Clean Point

4 Scottie

4

Lisbon – Wolf Alice

Three Days Later

I’d considered not showing up at Jon’s. My bag was still packed for Paris, and I’d managed to sneak some of Mum’s vintage Dior, but the name ‘Nico Kotas’ kept me curious enough to remain in London. I pressed the doorbell of Jon’s rented apartment. My racing heart had barely a moment to settle before a visibly frustrated Jon swung the door open.

‘Scottie!’ he sang loudly, before his voice dipped into an angry whisper, ‘You’re forty-five minutes late.’

‘Lovely to see you, Jon.’ I pushed forward, ignoring his comment, before stepping past him into the hallway. ‘The tube was busy.’

It had taken a lot of convincing to leave the house. Some more to catch the train. I kept thinking of the last few years, of all the freedom I’d had, all the fun. But there was something Jon had said to me when he visited that had played on my mind and kept me wondering.

Could I really win?

I remembered how it felt to raise that Wimbledon plate. The glory of it all, the relief that years of work had led to. The feeling had been stolen from me. But I wanted to feel it again, to earn it, to fight for it. I was still so hungry for that win.

Jon grumbled as he closed the door behind me, and I slipped off my raincoat before hanging it up. I hadn’t bothered dressing up, only wearing some comfy leggings and an old designer jumper, but now I was inside, doubts crept in, and I began to wonder if I should have tried to make a better impression.

Jon led me through to the front room, and there I found him, Nico Kotas. He was only slightly taller than I was, but large. Even his presence was dominating.

Born in the US to Greek immigrants, Nico’s backhand had been the thing of legend for fifteen years. The very backhand that destroyed Matteo’s career.

Closing the space, I stuck out my hand. ‘Nico, good to meet you.’

He paused, his expression fixed on me, as if he were a tiger deliberating whether I would be its prey. He used the extra inches of height and wide set shoulders to his advantage, staring me down with storm grey eyes.

With what could only resemble a gruff noise of disapproval, he shifted his gaze to Jon, completely ignoring my outstretched hand.

‘Let’s get this done with, shall we?’ he said, backing away.

What a dick.

I began to feel stupid, cast aside by this man who clearly thought he was better than me. Deflated, I lowered my hand to my side and rubbed my palm against my leggings, trying to soothe my growing frustration.

Summoning my courage, I decided to make an effort and try again.

‘I saw some of your quarter-final match with Oliver Anderson last year, at the US Open,’ I said, his annoyed attention sliding back over his shoulder. ‘That was a great match. I couldn’t believe the fifth set.’

In truth, I hadn’t missed a single moment of that match. Tucked in a corner cafe, on a rare rainy day in Paris, I had found myself captivated by the way he managed to read his opponent, the way he dominated the court. Suddenly, I’d understood why Matteo had treated him like such a threat.

Fifteen years ago, Matteo had been number one when unseeded Nico Kotas stood opposite him during the Australian Open final. At the top of his game, his skill was unmatched with an almost cruel guarantee he would destroy whoever dared to meet him across a court. Meanwhile, nobody had expected fresh-faced, eighteen-year-old Nico to make it to the quarter finals, let alone the finals.

I’d been in the crowd, ten years old and already deep into my own training. I still remember the shock on my father’s face when, against all the odds, Nico took the final set and walked off the court champion.

‘Oliver always knows how to put on a show,’ he finally ground out, although he made it seem like even looking at me was hard work.

‘Nico’s been recovering from a knee replacement,’ Jon informed, lingering in the doorway. I suppressed a grimace, acutely aware of the toll tennis took on our bodies. How old was Nico now? Thirty-two? Thirty-three? The wear and tear was more than evident. ‘There’ve been a couple of setbacks, but he’s ready to get back to training.’

I nodded, my gaze fixed on Nico, who stood safely on the opposite side of the room, his strong arms folded as he maintained an unnerving silence. Correction, almost complete silence.

‘How’s your dad?’ he asked, a snide grin pulling on the corner of his lips as he spoke. His words took direct aim at my most sensitive nerve.

‘I wouldn’t know.’ I shrugged, masking my annoyance with practised ease. ‘We’re not exactly on speaking terms.’

Nico rolled his eyes, turning to my former trainer. ‘Why am I here, Jon?’

I tried to stop myself from grinding my teeth, my hands tightening into fists to restrain my anger. Was he always this rude? I’d always heard good things about Nico, that he was friendly and nice, a professional to work with. But this was the opposite.

‘You need a partner,’ Jon interjected.

