Clean Point

41 Nico

41

Play God – Sam Fender

Kotas vs Anderson

Quarterfinals – Centre Court

I thought I’d been nervous before a match, but it didn’t compare to knowing Scottie was tucked away in my player’s box, watching me. Every break, my eyes couldn’t help but go to her, see the tuck of blonde hair under a navy cap – my cap.

Instinct kicked in as the ball flew across the court. Oliver’s serves were nothing to be trifled with, and I acted quickly to return them. The tense, hushed crowd left only the noise of our quick footsteps and the snap of the ball meeting a racket.

We both charged across the court, determined to take this point. I’d won the first two sets, and now we were in an all-out assault for the third.

The first point ended when he hit the ball over to my side of the court, and years of training left me with the assurance that the ball would be out. It bounced, and the yell of the crowd and an announcement from the umpire confirmed the point was mine.

I smiled, giving a small celebration before I couldn’t help but look and find her again, her lips curled up into a knowing smile. My already erratic heart rate had pounded into overdrive at the sight of her.

Everything about her was perfect. Her drive, her strength, the way her lips pressed against mine. It was getting harder and harder to hold myself back from her, to pretend like I didn’t want this to be something real, something that lasted after our partnership at Wimbledon. Impossible, in fact, when all I could do was think of her.

She mouthed the word ‘focus’, and flicked a finger towards the court. I smirked back, shrugging my shoulders, wishing I could keep my eyes on her longer, but I knew she was right. I had to keep my head in this game if I was going to beat Oliver.

I’d played the cocky Brit many times in my career, and at Wimbledon, Oliver had the upper hand playing to a hometown crowd.

15–0

The second point opened with Oliver’s serve. My forehand return was quick and powerful, hoping to catch him off guard with the speed, but he was ready. We rallied for a while, each time the ball gaining momentum. Oliver finally hit the ball to the far right corner of the court, and I chased it down. My legs almost ran in an all-out sprint to make it into a position. With a firm wrist, I volleyed the ball over the net.

I almost claimed the point, Oliver having to readjust his play to compensate for my movement, but he hit it back over, sending it flying to the back corner.

I’d barely found my footing before I swung, momentum still pulling me forward as my arm swung back, racket facing to return as the ball spun over the net. I continued to slide forward. My body shifted under me, my knee unable to adjust to the unexpected weight from the quick moment, and then I came crashing into the ground.

Scarred skin met grass, and I nearly blacked out the moment my knee collided with the ground, the pain blinding, reverberating up and down my leg. I managed to roll onto my back, my hands cradling my knee, my fingers feeling up the scar to make sure the skin hadn’t split open.

I was sure I was out. That the months of recovery had been for nothing, that my career was over. With the pain searing, it certainly felt like it was. But through the pain, I spotted Scottie, saw her through the crowd, standing up, a look of horror across her beautiful face.

And I remembered who I was fighting for. Without her, I wouldn’t be here, wouldn’t have any fight left. That’s what she gave me – the strength to keep going, to remember why this was important to me. To us.

This comeback was supposed to prove to myself that I could do it, that I wasn’t old and exhausted. That not only could I still play the sport I loved, but I could win.

Up until I met her, nothing felt as good as winning. Now, it only counted if she was by my side.

I took a deep breath in, and focused, moving past the pain, pushing it down until I didn’t feel it anymore – or at least, didn’t feel it in that moment – and I pushed myself up from the ground.

I gritted my teeth as I took a step forward, the crowd clapping as I got up. Turning to my left, I found Oliver at the net, a worried look across his face, his dark hair stuck to his forehead.

‘You alright?’ he asked, head tilting, as the umpire appeared beside me, handing me back my racket.

For a moment, we weren’t competitors. I knew him well enough when we weren’t playing against each other, his fun cocky attitude always bringing us back to our latest battle on court. He was a great guy, but there were no friendships strong enough to distract me from what I needed to do.

‘I’m fine, thanks.’ I nodded, taking the racket and thanking the umpire, spinning it in my hand to find my grip. ‘Now get back over there so I can beat you.’

He smiled widely, reassured. ‘It’s like that, eh?’ The crowd laughed at his response, the noise dipping just enough for them to hear our conversation. Oliver beams all the way back to the service box, his abundance of annoying confidence shining out of him like sunshine.

I only re-focused on the win, on finishing this match once and for all. Oliver had managed to hit the ball back over the net while I’d been falling so that had been for nothing. Tennis is nothing but brutal, after all.

The score was 30–0, and again, Oliver served. It was clear there was something wrong with my knee. My pace was slower, more painful, even my body felt different, reluctant to put any more weight than necessary.

The tide turned on me. Oliver easily took the game, then soon after, the third set. I could feel the anticipation of the crowd in the charged silence of the court, every bit of ground claimed by Oliver gaining a louder and louder cheer from them. I shook my head at the reminder that by cheering for him, they were cheering for my own downfall.

In the fourth set, I only grew more pained, just trying to get through to the next break, tiredness setting in, panic racking at my brain. I couldn’t take another fall like that. The thought of the pain turned my stomach, but despite that, I wouldn’t quit on this. They’d sooner carry me out on a stretcher than take this from me.

I knew if I didn’t try something soon, I was going to lose. Victory was one set away for me, two for him. If I let him take this, we’d be playing another and with my injury and exhaustion … would I make it through?

Defeat was not an option. Winning was all I had. I was struggling to serve, the ball shaking in my hands as I held it, my hand adjusting its grip on the racket. I was finally ready to serve when something hit my cheek. My head tilted to the sky, only to be hit on the cheek by another raindrop.

I only felt relief when another hit me, and another, until a heavy summer shower erupted over the court. The umpire made an immediate announcement, suspending game play until the next day as it was already late.

My knees weakened under my weight, almost falling back to the ground, but I carefully made my way to the edge of the court, getting out of the way of the grounds crew who were frantically rolling out a tarp to protect the grass. I grabbed my bag, stuffing everything inside as the crowd grumbled unhappily, quickly leaving to go find shelter.

I took one long look around the emptying court. I’d played here plenty of times in my career, but none had felt like this. The rain coming down heavy, highlighted in the bright lights that lit up the fast space.

There was a finality to it. Like this could be the last time I ever stepped out onto the grass.