Clean Point

34 Scottie

34

Tennis Court – Lorde

Sinclair vs Murphy

1st Round – Court 4

The first day of the competition brought a palpable buzz of excitement to the court. A hot summer sun mixing with anticipation of the crowd. I felt the hum in the air, similar to the one that had been simmering in my blood. An anger beneath my skin I’d been itching to get out.

For the last week, we’d been participating in qualifiers and some warm-up games, and I was learning how fun it was to play by Nico’s side. I’d never wanted to share the glory of a win with anyone else. It was mine, after all. I’d earned it.

But turning around, after we’d secured victory over our opponents, to find him with a wild prideful grin spread wide across his perfect lips, his fist pumped in celebration, joy radiating from him … It made the win that much sweeter.

And playing with him was more fun too. We had this ability to read the other plays from only our bodies, written in those almost imperceptible movements and small coded expressions. Our own secret language that only the two of us spoke.

But today, I was on my own, and against Chloe Murphy. She was younger, only twenty or so, and gained entry on a wildcard. It was her first grand slam. A baby at the beginning of their career – if a baby had been training since they were five and had three other titles under their belt.

She was smiling brightly, as if she expected this match to be fun. It certainly would be. But not for her.

I remembered my first Wimbledon. I was the same age as her and I’m sure I smiled just as wide. I had no idea of the fight that lay ahead of me. The competition, the training, the betrayals and the wins. All of it took its toll. But looking back, would I have changed any of it?

When the coin toss fell my way, and Murphy’s perky smile deflated slightly, I felt as if she was already questioning her decision to be here. This was my town, my court, and she was only beginning to realize it.

We got into place, and I could already see the wobble in her couched stance. I pulled back my arm, tossed the ball in the air and spun it into Murphy’s service box. It flew past her – ace. She barely even moved. Let the games begin.

15–Love

30–Love

40–15

I took the point, feeling smug at how quickly I’d claimed it as my own. She looked uneasy, but after a quick glance to the crowds, she refocused, finally realizing this was no playground.

I ran circles around her. She won a few points. There was an arm on this girl, that with a few more years, would strike fear on the court. But today, she was lazy, her footwork still needed refining, and she couldn’t break my serve. She stuck to the baseline, and it was easy to pick her game apart.

I hit screamer after screamer, forcing her all over the court. It was almost too much fun to run her side to side on the grass. The first two sets were mine. The match was mine. I’d forgotten this feeling. My feet on the grass, the thrill of fucking winning. It was a rush, and I’d been cold turkey for too long.

When we shook hands at the end, she looked on the verge of tears, and I felt a little regretful for being relentless.

‘Good match,’ I said, trying my best to keep my smile friendly, and hide my delight at the win. She only nodded in reply, lips pressed together in a small line.

I collected my things and walked off the court, finding Mum waiting for me. She was dressed in a pair of blue jeans paired with a cream top and a Chanel blazer. A pair of sunglasses pushed her blonde hair out of her smiling face, her arms stretched open. My heart almost doubled in size at the slight of her.

‘You might not want to hug me. I’m all sweaty,’ I warned, watching her grin grow.

‘That’s what dry cleaners are for,’ she said, pulling her slim body against mine, her long slender arms wrapping around me. I instantly melted into her, my head landing on her shoulder.

‘I’m so glad you could make it,’ I said to her, her perfume a comforting blanket on my still racing pulse.

She pulled back, eyebrows pressed together. ‘How could I miss this?’ Her attention was pulled from behind me, and Murphy paced past us, heading to the changing rooms. Mum whispered, ‘I never realized you could be so mean to somebody in a game.’

I laughed, tilting my head. ‘Have you watched much tennis?’

She hummed for a moment before shaking her head. ‘But I’ll catch up. I have a feeling I’ll be following this to the final.’ She sent me a confident, playful wink my way, and I did all I could to shake her off. I’d been playing like Matteo was nipping at my heels. I was pulling drive from his words, a new strength. I wanted this more than ever before.

I shook her off, heading toward the cool down area. ‘I think I went too hard on her.’

‘You won. I wouldn’t worry too much about it.’

