Clean Point

Epilogue Nico

Epilogue

Clean (Taylor’s Version) – Taylor Swift

Scottie jogged on the spot in front of me, peppy and bursting full of energy. Her black tennis skirt fluttered around her thighs. I was almost certain she had only worn it as a distraction, the low cut of her sports bra showing more skin than she normally would.

‘Come on, you can’t keep putting this off forever,’ she taunted, smiling brightly. We’d settled at my home in Tampa. She had a month off from the touring and travelling of the tennis season, and I had her all to myself. Four blissful weeks that would’ve been peaceful, if it wasn’t for her competitive edge I loved so much.

‘I was stretching,’ I groaned as I pushed up from the bench to continue with my warmup. Lengthening my arm across my body into a deep pull, I muttered under my breath, ‘I can’t believe you’re making me do this again.’

Since we’d won together, the two silver challenge cups from Wimbledon sitting side by side inside the house, I’d relaxed my competition schedule, only competing when it made sense for me, and for Scottie. My knee was a problem, there was no getting around that, but I could handle the strain with a reduced schedule. Competing and playing was its own reward. I still had that hunger in my bones. But it wasn’t an insatiable need to win, more a satisfied grumble, with all four Grand Slam titles under my belt, and my girl on my arm. Being around to support her was a reward in itself.

‘We made a deal,’ she reminded me, but I just shook my head.

‘We made a deal to stop this madness with the last match.’

One night, at the start of the break, after a few too many beers, we’d made a bet. Every time we played against each other, we’d keep a running score, and by the end, we’d have the true winner. The best tennis player. I’d been sure she’d win, but to my surprise, I’d kept up the pace, and in the final week we were neck and neck.

So then came our next bright idea. Five rounds. Me vs her. No holding back, no letting the other win. Pure competition. A fight for the title. It made sense.

The first match had gone well into the night, with each other unable to win a tie break before we’d called it. But then the next day, she argued that there were no ‘ties’ in tennis and made us replay the point. Over and over, until with some sort of miracle, I’d won. But one of us had turned out to be a bit of a sore loser.

‘But then I lost, so I demanded a rematch.’ She stuck out her tongue playfully, her blonde hair tied up in a ponytail, my cap keeping the rest from her face. The sight of her wearing it was enough to bring me to my knees. ‘Last time, you got lucky. Beat me by one point. That’s hard for a woman of my—’

‘Arrogance?’ I argued, interrupting her with one brow pushed up.

‘I was going to say talent.’ Her eyes narrowed on me. ‘That’s hard for a woman of my talent to take.’

I couldn’t help the smile that broke out across my face, so instead I turned around, busying myself by pulling my racket out of the bag, filling my pocket with a few balls until it was under control. ‘The last match was supposed to be the final one. You said you’d learn to live with the loss.’

I knew it was useless to remind her. I’d been doing it for days, trying to avoid this final match so we could enjoy the last of our time here. But she was relentless, the athlete inside of her unable to cope with the itch of the simple loss. That, and she probably didn’t want me holding it over her head.

‘I lied.’ I turned around to find a playful smug look on her face, her pink lips in a smirk. ‘Come on. Five rounds. Let’s go all the way. See who really is the best.’ Her eyes narrowed on me, a competitive curve pulling at the edge of her lips. I had learned the hard way that when I got this look, I should expect devious things from her. I relented, knowing it was useless to put it off anymore. It was either now, or I’d hear about this for the rest of my life. Because that’s how long I was planning on keeping her.

‘Fine. Let’s get on with it.’ I threw a couple balls her way, watching as she pocketed them in the stretchy hidden pocket of her skirt, my eyes lingering on the top of her thighs.

She definitely picked that skirt to distract me.

‘Personally, I think we’re equals,’ I said over my shoulder, as we began to make our way to opposite sides of the private court, the warm Florida air perfect weather for tennis.

‘Personally,’ she shouted back, spinning around for dramatic effect, ‘I think you’re scared to get your ass handed to you.’

‘Says the person who’s already been beaten twice!’

‘The first was a tie!’

I stifled a laugh, shaking my head as we both got into position on the baseline. I watched as she discarded a few balls to the side of the court, taking her time before she picked one. She bounced the ball a few times against the hard surface, counting in her head.

One. Two. Three. Just like she always does.

‘Let’s just get this over with,’ I shouted, distracting her back. ‘We’ve got a reservation for dinner at seven.’ My heart pounded with the reminder of what I had planned. A private dinner, in my favourite part of town. A small, romantic Greek restaurant, tucked away in a private corner to remind us of our beginning.

‘Too bad I’m about to beat you, old man.’ She smiled. It wasn’t often she still called me that, but whenever she did, I knew she was trying to get under my skin. Instead, all she did was remind me of sandy spring days spent just like this one, standing on the opposite side of the court, watching her serve.

Before that villa, I’d been convinced my life was over. The only thing I’d ever cared about, done. But she’d given me something I didn’t know I needed – hope, and a new start.

Now, with a ring hidden in my tennis bag, waiting for the moment when she finally beat me, I knew I’d never been surer about anything. Scottie Sinclair was the love of my life, my best friend. And if every day of the rest of my life was spent here, looking at her from across the court, then I was in the exact place I wanted to be.

‘Just keep hittin’, Sinclair,’ I shouted as she threw the ball up in the air, the racket slamming into the ball, sending it flying across the net, landing right at my feet.

I smiled as I realized I never stood a chance against Scottie Sinclair.

15–Love.