‘I can find somebody else.’ His unspoken words were clear: anyone but her. I was so overwhelmed with irritation that Jon was able to respond to him before I could.

‘You won’t find anyone as good.’

‘She hasn’t played competitively in years; she can’t be that good.’

This time, Jon wasn’t fast enough to speak, and I seized the opportunity instead. ‘And you in six months, but you still remember how to pick up a racket and hit a ball, don’t you?’

‘Still know how to play clean, do you?’ he fired back, a cocky smirk on his lips. He looked at me, and I found nothing but judgement held in his eyes. That look was exactly how they would all see me, what they would think about me.

Cheat.

I shook it off, shook him off, and with my own sly smile, I shot back, ‘Still think you can keep up, old man?’

He laughed, the noise cruel. ‘Old man? I could wipe the court with you.’

Standing tall, my eyes swept across his broad shoulders before locking with his challenging gaze. I’d love to see him on the other side of the net, curious to see how fast his body could move, would love to watch him unravel.

‘I’d like to see you try,’ I challenged, a spark of anticipation igniting within me. He was still across the room, but it might as well have been inches, the tension closing the walls in on us.

Nico’s jaw opened as if to deliver a sharp retort, but Jon interjected instead, ‘See, this is what we want to see, but on the same side.’

Nico’s attention was torn from me, his dark brows pressing together. ‘Mixed doubles? With her? Are you insane? You know the single’s title is what matters.’

‘You’d both take part in the singles and the mixed competition.’ Jon tilted his head, undeterred. ‘Besides, ever heard “the enemy of my enemy is my friend”?’

‘He’s her dad, not her enemy.’ He pointed an accusatory finger at me, and I fought the urge not to slap it away.

‘He’s not my dad.’ I corrected him. ‘Not anymore.’

Jon stepped further into the room, hands out as if to try to ease the mounting pressure. ‘It’s not that, Nico. You have a brilliant tactical mind, but your speed is still lacking. Your recovery will only take you so far.’

I scoffed. ‘So, I’m supposed to carry him?’

‘You’re supposed to learn from him.’ Jon shook his head, his eyes soft on me. ‘You play with him, learn his style, and you’ll be unstoppable in the women’s competition.’ I didn’t react, instead analysing his plan. Nico had been one of the top tennis players for the last decade. Clearly, even while trying to launch a comeback after his surgery, there was a lot to learn from him. I’d be rusty from my time away, but I still kept my speed and relative fitness. Guidance was precisely what I needed.

Jon continued, looking to Nico, ‘Meanwhile, she’s the perfect training partner for you. She’s fast enough to be a challenge and in the mixed, she can compensate if your injury acts up.’

I wanted to shout about how unfair it was for me to be expected to compensate for him, especially in a sport that constantly sidelined women, overlooking and underappreciating our accomplishments. Where people contest the simple fact we have some of the greatest sportspeople of all time because they were misogynistic or racist or hell, even both.

But deep down, I understood Jon wasn’t suggesting anything of the sort. This was a pact with the devil, and it was as difficult for Nico as it was for me. One look at Nico, and I could tell he was contemplating quitting just to avoid working alongside me.

Yet, Jon had a knack for persuasion. ‘Play together. Win together. Piss off Matteo together.’

The room fell into a tense silence, Jon’s words lingering in the air. I could sense the internal struggle within Nico, his conflicting emotions warring against each other. The prospect of teaming up with me, the daughter of his former rival, was undoubtedly a bitter pill to swallow. But there was something in Jon’s proposition that chipped away at his resistance. I weighed my decision too. I could see what Jon was offering, but I’d never played mixed, never trained alongside anyone else. How much of a change would it be?

But without Nico, I couldn’t return to tennis. Couldn’t allow Matteo the satisfaction. I’d be giving in to what he wanted – a tennis prodigy to carry on his mantle. A different surname would never take away the fact that I was his daughter. I needed a way to twist the knife. To come back on my own would prove to him and myself I could do it without cheating, but it wasn’t enough.

Teaming up with his rival, however, could be the perfect revenge I’ve been craving.

Nico let out a frustrated sigh, his gaze darting between Jon and me. ‘Fine,’ he muttered begrudgingly, as he ran a hand through his hair, longer strands escaping to fall around his face. Nico’s gaze landed on me, a mix of scepticism and curiosity in his eyes. ‘But don’t expect me to go easy on you.’

A small smile tugged at the corners of my lips as he extended his hand to me. I took a moment, remembering from before how he’d dismissed mine. I returned the gesture, his calloused fingers rubbing against my own and sealed my fate.

And just like that, the enemy of my enemy was my new teammate.