Match Point

Chapter 17

17

Kieran is looking to me. There are hundreds of people in this crowd on Court Eighteen watching him play and out of everyone here, all the faces looking down at him, he’s choosing to look to me after winning that incredible point. I’ve been on edge for the entire rally, my fingers gripping the bottom of my fold-down seat, my nails digging into the plastic. It’s not that hot today, but I’m sweating with nerves, the backs of my thighs sticking to the seat as the shorts of my blue playsuit ride up when I’m sat down. He fought for that point and he won it with a stunning forehand that soars to the baseline, too fast for his German opponent, Jürgen Keller, to return. The crowd erupts with applause, several up on their feet in appreciation of such beautiful play, and he turns to the box where his team are sat. He scans across and he looks to me. My heart somersaults.

My eyes locked on his, I nod sharply to him with just a hint of a determined smile.

That’s it. More like that, please. You’ve got this.

He turns away, taking the towel offered to him by a ball girl and wiping his forehead before tossing it back to her. He collects three balls from a ball boy, selecting two of them and sending the third back. He steps up to the line to serve. The stands fall silent, eerily silent, just like he said they do. I practically hold my breath, I’m too scared to exhale and make a noise that might distract him.

He looks relaxed and controlled as he tosses the ball up in the air and brings his racket down over the top of it in a smooth, fluid motion. It’s a deceptively powerful and accurate serve. Keller doesn’t stand a chance. It zips past his outstretched racket.

Ace.

I breathe out as Kieran moves to the other side of the court to another ardent round of applause, the Irish spectators in the stands cheering loudly and waving their flags.

‘Forty – fifteen. Set point,’ the umpire mumbles into the microphone.

Kieran points to the ball boy who provided the balls for the last serve and he obligingly bounces two towards him. Kieran checks them and approves, before stepping up to serve again. Keller wipes the back of his hand against his forehead, squinting across at Kieran and crouching low to the ground as he awaits the shot. Kieran’s chest rises with a deep breath as he decides where to place this next one, before he bounces the ball twice on the grass and then tosses it smoothly up into the air and sends it flying powerfully across the court. Keller only just manages to return it, stumbling off balance.

As the ball lands softly in the service box, Kieran is there, ready with his deadly forehand. The ball zips back in a blur, spinning so fast it hardly bounces.

‘Set, O’Sullivan.’

The roar from the crowd is deafening. Everyone is up on their feet, clapping and whooping as Kieran chucks the spare tennis ball from his pocket across to a ball boy without reacting, and calmly goes to sit on his chair. That’s two sets to one. He can do this, I know he can. But I’m not going to celebrate yet. I’m learning that at Wimbledon, it can all change with just a few points.

Talking to the assistant coach sat next to him, Neil glances down the row at me, but I pretend not to notice, adjusting my sunglasses and keeping my eyes fixed on Kieran. Despite being here with Kieran’s team, I’m not really with the team. I’m very much an outsider and Neil has made sure that I know I’m not going to be let into the fold anytime soon. Which is fine by me. I appreciate I’m not important. I’m here for Kieran.

I think I’m beginning to understand that Kieran has spent a long time, on and off court, feeling like no one is really on his side, even those he pays to help him win. But I care about him, win or lose. No matter what happens, I want him to feel like he has someone in his corner. Someone who chooses to be in his corner.

‘Time.’

At the umpire’s announcement, he picks up his racket and gets to his feet. His eyes flash up at me.

Here we go.

*

I’ve not actually been to the Wimbledon tournament before. We didn’t go last year and I’ve never thought to apply for the ballot to get tickets, but now that I’m here I feel like I’ve missed out. It’s warm, the atmosphere is buzzing, and this is easily one of the most beautiful sports grounds I’ve ever seen. Everything at the All England Lawn Tennis Club is clean, bright and preened, with hundreds of hanging baskets, troughs and flower beds around the courts brimming with dark purple and white petunias, perfectly complementing the green foliage and courts. If you asked someone to imagine how a quintessential English country garden might translate to a sports ground, this would be it.