My bag strap slipped from my shoulder, sparking a memory. ‘Oh, I have something for you. Jon mentioned you’d gotten tickets.’

‘Oh?’ She drew back in surprise as I pulled the bag in front of me, unzipping one of the compartments. I wiped my hands on my skirt before I pulled out the black silky material from inside.

‘My dress!’ my mum cried, her fingers instantly taking the satin material from me. She looked longingly at it. ‘I knew we would be reunited soon!’

‘I looked after it.’ I fought to hide my smile, but failed completely.

She only narrowed her eyes on me, clutching the material close to her body. ‘You stuffed vintage Versace in your tennis bag?’

‘It was safe there, and you wanted it back.’ I shrugged. She rolled her eyes at me, muttering some complaint about ‘children’ and ‘dresses are not play things’ all the while she refolded the dress perfectly, placing it delicately in her tote.

‘It’s older than you are,’ she noted, still holding a look of disdain in her eyes.

I waved her off. ‘Throw it in with your dry cleaning. It will be fine.’

‘You know, there’s a reason I got that particular dress.’ Her anger dissipated, the smile on her lips turning coy. ‘I waited a long time, made connections and friends in high places, but if there was one thing I wanted to remember my runway days by, it was this.’

We reached the cool down room, other players stretching out. Mum was temporarily distracted, eyeing the other athletes.

‘What is it?’ I pulled her attention back to me.

‘On this particular runway, I showed up puking my guts up. All morning the stylist was getting so irritated with me because I could hardly hold it together. She said, you shouldn’t party so hard if you can’t handle it. And then made some very harmful and outdated comments about it keeping me skinny.’ She rolled her eyes, her smile growing on her lips as she continued. ‘Which turned out to be very ironic because it was morning sickness, and I was about to put on a lot more weight.’

I paused, putting together her words. ‘You mean …’

‘You, my darling, were part of the Versace 1998 runway.’ She smiled, looking rather pleased with herself. ‘The entire London Fashion Week, actually. But this show was when I knew that you were with me.’

I paused, taking in the information, and found myself thinking that it was strange that it had been the dress I’d chosen to take to remind myself of her. For a moment, I felt myself mad all over again that I’d missed out on an entire childhood with her. She was young, had an entire career ahead of her. If I found myself in the same position, I wouldn’t be in it for long. But she’d still had me. I’d never asked her why. I tucked the question away for another time, knowing that no matter her choices, I was just happy she was here with me now.

‘That’s pretty cool.’ I smiled softly at her. ‘I need to shower, then can we meet? Maybe go watch a game?’

She nodded enthusiastically back at me. ‘I’ll go find us some Pimm’s to celebrate with,’ she said, before she leaned forward, kissing me softly on the cheek. ‘I’m so proud of you,’ she whispered gently against me, pulling me into another quick hug. ‘Now go shower. There’s only so much sweat this Chanel can take.’

I showered fast, keeping the water roasting hot to soothe my aching muscles, but as I was leaving the locker room, a familiar male voice rang from the row of lockers opposite mine, keeping me completely hidden from view.

‘What were you doing out there today? Your footwork was a complete mess.’

I’d have known that voice if it spoke quietly in a crowded room. It was Matteo. For a moment, I thought the words were aimed at me, as if he had come back to tell me off. But then I heard her.

‘My footwork was fine. I won after all.’ Dylan’s response was snarky. I could practically hear her furrowed brows and crossed arms at his comment. She’d been playing a different match today, and obviously, had walked away successful. Apparently, she still had to learn that it wasn’t enough for her new coach.

‘Barely! Did you forget you have a backhand? I couldn’t tell if you were avoiding it on purpose.’

‘I played like I normally play.’ Her response was flat, and I could hear her shuffling about as if she was emptying her locker, not even giving him her full attention. I felt a small pang of delight at that, at how angry that would make him.

‘Your game plan was non-existent. It’s like you were hoping your opponent would get bored and leave.’ He started to walk back and forth, so I creeped further up my row of lockers, making sure I was hidden from sight.

‘I didn’t like the game plan we had discussed beforehand. I made some adjustments, I didn’t wa—’

‘We only won because you got lucky.’

