Clean Point

Scottie

vampire – Olivia Rodrigo

A lifetime of living and breathing and bleeding this sport had led to this. A hot summer’s day in mid-July, Wimbledon’s Centre Court, the Women’s Singles Final. First set was hers. The second mine. And the third and final was so close, so within grasp that my hands practically ached to feel the heavy weight of the winner’s dish.

Gripping the racket tightly, I rhythmically bounced the small green ball against the grass surface. Tiny thumps echoed around the vast, hushed arena as I counted.

One. Two. Three. Just like dad used to do.

With a quick glance at the packed, overheated crowd, I found the family box and locked onto him instantly. A former tennis pro himself, he had retired in his late thirties and turned his eye to nurturing my talent. Now, eagerly leaning forward, his arms rested on his knees, his hands clasped together in anticipation as he followed my every move across the court.

I bet he counted too.

With a satisfied nod and a small smile, I focused ahead, finding my opponent, Dylan Bailey, shifting from side to side, ready and impatient for my serve.

I waited for the gust of eastern wind to die before finally tossing the ball into the air. Exhaling, I unleashed my racket, colliding with the ball and firing it across the court like a missile.

With that, the final battle had begun.

Dylan returned my shot, swiftly whipping her racket through the air with a short cut of her backhand. I lunged across the court, extending my arm to strike back. The rally continued, stroke after stroke, as she effortlessly returned each shot.

My opponent was deadly. One mistake and she’d catch it, exploit it, and triumph. Like me, she was hunting for her first Grand Slam title. And today, one of us would walk away. I couldn’t afford a single misstep, not if I wanted to end this and win. Finally win. I pushed aside the frantic beats of my racing heart, disregarded the piercing gazes from nearly fifteen thousand pairs of eyes fixed upon me. My focus narrowed solely on the one goal I’d trained relentlessly for my entire life.

Return that damn ball.

The hot air grew heavy with the weight of tension as the crowd waited for one of us to falter. The strain was palpable, suffocating and claustrophobic. Her grunts grew tired as she returned another volley, catching me out. Her strings carved down the back of the ball. It spun backward, hit the grass, barely bounced.

My heart stumbled, a surge of adrenaline propelling me from one side of the court to the other. Stretching my arms to their limits, I loosened my grip on the racket as I exerted every ounce of strength to close the distance between the top edge of my racket and the ball. In that moment, milliseconds felt like an eternity.

Years of training, of bloodied blisters on my palms and playing on anyway, of travelling to all the tournaments I could get into, every training session where I hit ball after ball after ball after ball until the strings on my racket broke and I was yelled at to restring the damn thing and start again. It had taken me here, led me onto this court, given my body the strength and resilience it needed to run across the grass in a split second and make this damn return.

My wrist flicked, the top edge of my racket connecting with the ball, striking it back. The ball jumped over the net, launching into the empty space on the other side, before shooting off court and … she’d missed. The roar of the crowd erupted, the noise deafening as always, toe-curling shrieks rang out as I looked around and realized that it was all for me.

‘Game, set, match – Rossi—’

I had won. This was mine. Earned with bruises and strained, aching muscles. With early mornings and missed parties with friends and all the parts of me that had been taken up with training and practice and recovery. It was for this. I was a Grand Slam champion.

Finally, I had done it.

I tried to catch my breath as I choked back emotion, relief hitting me like a tidal wave. Stumbling, I made my way to the net, extending my arm out to take Dylan’s. Her hand met mine, the palm sweaty as her fingers tightened painfully around my already sore hand. I winced in pain, but her gaze only narrowed on me.

She yanked my hand forward, pulling my body close to hers. From the crowd, it might have looked like a hug, yet it was anything but, her reserve of strength much greater than mine after the tiring match.

Amid the deafening cheer, her words were almost lost, but with her lips at my ear, she sneered, ‘Remember this feeling, Scottie. It won’t last forever.’

She turned away, releasing me to the crowd as the officials reached me in congratulation. The moment apparently went unnoticed as Dylan gave her speech, receiving the runners up plate and thanking all the usual people with an expected look of defeat. Her words continued to play around my head, and despite my victory, discomfort lodged itself in my gut.

When my fingers met the cold polished silver of the Venus Rosewater Dish, the moment fully enveloped me. Relief surged as I remembered every time I’d considered quitting, even as recently as a few months ago, after I’d suffered an injury to my knee and my training came to a grinding halt. I was sure I’d be out for months.