And the crowds are all on their best behaviour. There may be Champagne and Pimm’s flowing freely, but there’s no rowdiness or raucous activity. It’s as though all the spectators know that they have to treat somewhere so well preserved with respect.

I’m enjoying milling around. I felt that, since I’m here, this is a good opportunity to experience Wimbledon properly, so I might as well wander around for a bit and take it all in.

After Kieran won the match, Neil told me explicitly that I was welcome to enjoy the grounds but that only Kieran’s team could join him in the player’s area. I had expected as much anyway. It’s not like I was planning on hanging around the men’s locker room while Kieran showered and changed, although that would be extremely pleasant. So I messaged Kieran to congratulate him and then said I was going to hang around for a bit and he could let me know if he wanted to meet, or else I’d see him back at the flat.

I join the queue for the strawberries and cream stand. There’s no chance that I’m coming to Wimbledon and not having strawberries and cream. That would be insulting the tournament and, quite frankly, the country itself. Having purchased my tub of strawberries, I proudly take a selfie of me holding it up and grinning, and send it to Kieran, having swapped numbers this morning before he left. We both found it amusing when we realised we hadn’t actually got round to doing that yet.

Celebrating your win with strawberries on Murray Mound!I caption the photo.

Finding a spot on the hill in front of the giant screen that’s on the side of Court One, I sit down cross-legged and start spooning the cream over the strawberries. I’m trying to scoop my first one onto the spoon when someone’s shadow blocks the sun.

‘Fancy seeing you here,’ Kieran says, sitting down next to me in his Wayfarers and cap. He’s not in his tennis whites, but navy shorts and a white shirt.

‘Hey!’ I exclaim, swivelling to face him as he rests his arms on his knees. I hesitate, a smile spreading across my face as I lower my voice and lean into him. ‘Aren’t you that famous tennis player who just got through to the fourth round of Wimbledon?’

‘You must be mistaking me for someone else,’ he whispers back.

‘Congratulations, Kieran.’

‘Thank you.’

‘You played amazingly,’ I gush, desperate to throw my arms around him, but I get the feeling that he doesn’t want any fuss that might attract attention on this busy hill. ‘It was incredible to watch. You did it! You’re through to the next round.’

‘It’s hard to believe,’ he says, unable to stop a wide grin breaking across his face.

‘Not for me. How do you feel?’

He bites his lip and nods. ‘Yeah, good.’

I wait for him to expand and when he doesn’t, I snicker. ‘Wow, Kieran, that was beautiful. The musical poet would be proud to express himself in such an eloquent manner. You’re through to the next bloody round of Wimbledon. And you’re feeling “good”.’

He chuckles softly, his cheeks flushed. ‘All right, fine. I feel…’ He pauses, exhaling and turning his head to look at me. ‘I feel like this is a dream and I’m scared to wake up.’

I smile, nudging his arm with my elbow. ‘It’s not a dream. It’s all real.’

‘Yeah. The magnitude of it is definitely starting to feel real.’

‘Kieran,’ I say, giving him a stern look, ‘you’re just here to play some tennis. Don’t be a diva about it.’

He bursts out laughing, quirking his brow at me. ‘Did you just call me a diva?’

‘If you’re going to be all dramatic and start talking about the magnitude of winning another round of Wimbledon, then you’re in the wrong company.’

‘That so?’

‘I’m here to enjoy the atmosphere and eat some strawberries.’

He nods to the bowl in my hand. ‘Are they as good as everyone says?’

‘I’m about to find out. Surely you should be the one to tell me how good they are,’ I remark, using the edge of my spoon to cut one in half since they’re absolutely ginormous. ‘I bet you’re sick of these.’

He shrugs. ‘I’ve never had them here.’

I stop what I’m doing. ‘What?’

‘I’ve never had strawberries and cream at Wimbledon.’ He takes a glimpse at my expression and laughs again, his dimples prompting a warm swell in my belly. ‘Why are you looking at me like that? I’ve never had the chance!’

