isn’t like I haven’t had my heartbroken before. What’s the big deal?
The big deal is that I care a lot about Elias—as my boss, as my friend, even as my fake lover—and if we would end, I know I’d mourn the loss of not just him but his whole family and this whole tennis world I’ve come to love. He might swear up and down that I wouldn’t lose Ebba, but I would, because I know I wouldn’t be able to stomach being around her when all I’d be able to think about is her twin brother. And as for the tennis world, I’m sure Elias thinks he could pull some strings and get me a job with another player or on the social media end, but then I’d be forced to be around him. Perhaps run into him with other girls from time to time. And my heart … I’m woman enough to admit that it’s a fragile thing. Can I be faulted for wanting to protect it?
I visualize shoving all those pesky thoughts out of my mind and focus as the fourth set gets under way. It becomes apparent as the set goes on that Conor is getting tired. He’s young and only recently started climbing in rank. Despite his immense talent five-set matches can be brutal. Elias has stamina on his side. He’s been playing this sport longer and he’s handled numerous five-set matches over the years.
Elias wins the fourth set six to three.
Ebba grabs my hand. “He can do it. One more set. He can pull this off.”
“He can,” I agree, but it doesn’t mean I don’t still feel nervous.
If I thought my stomach felt queasy before it has nothing on how I feel when the final set begins. Conor’s dragging and it gives Elias a chance to pull ahead. But then, somehow, Conor is rallying and catching up from two points down.
“Oh, god,” I mutter. “Please, let him win.”
No offense to Conor, he seems like a decent guy, but I wantmyguy to win.
When Elias scores the fifth point of the match and Conor’s still at four it means if he can win the next point, he’s won the match.
“Come on,” I mutter, leaning forward with my elbows braced on my knees. Surely, I’m wrinkling my designer dress despite the pretty penny that was paid for it, but I don’t care.
Winning the next point isn’t as easy as making the next score—you have to get 15, 30, 40, andthenyour next point would count toward your overall number. The point system still doesn’t make sense to me.
Elias serves and Conor volleys it back. Elias sprints to his left to catch it in time and it soars back over the net. Conor’s there, racket connecting with the ball and—it collides with the net giving the point to Elias making it 15-0.
I’m fairly certain there will be indents left in my cheek from my nails by the time this is over.
Elias serves again and it turns into a long rally.
15-15.
“Oh, come on,” I groan. “Keep it together.”
My heart feels like it’s in my throat as the game continues.
30-15.
40-15.
40-30.
40-40
40-40. Advantage to Conor.
40-40.
40-40. Advantage to Conoragain.
