Clean Point

7 Scottie

7

Not Strong Enough – boygenius

I didn’t make it a habit to google myself. I had my automated daily news round-up for that.

Scrolling through the social media mentions while hanging off the edge of my comfy bed in an upside-down sprawl, I tried to ignore the comments. Sneakily taken photos from last night caught my eye instead – Nico and me, clutching our suitcases, navigating a foreign airport while hungry and exhausted. In every photo, we were barely looking at each other, his baseball cap pulled low as we kept a solid arm-length between us, all while maintaining a strong policy of absolute minimal communication with each other after our fight on the plane.

I tried not to feel betrayed by the human race.

Paparazzi, I’d gotten used to as much as I would. Over the last few years, I had become good at spotting them from afar, even if they were hiding. I’d learned if they were about, whatever I was up to was about to be splashed over the digital pages of a catty tabloid with whatever clever nickname they’d decided to christen me with.

At least, I normally had some warning. This, I hadn’t expected at all.

Taking a sneaky mobile photo of somebody post-flight in that lighting? Was nothing private anymore? At least Nico looked good. My attention caught on the glimpse of his muscled left thigh, analysing the red scar that ran across his opposite knee.

I scrutinized the photo once more – eyes narrowing on my unwashed blonde hair that had been hastily pulled back into a messy bun, comfortably baggy joggers and jumper I now regretted not changing out of on the plane.

We had gotten to the villa so late, nobody else except the housekeeper, Elena, was up to greet us, and after a quick snack, we were quickly ushered off to our bedrooms.

Now, ten hours and one refreshingly deep sleep later, I felt like a child trapped in their room. Out there was Nico, the asshole who’d sneered at me on the plane.

My phone vibrated in my hand, my mum’s contact photo, a selfie of us both on a road trip to visit Jane Austen’s house, covering up the badly taken photos. With no reluctance, I pressed answer, putting the call on loudspeaker.

Her voice boomed from the speaker, the tone accusatory. ‘Did you take my dress from the Versace 98 runway?’

I sat up straight, my eyes darting to the overflowing suitcase sat in the corner of the room. Mostly stuffed with comfy training clothes, the black dress stood out in a sea of white, the material spilling out over the edge. ‘I’m not sure I’ve ever seen it.’

She hummed in response, ‘Really? Because I’m looking at a picture of you from last week and it looks like my dress. And I can’t find it in my wardrobe.’

I could see her perfectly in my mind, sitting in the middle of her kitchen looking as glamorous as ever, the tabloids from last week thrown open all over the table as she tried to track down all the clothes I’d stolen from her.

‘Maybe the maid has it,’ I tried to reply, but if my shaky response didn’t give it away, the fact her first port of call would’ve been to check with her maid of ten years immediately would’ve sealed the guilty verdict.

She sighed, and I was sure I heard her taking an angry sip of tea. ‘Dry clean only and check their Google reviews first. It’s vintage.’

I grinned as I pushed myself up from the bed and pulled the short dress from the suitcase. Holding the dress up, I replied, ‘It’s something to remember you by.’

‘I’m not going anywhere,’ she said. ‘I’ve already emailed a dozen times to make sure I’m in the family box.’

‘Stop harassing Jon,’ I stressed as I hung the dress up, placing it on the outside of the wardrobe. I said a silent apology to the dress for stuffing it in my suitcase and kidnapping it from its owner. ‘I’ve not started training yet. We don’t even know if I’ll make it to Wimbledon.’

‘Of course you will.’

‘A hundred things could go wrong before then.’

‘Like?’ she asked, and I let the question hang in the air for a moment.

Like, I could grab my new mixed partner’s dick mid-flight after we fought over the armrest. He could call me a strange name I would be up half the night trying to translate on Google, and then we could ignore each other for the rest of the flight and camp, eventually dooming us to fail as a partnership, resulting in either of us barely making it past the first round on the grass courts.

‘Injury,’ I answered, taking back my place on the bed next to my phone.

There was another long pause on the other side, as if she knew it was pointless to argue. ‘I was researching this new partner of yours, you know.’

‘Nico?’

I could hear the smirk in her voice. ‘You mean the six-five hunk?’

I side eyed the phone with a slight distaste. ‘Is this a conversation I’m seriously having?’

‘I swear every single photo of that man makes him look like a snack.’

‘I’m hanging up now!’

I was inches from the red button when she spoke again. ‘I saw you in the airport. The pictures, I mean.’

I sighed at the reminder, my interest in the conversation renewed. It was hard to find people that understood what it was like to see your name in fake headlines. Thankfully, Mum was one of those people.

‘I’m not dating him,’ I began to yammer. ‘I met him barely a week ago. I can’t even be spotted with another tennis player without them assuming the worst.’

‘Darling, is being tied to that man something we would describe as the worst?’

‘You know what I mean.’

‘I do, but at the end of the day, you know it’s outside your control what they write about you. You can’t fixate and you certainly shouldn’t be googling yourself.’

