Match Point

Chapter 11

11

I don’t know how to act around Kieran. Something feels different now, and when we’re together, I feel constantly on edge and aware of every single movement either of us make. In the week leading up to Wimbledon, he’s not around so much due to his training, treatments and team discussions I guess, and I keep looking for excuses to be busy and get out the house in an attempt to stop my mind aimlessly drifting to Kieran and how he looks when he’s only wearing a towel. I’m not going to lie, it’s very nice to think about, but it’s stopping me from focusing on anything else at all.

I’ve tried to lose myself in my art, but all I’ve managed to do this week are meaningless doodles – nothing with substance. I spent a whole afternoon sketching this picture of two figures lying next to each other by a lake, her head resting in the nook of his neck, her eyes closed as he gazes down at her. It’s a nice, peaceful scene, but what’s the point in it? There’s no story to it; I have no idea who these people are or what they want. It’s a picture of nothing.

I’ve been for dinner twice with Iris this week, and I even went to the cinema on my own one night despite it being one of the hottest days we’ve had this month. I thought I’d go watch a romance in the hope of getting some inspiration for my book, but I sat there in a near-empty theatre watching a movie about two people who are all wrong for each other falling in love, sweating my butt off because the aircon was broken and thinking about Kieran and his strong sexy arms the whole bloody time.

I’d really love for the weather to make up its fucking mind. The organisers of Wimbledon must be on the edge of their seats, wondering how on earth it’s going to play out for them this year.

On the Friday before the start of the tournament, Kieran walks in to find me pinging one of his resistance bands against the wall in exasperation. In the middle of swigging from his water bottle, he stops abruptly in the doorway of the living room, taking in the pushed-aside coffee table and one of his mats rolled out on the carpet. His eyes travel down my dark green sports bra and leggings and back up again. My skin heats under his gaze, my pulse quickening as his mouth parts ever so slightly.

‘What are you doing?’ he asks quietly, studying me.

‘I’m attempting a workout,’ I admit, flicking my loose ponytail back from my shoulder. ‘But it’s not going well.’

He nods to his resistance band now lying on the floor across the room.

‘You know you don’t use that like a catapult, right?’ he asks, a bemused smile playing across his lips.

‘I know.’ I lower my eyes to the floor, folding my arms across my chest. ‘I was frustrated.’

‘I see.’ He leans against the doorframe. ‘Sketching didn’t go well today, then?’

‘I still haven’t started the book,’ I mutter, disappointment shrouding my heart. ‘It’s been almost two weeks and I still don’t have a story. I can’t… I can’t seem to focus.’ I decide not to elaborate on why that may be, burying my face in my hands. ‘Argh, what am I doing? I’ve basically wasted two weeks when I could have been working and earning. What is wrong with me?’

A few moments later, I feel the warm grip of his fingers wrap around my wrists, encouraging me to lower my hands and as I do so, I look up into his eyes as he stands right in front of me, my breath catching in my throat.

‘You haven’t wasted this time, Flossie, it’s all part of the process,’ he insists gently, his hands still holding mine, oblivious to the effect his touch is having on me as my heart races and my mouth runs dry. ‘I know that you’re organised, but you can’t schedule when you’re going to have a good idea.’

I swallow, forcing myself to look up into his eyes.

‘So, what do I do?’ I ask helplessly.

He lets go of my hands and takes a step back, tilting his head and looking at me thoughtfully. ‘You need to find an outlet for that frustration and let your mind clear.’

‘Okay. Any ideas? What do you do when you need to calm and clear your mind, like before a match?’

He shrugs. ‘I don’t do anything.’

‘What? Surely you do something. What’s your pre-match ritual?’

‘I don’t have one,’ he insists, chuckling at my obvious bewilderment. ‘I just go out and play.’

‘That’s it? Nothing for luck? No superstitions? I thought that was standard for people in sport.’

‘Not for me.’ He arches a brow. ‘I feel like I’ve disappointed you.’

‘You have a little,’ I admit, making him laugh. ‘It’s a bit boring not to have anything cool that you do before you walk on to play a game at Wimbledon. I think that needs to change, Kieran. I’ll think of something.’

He points his finger at me sternly. ‘I’m not doing any kind of jig.’

‘Yes, thank you, Kieran, I’m aware you’re not actually a leprechaun.’ I roll my eyes, thrilled to see his shoulders shake with laughter. ‘It will be something a bit more chill and subtle than that. Something that calms you, but also gears you up.’

‘Sounds necessary. In the meantime, let’s focus on your current predicament. How can we help get your creative juices flowing?’

‘We?’

He nods. ‘I happen to have a bit of time off this evening, and I have an idea that could help both of us.’

‘Really. What might that be?’ I breathe, my mind jumping to somewhere it should DEFINITELY not be going.

