3 Nico
3
Body And Mind – girl in red
Smashing the tennis racket against the ground did nothing to alleviate the throbbing pain in my right knee, but it sure was cheaper than anger management classes.
The metallic arch of the rim bent like rubber against the floor of the indoor court, before giving in to the force and shattering into bits. Even the string bed crumpled against the ground and lost any structure it once had. The sharp snaps and cracks bounced off the bare walls, ringing loudly in my ears, barely managing to drown out the voice inside my head repeating over and over.
Failure.
In mere seconds, the racket had fallen to pieces in the same way I’d been doing for months.
‘Are you done yet?’ Jon snipped, appearing at the edge of the court, his tall stature taking up the doorway. He walked over, an unusually light tone to his gruff voice. ‘Or would you like another racket to beat to death? Perhaps you could throw some balls toward the sun and launch them into outer space?’
I turned away, seething anger and frustration still coursing through my veins. I needed a moment to breathe. Struggling not to limp under the fiery ache in my leg, I stretched for my water bottle, taking a deliberate, prolonged sip, wishing I could perform some kind of miracle and turn the drink into whisky.
‘I’m fine,’ I ground out, tossing the bottle into my racket bag. I needed to massage my knee, work through the pain like the physio had shown me, but I wasn’t ready to surrender to that kind of vulnerability. Work through the pain. Pretend it doesn’t exist. It’s all in my head.
Ever since the accident, a simple slip during a match, my knee wasn’t the same. The fatigue of playing professionally had already taken its toll, but after the injury, the pain got worse until it was nearly unbearable to walk for days after competitions.
‘The racket begs to differ.’
I looked plainly at him, but he only shrugged me off. ‘How long have you been here?’
A quick glance at a clock on the opposite wall had me realizing how much time had passed. Hours in the gym used to be nothing to me. I couldn’t let it be any different now.
‘Couple hours,’ I lied easily. I’d had a restless night, pain waking me up at five in the morning despite the pre-bed ice pack. I’d learned the hard way there was no point in trying to get back to sleep, so I’d figured I’d try to train off the pain instead.
I was almost six months post-op, or more accurately six months post the first surgery, and the recovery process was still too slow. I spent weeks trying to distract myself from all the wasted time lying around. From watching old matches, studying opponents and game play, to letting my older brother drag me along to his weekly Dungeons the echo of the umpire’s decisions, the relief when it went my way; and the true focus on the win, on my opponent. But every swing carried a reminder of the setback I’d endured, the months of frustration and slow progress. A pang of frustration gripped me, threatening to overshadow my determination. I fought it down, channelling my energy into each stroke, each return.
‘Stop favouring your left leg!’ Jon shouted as he stood on the sidelines. I swore under my breath. I knew I’d been doing it, but the weariness was returning, creeping into my vision. Pushing on, I took his advice and shifted my weight over to my right leg.
I ran back to return the ball, when my right leg shifted unexpectedly from under me. Falling forward, my leg collided with the ground. Groaning in pain, all the air left my body at once as I held my knee in my hands, lying defeated on the ground. Pain searing from the injury. I could feel the ugly scar, the freshly healed skin below my fingertips.
‘Are you going to listen to me now?’ Jon’s head popped into view, his body leaning over me as I laid useless. Deep ragged breaths escaped me as I tried to pull myself together.
‘Probably not,’ I managed, the sound escaping me on a wheeze.
‘Then I guess I’ll leave you here to limp home.’
‘Jon,’ I called out. He’d already disappeared from view, his footsteps echoing further and further away from me. Finally, I relented, frustration getting the better of me. ‘Wait. Fine. You’re right.’
There was a pause, as if he was revelling in the satisfaction of being so goddamn right before he reappeared in my view, a friendly smile and a hand offered my way.
‘Glad you could admit it,’ he said with a strain as he hoisted me up from the ground.
I grumbled a thank you before attempting to walk across the hall. Hissing with pain, I tried to stand on my right leg. The pain was still too much, forcing me to limp. Jon let out a sigh before catching up to me, offering me a shoulder to lean on. I fought against the help, but one look at the far off bench and I was forced to accept the support.
‘Thanks,’ I said yet again as we reached the sidelines, feeling increasingly sorrier for myself. I lowered and took a seat, reaching for my water bottle for some relief.
‘When was the last time you let off some steam?’
‘Didn’t you see the racket from earlier?’
Jon let out a huff of disappointment. ‘I mean like, what was the last thing you did for fun?’
‘Last week. You came over and we watched Bring It On.’
Jon shook his head. ‘Something that’s not with me. Or your family, for that matter. When’s the last time you went out on a date?’
‘I don’t see the relevance.’ I turned away from him, my attention focused on throwing items in my bag for a quick exit from this conversation. Truth was, it had been a while since anything more than casual had even stood a chance. It was easier on tour, every few weeks a new city, a new bar, a new selection on the dating apps. Lying at home feeling sorry for myself didn’t scream ‘single and ready to mingle’.
‘My point is, since the accident, you’re not the same player you were before,’ he said as he sat down beside me, his words carefully chosen.
‘Gee thanks. Glad you’re on my team.’
He raised an eyebrow at me as if to say, ‘are you done?’ before continuing, ‘But it doesn’t mean you can’t become better.’
I stared at him like he’d lost more than a couple marbles, but the serious look remained on his face. ‘I have a plan. But you aren’t going to like it.’
I eyed him for a moment, trying to read his expression, but the lines of his wrinkles and dark brows gave nothing away.
‘What is it?’
‘You’ve played doubles before, right?’
‘A few times.’
‘Ever won?’ he asked. I shrugged before nodding. Doubles had never been my favourite way to play. I didn’t really mind playing that style, but finding the right partner was the biggest struggle. I was fast. I knew how to read the ball, but it was hard to read another player, hard to learn their style and adapt. I knew how to command a court all by myself, so why did I need another person?
Then he told me his plan, and he was right. I hated it.