‘I wasn’t!’

‘Turn off the notification and then I’ll believe you. You’re in training now, and I know you want to take it seriously. Whatever they are or aren’t saying about you, it’s all a distraction from what matters at the moment.’

I grumbled, knowing she was right. I picked up the phone, swiping away from the call to my browser, the horrible photos attacking me all over again. Finding the settings, I disabled the notifications, knowing that not checking for a while, even a few days, would do me a world of good.

Let this all die down and focus on tennis. Show them what they should be talking about.

‘Done,’ I said before returning to the call, the article replaced with my mum’s face pressed close to the screen. Two of the same blue eyes stared back at me, and for a moment, I wished to go back to that day when we decided London was too much for us both and we needed to run away to the countryside.

‘Good. I’m proud of you for doing this, you know? It’s not easy, but if it was, it wouldn’t be worth all the fight I know you’ve still got.’ I wanted to argue, to ask ‘what fight?’ But instead, I closed my eyes and remembered those words.

I’m proud of you.

‘Thanks, Mum.’

As we said our goodbyes, my eyes found her dress again, hanging on the wardrobe. Despite her irritation at my sleight of hand, I was glad I had a piece of her with me.

When the call cut out, I was still half tempted to look up flight times back to Heathrow, if only just to see her again, but instead the persistent grumbling of my empty stomach won, and I made my way out of the room.

I crept out into the upstairs hallway, trying not to make any more noise than was necessary against the marble floor. The villa was huge, consisting of three floors, two of which were bedrooms for guests, and no more furnishings than was necessary. It was luxurious, but the owners had chosen the minimal aesthetic that only the truly rich could achieve: white perfect walls, hallways so empty they echoed like a quiet cathedral.

I hadn’t gotten far when the sound of footsteps rose up the hall, chatting voices, and the shriek of laughter. Like a coward, I hid, running into the nearest room and leaving the door slightly ajar, allowing me a sneaky view of the others.

Jon had told us there would be others staying at the villa. It made sense to have a few other pros here. And while we’d mostly be staying out of each other’s way, it gave us somebody to play against. Training sessions would still be private, with scheduled time at the gym and on the court.

The dark glossy black hair of Inés Costa came into view. I knew her well. Back in the day we’d been on opposite sides of the court more than a couple times. We’d been friendly, despite the fact that during matches, I had the habit of wiping the floor with her. She was smiling at Henrik, a Czech player new on the scene, and one I hadn’t met yet, as they turned the corner into the hall.

Nothing to worry about, I told myself. Friendly faces. Then she turned the corner.

Dylan Bailey.

‘I’m just saying, I don’t know why she’s here,’ Dylan started, and my heart fell into my stomach. I hadn’t seen her since that day. Her face in perfect view, us walking toward each other to meet at the net, her refusing to take my hand. ‘She’s a cheat. Jon’s making a fool of us by having her here.’

‘She made a mistake.’ Henrik shrugged. ‘He must believe in second chances.’

I huddled behind the partially open door, straining to hear the conversation.

Dylan’s tone was icy, ‘She cheated, plain and simple. How he can ever trust her again, I’ll never understand.’

My fingers clenched the edge of the door, knuckles turning white. I could just hear them over the thumping of my heart, the air feeling thin and my head woozy. I’d told myself this was going to happen. I was a cheat to them. I was a cheat to the entire world. For them, I’d crossed that threshold, tried to steal a title for myself, when in fact everything had been stolen from me.

Henrik’s voice cut in, a touch of annoyance in his words, ‘Look, she paid her dues for the mistake. We’ve all moved on. It’s water under the bridge.’

Dylan’s response was sharp, ‘Has she, though? You’ve seen her on Instagram. The Daily Tea has a shortcut for her on their homepage.’

‘And why do you care so much?’ Inés sighed, her voice carrying a hint of exasperation. ‘If Jon said it’s fine, then it’s fine.’

‘You won’t be saying that when she’s back on court, and it’s your title she’s snatching away,’ Dylan retorted.

I watched as Inés’s dark eyes narrowed, her back stiffening. ‘I can beat her.’

‘You haven’t before.’ Inés’s attention immediately pulled to the Czech.

‘She wasn’t clean before.’ A sharp laugh follows Dylan’s words. ‘And now her daddy isn’t here to help her win.’

All the air had been sucked out of the room, my chest tightened and my lungs burned for a simple breath. This was it, the fear becoming a real, palpable thing. I knew these people, how they thought, and they all had counted me out. Believed I was nothing without cheating, easy prey ripe for the picking. They didn’t know the truth, and wouldn’t believe it if they did.

I leaned back against the wall, closing my eyes as I pictured that day again. My last day on the court at Wimbledon, finally achieving everything I’d ever dreamed of, only for it to all be tainted without my consent. I had to be better than I was. Had to be clean and vicious and a goddamn animal on the court so there would be no question I’d earned every title I took home. I needed to come back from this stronger, or they’d eat me alive.