He slides past me to go to the chest in the corner of the room, giving me a moment to break out from whatever spell he seems to be able to hold over me now and collect myself. When I turn round to see what he’s up to, he’s opened the lid of the chest and is peering inside. He looks over his shoulder and grins at me.

‘You lied to me,’ he accuses.

I frown. ‘About what?’

‘You said you were into ping-pong, not tennis.’

‘Yeah?’

He gives me a look and reaches into the chest to dig around a bit before he pulls out a tennis racket, spinning the handle round in his grip. ‘Then what’s this?’

‘That’s old. I’d forgotten it was even in there! I played a little back at school, but I don’t play anymore.’

He looks unconvinced. ‘You told me you moved here last year.’

‘So?’

‘So,’ he begins, walking across the room to stand in front of me with the smug smile of a detective in a murder mystery, right before they give their big reveal, ‘if you don’t play anymore and don’t intend to, then why would you bother to bring your tennis racket all the way from Norwich to London barely a year ago?’

I open my mouth, but I can’t think of a retort. Damn it.

He peers down at me. ‘How about a game?’

I dissolve into a fit of laughter. ‘Seriously? You want me to play tennis with you?’

‘Why not?’

‘You’re Kieran fucking O’Sullivan!’ I point out, aghast. ‘I can’t play tennis with you. It would be absolutely humiliating. I’m average at best and you’re a professional, world-ranked player. There would literally be no point.’

‘Go on, Flossie,’ he chuckles softly. ‘I’ll go easy on you, I promise.’

He reaches up to tuck a loose lock of my hair behind my ear and my breath catches at the touch of his fingertips lightly brushing across my skin. I dig my teeth into my bottom lip and his eyes drop to my mouth.

Oh my God.

His hand lingers a touch too long at my cheekbone, before he swallows and blinks, as though he’s been on autopilot and has suddenly realised what he’s doing. He drops his hand quickly and pulls back, clearing his throat.

‘What do you say, then?’ he asks, going back to studying the racket. ‘Fancy giving it a go? You never know, it might be exactly what you need.’

‘All right, fine. If anything, it will at least be a good laugh.’

He breaks into a relieved smile. ‘This will be fun.’

*

‘You need to run for the ball, Flossie,’ Kieran instructs. ‘Not watch it bounce by.’

‘You did that drop shot on purpose,’ I accuse him, jogging to fetch the tennis ball from the back of the court.

We’ve come to the outdoor tennis courts in the park – for one terrifying and ludicrous moment on our way here, I did wonder whether he might be leading me in the direction of the All England Lawn Tennis Club and I panicked at the fact that not only was my standard nowhere near the levels they’d expect from members there, but I had also just thrown on an old baggy T-shirt over my workout gear and some scruffy trainers before we left. I didn’t look Wimbledon-ready.

The courts were busy, but we arrived as a pair were leaving, and managed to bag one. So far, no one has noticed that they’re playing on a court along from Kieran.

‘Yeah, I do every shot on purpose,’ Kieran calls out and I can hear him rolling his eyes. ‘It wouldn’t be great tennis if the shots I played were all by accident. You’ve been bolting around this court brilliantly; you could have got that one if you’d tried.’

Picking up the ball, I spin round to glare at him. ‘I wasn’t expecting it.’

‘Again, kind of part and parcel of tennis playing: you don’t know what shot your opponent is going to play. You have to be on your toes, ready for anything. Like this.’

He arches forward at the hips, his feet shoulder-width apart, knees bent, his weight on the balls of his feet, bobbing side to side.

‘You see?’ he calls, spinning the racket handle round and round in his hands. ‘I’m energised, I’ve got momentum on my side, whatever you bring at me, you can see I look ready for it, right?’

‘I can see you look like a twat,’ I mutter.

‘I heard that!’ he shouts. ‘Here, come to the net. I want to try something.’

I allow a smile as I make my way across the court towards him. This has been a lot more fun than I was expecting and there’s something extremely thrilling about a professional tennis player praising your forehand.

We started nice and easy, and he’s now begun to up the ante as I’ve got more into it, sneaking some annoyingly good shots in there. It was also quite sweet when he cautiously asked me if I’d like him to give me some pointers or if I’d rather he just shut up and let me get on with it. I think he was trying to make sure I didn’t think he was being all pompous, but I assured him that I’d happily take advantage of a free tennis lesson from a pro.

And I would never have expected this, but Kieran O’Sullivan is a pretty good teacher. He’s so much more relaxed in this environment than when he plays professionally, which I guess is an obvious thing to say because he’s not competing here. But I get the feeling that I’m not the only person getting something out of this session. It’s like something in him has lit up – he’s at ease, his eyes bright and invigorated, and he’s joking and laughing. The world doesn’t get to see this silly side of him. He’s having a really good time, and, sadly, I don’t think it’s anything to do with me.

I think he’s having a lot of fun coaching.