A moment of silence fell, only to be broken by a heavy exhale. ‘I,’ Dylan’s voice rang, tired and dry.

‘What?’ Matteo questioned.

‘I won. Not “we”,’ she corrected, her voice not losing her edge for a moment. A locker door banged shut, and then she continued. ‘I ignored your game plan because it was wrong. And I won.’

There’s a long pause, tension tightening in the humid air of the locker room. ‘Next time, you’ll play as I tell you to. Don’t forget, you signed a contract with me. You can’t use another coach, you can’t switch teams. You play with me, or you don’t play at all.’

I listened, committing every word he said to memory. Could he really put that in a contract? It couldn’t be binding? But Dylan didn’t argue. She didn’t say anything at all.

‘Now change and meet me in the car,’ Matteo instructed as he left, the room turning silent. I took a moment, unsure of my next steps. I thought about waiting until she left. I was almost sure she wouldn’t find me here and I could avoid the confrontation. Dylan had made it clear she didn’t want my help, but she didn’t know how much she might need it.

I curled my hand into a fist, fingernails digging into my palm as I reluctantly pushed myself out of the corner. Did I want to talk to her? No. But after everything that had happened, this still felt like my mess to clean up.

I swallowed down the lump in my throat as I crept along the row of metal lockers before, finally, I turned the corner to the row over, and found her sitting on the middle bench, still dressed in her usual Nike white skirt and top, her head held in her hands.

‘Dylan.’ She twisted to find me, her body jolting up straight. In a heartbeat, her guard was back up, any sensitivity in the moment vanished.

Her eyes scanned me up and down. ‘What do you want?’ she sneered.

‘I heard what he said,’ I admitted cautiously. I held my hands up as if to try to soothe the situation, prove to her I was here as a friend, not a threat.

‘So?’ Her sharp tone was accusatory, rough around the edges, as if to miss my point completely.

‘So? He can’t speak like that to you.’ I shook my head before remembering his final words. ‘Is it true what he said? About the contract?’

She rolled her eyes at me, pushing herself up from the bench to reopen one of the lockers in front of her. ‘He’s just a tough coach. It isn’t anything I can’t put up with.’

‘There’s no putting up with him.’ I tilted my head to the side. ‘I would know.’

She let out a cold laugh as she hastily began to stuff clothing into a large gym bag. ‘You were weak.’

‘Excuse me?’

She paused, her expression fed up. ‘You think that was anything worth getting upset about?’

‘Come on, Dylan. You’ve been coached by Jon, you know that’s not normal.’

‘Jon’s soft. I didn’t need soft. I needed to win.’

I laughed at the irony. ‘Then Matteo’s definitely your guy because he will stop at absolutely nothing to get you there.’ Memories threaten at the edge of my mind, the brutality of that man’s appetite for winning, but I pushed them back down. ‘But don’t think for a second any of it is about you.’

‘What? Is it about you then? Revenge on the pretty little daughter that betrayed him.’

‘No.’ I shook my head simply, ‘It’s about himself. His legacy. There’s only one person he wants to see succeed, and it’s himself. Everyone else is collateral.’

‘Right.’ She drew out the word before she slammed the locker door closed again. ‘And who am I supposed to believe? The cheat, or the man who just told me how to win?’

‘Dylan, wake up. He threatened your career.’ I stopped short of pointing out that he was the threat, the one she should’ve been concerned with.

She shook her head again, that smile a mean thing as she hoisted her bag strap onto her shoulder. ‘The only threat to me is you, Scottie.’

She started to barge past me, but my hand went to her arm, clutching tightly. She immediately stopped, looking down with disgust where I held onto her. But my grip only strengthened, desperate to hold her attention.

Her eyes met mine, confusion all over her features. Holding her gaze, I said. ‘I meant it, before, when I said when you need help, I’ll be there.’

She pulled back at my words, yanking her arm out of mine, and after a moment, a pause, she blinked and walked away without so much as another smart retort or insult.

I turned on my heels, watching her leave, the door swinging back and forth on its hinges as she disappeared through them, leaving me all alone in the locker room, hoping that this time, she would listen before it was too late.