Holding the dish high as the flash of cameras went off around me, I looked to the player’s box again, finding my father. His eyes were on me, a warm smile on his lips, his hands wiping at his eyes. I could feel his pride radiating down on me, finally claiming my own title to sit alongside his. Continuing his legacy, training me to pick up his mantle, had been his focus for the last decade, and now it had all paid off.

All of this success, the glory of this win, was intertwined with his support and legacy. From the age of five, when my training first started, he woke at four in the morning, preparing breakfast and setting up drills. He assembled a team of experts, ensuring that I had the best resources at my disposal. His dedication matched, if not surpassed, my own, and he worked tirelessly, sharing my dreams of victory and pouring his heart into every step of our journey.

The rest of the ceremony slipped away in a blissful haze of champagne and celebration. The crowd buzzed as I lifted the dish above my head, walked around the court, and soaked in the reality of it all. The oppressive summer heat had melted away with a cool wind when we finally made our way inside, surrounded by my team and excited press.

By the time the sun set on the warm summer evening, I was beat from weeks of tireless competition. I headed home early, to the house I still lived in with my father. Boundaries would be nice, but since we trained together every morning, it didn’t make sense to live apart.

Since I turned twenty-two last year, I moved out to the pool house, giving me some independence and a space to call my own, but I still had to walk through the main house for access.

As I wandered through the halls, aiming for the garden, a noise echoed from the kitchen. I stopped for a moment, before a familiar voice grew loud.

‘We need to tell her,’ my father’s right-hand man, Jon, said. He joined our team a few years ago and would often fill in for my dad at practice.

I was careful with my footsteps, silently treading closer to the kitchen, suspicion growing in the pit of my stomach. When my father replied, the suspicion grew into full-blown fear.

‘She doesn’t need to know.’

The apprehension coursed through my veins as Jon’s dissenting voice echoed. ‘I don’t agree with you doing this. It’s her body, and you’re risking everything she’s worked for.’

‘Risking it would have been to do nothing. Everything I’ve done over the last thirteen years has been for her career. I wasn’t going to sit back and watch her miss her shot.’

Realisation hit as the weight of their conversation hung in the air, leaving me on edge, overwhelmed by anxiety and fear. Questions flooded my mind as I tried to unravel the cryptic meaning hidden in their words. Me, they had to be talking about me, right?

I wasn’t sure if it was the few glasses of champagne I’d consumed on a more or less empty stomach, or if I was hearing this right. I crept closer, keeping to the shadows as I peered into the kitchen.

Jon and my father were locked in a tense confrontation, the expanse of the wide marble island separating them. My father’s back was to me, while I could see the lines of stress etched into Jon’s face. Dad’s voice sliced through the air once more, laced with threat. ‘I am very aware of what is at stake. It’s my name, my legacy, she’s continuing. I’ve got as much at risk as she does.’

Jon’s voice trembled with a mixture of regret and urgency as he attempted to interject, his words caught in his throat. ‘Matteo, I—’

All at once, I’d had enough. Desperation clawed at my skin as I stepped forward, entering the kitchen with a newfound resolve. Jon’s hazy eyes widened in surprise as they met mine. His body recoiled, inching away from the counter.

‘What are you talking about?’ I asked.

My father gradually turned to face me. His gaze, obscured by darkness, carried an unsettling intensity. With a calculated calmness, he said, ‘It’s nothing. You should go to bed. You’ve had quite a lot to drink.’

His words, mixed with a subtle dismissal, only fuelled the resolve burning within me.

‘Dad, what is it?’ I pressed once more, my voice quavering, certain it couldn’t be anything as big as it felt. But as the air in the room grew heavy with unspoken truths, I stood my ground. Desperate for answers, I turned to Jon, my gaze fixed on him, silently pleading for clarity. ‘Jon, tell me.’

Jon’s expression shifted; a pained remorse etched upon his face. He shook his head, his eyes unable to meet mine as he uttered his apology. ‘I’m sorry, kid.’

Panic seized my chest, threatening to overwhelm me. I fiercely clenched my hands, nails digging into my palms, fighting to maintain some semblance of control. My notoriously short temper was well known within the confines of the Rossi household.

‘We can talk about this in the morning,’ Dad started again, his expression betraying no hint of the truth. His demeanour was so calm, so convincing. Momentarily, it swayed me to believe him. Maybe at that point, I wanted to believe him. But my gaze fell upon the bottle of pills resting on the counter, a crushed white powder beside my familiar green morning smoothie.