‘Okay, so you know what I want to see more of, Flossie? Your aggression,’ he says, meeting me at the net and folding his arms across his chest.

‘I don’t have any aggression.’

‘Yes, you do,’ he counters. ‘Everyone does. You’re playing too nice. I want you to find your fury and take it out on the ball.’

‘I really don’t have any upper body strength. I’m more of a casual tennis player. You know… I’m dainty and elegant.’ He smirks and I give him a pointed look. ‘I am.’

‘Sure, but you’re also fiery and powerful.’

‘Where did you get that?’ I mutter, raising my eyebrows.

‘We’re going to do some warm-up volleys and then I want to see you smash the ball when I feed the lob, okay? Get your racket back early so you can judge the flight of the ball properly and you want to hit it with your arm outstretched at your highest point.’

‘Fine. I’ll give it a go.’

‘Show me that aggression. You’ll feel great afterwards. It relieves tension, boosts morale. You’ll feel empowered.’

‘If you say so. But—’ I say, narrowing my eyes at him ‘—if I miss all these lobs and feel like even more of a loser, you owe me a drink.’

‘Okay. And if you do walk away from this feeling empowered, then you owe me one.’

‘Deal.’

That’s fine by me. Either way, I’m having a drink with Kieran, and that makes my chest tighten and my hands tingle. I shake them out, doing my best to give him a cool smile as I walk backwards from the net.

‘Ready?’ he checks, once we’re both in position.

‘Ready.’

We start with some soft, easy volleys and then he gives me a warning nod before sending the ball up high in a loop towards me. I watch it drop and then I hit it down. It plops near his right foot. He watches it bounce and dribble away down the court.

He turns back to face me, arching a brow. ‘That was… terrible.’

‘It was dainty!’

‘Let’s go again.’

After another well-positioned attempt, but lacking in power, Kieran puts his hands on his hips and gestures for me to come meet him at the net again. I tip back my head and groan, preparing myself for either a lecture or a pep talk.

‘Why can’t you just accept that I’m not the sort of person who can smash a tennis ball?’ I query, picking at the grip of my racket. ‘I’m not competitive; I don’t have the fire in me that you do.’

‘Yes, you do,’ he insists, his eyes boring into mine. ‘And I know that, because on the day we met, you threw a drink at me.’

I hesitate. ‘I was having a bad day and you really pissed me off.’

‘I made you angry.’

‘Yes, you did.’

‘What else makes you angry, aside from me of course?’ he asks with a sly, secretive smile, as though he knows something I don’t.

I shrug. ‘I don’t know.’

‘Take your time. Think about it.’

Plucking nervously at the strings on my racket, I eventually let out a heavy sigh. ‘The way Jonah made me feel about myself. That he has this ability to say things that reinforce my own doubts and flaws.’

‘He makes you feel small and powerless,’ Kieran says in a low, understanding voice.

‘Yeah. But I can’t blame that all on him. I guess it’s hard to have confidence and self-esteem when my dad left me, and Mum was too caught up struggling with her own demons to notice what I needed.’ I hesitate, frowning at him. ‘Is this becoming a strange kind of therapy session?’

His lips twitch into a smile, his expression softening. ‘Tennis can be therapy to me,’ he admits, glancing across at the other people playing on the courts down the way. ‘When I feel in control on the court, it helps.’

He’s doing that thing again, offering me a glance at the weary, vulnerable guy hidden behind a carefully constructed brash and conceited reputation. It makes me want to leap over this net and hold him, and tell him that it’s okay.

‘And when you smash a ball,’ I say calmly, ‘it reminds you that you’re not so powerless after all.’

He tilts his head at me. ‘You want another go?’

‘Yes. I do.’ I nod vigorously, pumping myself up. ‘Lob the ball. I think I’ve got this.’

‘Okay,’ he says, pointing his racket at me. ‘I know you do.’

We move back to our starting points and this time I feel determined and focused, bending my knees and holding my racket steady. Kieran feeds the ball. Guiding the ball with one arm as it soars up into the air, I wait for it to come down in front of me, slightly to the right of centre, and I reach up with all my might, bringing my racket down on top of it with all the force I can muster.

The ball smashes down on his side of the court, bouncing just inside the singles line and flying out of play. It’s a beautiful, powerful shot. And it feels great.

His mouth hanging open, Kieran lifts his hands in the air and whoops loudly, causing others to look in our direction. I burst out laughing, running a hand through my hair.

‘That was INCREDIBLE!’ Kieran cries, tucking his racket under his arm so he can give me an enthusiastic round of applause. ‘Flossie, that smash was perfect. You’d have a hard time returning that one, let me tell you.’

‘I can’t believe I made that shot,’ I breathe proudly.

‘I can,’ he says, his eyes twinkling at me, the creases around them deepening as his warm, sincere smile widens. ‘I knew you had that in you.’