And when my father deliberately shifted in front of it, as if to shield it from my view with his imposing figure, it became clear – it was too late to conceal the truth.

‘Is that what I think it is?’ I managed to utter. My voice strained as each word was forced. The tension in the room escalated, every passing second exacerbating the brewing storm.

My father’s expression faltered, a flicker of apprehension dancing in his eyes before he attempted to regain his composure. His voice wavered ever so slightly, a crack in his carefully crafted facade.

‘You don’t understand.’

‘You’re right. I don’t,’ I admitted, shaking my head. My voice grew icy and hard. ‘Explain it to me.’

‘You were too slow. Months of no improvement. You were ready to throw in the towel. You remember, don’t you?’ His voice trembled, a hint of regret seeping through his words. But I was learning not to trust it. ‘I couldn’t watch you struggle anymore. You were beating yourself up, I could see it. So, we came up with a plan.’

‘You came up with a plan,’ Jon interjected, brows furrowed before his attention turned to me. ‘Scottie, I found out tonight.’

Dad ignored Jon’s interjection, and instead, took a step closer, his arms wide as if to show he was truly not dangerous, that he was still my dad. ‘Do you think Dylan Bailey is not doing this, too? Everyone’s doing it. There’s no way to avoid it.’

My heart sank, betrayal settling upon my shoulders. The enormity of the situation threatened to crush me as I asked the question that had to be answered, no matter how much it hurt.

‘Did you …’ I paused, almost unable to finish the thought as I considered his words.

Everyone’s doing it.

I swallowed, trying to find my resolve as my world crashed down around me. The portrait of the man that had raised me, put a tennis racket in my hand and taught me everything I knew, changing in the space of minutes.

‘Did you cheat?’ I finally managed.

The room fell into a stifling silence. The truth, now laid bare, awaited its verdict. The revelations had shattered the image I held of my father, leaving me to grapple with the ramifications. The bond between us, once unbreakable, now stood at the precipice, teetering on an abyss.

‘Yes.’ His answer echoed around the kitchen, and the tear between us was physical. A shifted fault line that could never be repaired.

I didn’t move an inch as I spoke again, ‘And me?’

‘You needed it.’ He pleaded, ‘I couldn’t watch my daughter lose again.’

I shook my head, tearing my gaze from him. Tears clouded my vision as one word echoed around my mind. One name I’d be called if they all found out, whispered in corridors and locker rooms when I dared to pass by. What I’d be branded as, even if I could prove I had nothing to do with it. What I was.

Cheat.

‘How long?’

Cheat.

‘Scottie.’ I hated the way he said my name. Hated the betrayal. Hated that he thought he did this for me, that I was weak without it. Hated what he stole from me.

Cheat.

‘How long?’ My voice trembled as my control began to slacken, my feet growing weak from under me.

Finally, he answered, ‘Two months.’

My mind raced, but I already knew why. My knee injury. Sure, I had been behind on training, recovering, yes, but slowly, too slow to make a real impact this year, but there was always next year. Or the year after. This … this could steal everything from me.

Fear flooded my mind as I remembered the federation had stopped by for at least two random drug tests since then, and there was sure to be another visit now I’d won.

‘I’ve done tests since then.’

He shook his head. ‘They won’t find it. Not unless they look for it.’

I wasn’t sure if that was good news, knowing I could get away with this, keep my victory if I kept the truth to myself. I looked to Jon, trying to calculate if he’d report me. We’d worked together for years. He was like an uncle to me, training me day after day, but were we close enough to ask this of him? To keep this secret.

‘I … I cheated.’ The words seemed so foreign to me it felt like somebody else had said them.

‘No,’ Dad said, his voice stern and resolute. He took another step forward, but I clambered backward. ‘You won.’

When I finally managed to look at him again, I swore it would be for the last time. The last time he would have any control over my life. The last time I’d ever think of him as my ‘Dad’.

‘I had every chance of winning, but you stole this from me. You didn’t believe in me.’ I spat the words at him, my body growing heated with anger, with shame I’d let this happen. That anyone had owned this power over me where they could steal the one thing I’d been working toward my entire life.

My career, all my training, it had been for him. Matteo Rossi’s daughter is what I was. A tool to further his success. That’s what my life was reduced to.

Well, fuck that.

I wanted to burn it all to the ground. Free myself from his grip. And if it meant decimating my career, then so be it.

I left the room, left without another word, running to the pool house to grab only the essentials: passport, phone charger, not even a change of clothes, before disappearing into the night, swearing never to return.