‘You’ve played in this tournament, like, a billion times!’

‘Slight exaggeration. And how many tennis players do you see casually sitting on the court tucking into a bowl of strawberries and cream?’

‘You’re not sitting on the court now, are you?’

‘True.’

I hold out the bowl to him. ‘Come on, you have to have one. I think if anyone else overheard what you just said, you might be kicked out the tournament altogether. Time to lose your virginity. Here—’ I use the spoon to nudge the bit I cut over towards his side of the bowl ‘—you have that half.’

He sighs, picking it up in his fingers. ‘I guess it would be a crime not to.’

‘Sláinte,’ I say, holding up my half of the strawberry on the spoon.

‘Cheers.’

We eat our halves at the same time, turning to look at each other after the first bite and nodding with approval in unison.

‘Not bad,’ he comments.

‘A top-notch cuisine,’ I say, already sawing away with the spoon to split the next strawberry.

I hold out the bowl to him again and he grins, gratefully taking his half and plopping it in his mouth while turning to watch the match being shown on the screen. For the next few minutes, we sit together watching the tennis, polishing off the bowl of strawberries. When they’re done, I put the bowl to the side on the grass, and he stretches his legs out in front of him and leans back on his hands.

‘This is it, isn’t it,’ he sighs wistfully. ‘This is what they mean.’

‘Who?’

‘When people talk about Wimbledon, this is it,’ he explains, his eyes fixed ahead on the screen. ‘Sitting in the sunshine, eating strawberries, watching tennis.’ He turns to look at me. ‘It’s perfect.’

I rest back on my hands too, stretching my legs out next to his. This playsuit has a cut-out detail below the tie knot that sits in between my cleavage and I notice him glance at the skin of my stomach on show, making me blush.

‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘It is.’

He smiles at me and then goes back to watching the screen. A few moments later, I feel his fingers brush over my hand, before he interlaces his fingers through mine. My breath catches and my heart swells in my chest, my skin tingling at his touch. I keep staring ahead, just like him. Neither of us say anything. We don’t need to.

*

‘There you are!’ Neil exclaims, appearing in our pathway as we make our way down the steps next to Murray Mound. ‘I’ve been looking for you everywhere, Kieran. You don’t answer your phone now?’

‘Neil, have you ever had the strawberries and cream here?’ Kieran asks breezily, unfazed by the sharpness in his coach’s tone. ‘They’re delicious.’

Neil stares at him in disbelief. ‘What are you talking about strawberries for? I’ve been trying to reach you. We had a post-match press conference, remember?’

‘Slipped my mind.’ Kieran shrugs, continuing to go down the stairs, ignoring the glances he’s receiving from people he passes along the way as he’s recognised.

I slow my pace, walking a step behind him. He didn’t say anything to me about missing a press conference whilst we were just lounging on the grass doing nothing. My stomach knots at Neil’s murderous expression.

I have an idea that I’ll be the one fielding the blame for this mishap in his eyes.

‘You can’t do that, Kieran, it’s not a good look,’ Neil hisses, falling into step with him.

‘I don’t care how it looks. I’m here to play tennis, not win over the press.’

Neil sighs, getting out his phone. ‘Yeah, I think they got the message. Nicole is concerned that your image is going to go from bad to worse if you keep up this attitude. We’ve said that you missed the conference due to concern about injury and you had to rush to the physio. We’ll have to do some damage control at the drinks tonight. You can give some quotes to the reporters or something.’

Kieran stops in the middle of the pathway to address Neil. ‘I’m not going tonight.’

Halting abruptly, Neil blinks up at him. ‘What do you mean? You’ve been invited to drinks at the club with the members tonight. You have to go.’

‘I can’t. I’m busy.’

‘Doing what?’

Kieran turns to me. Having stopped behind him, I’ve been pretending to look around at all the other people milling about as though I’m not listening to every word of the conversation.

‘Flossie, do you want to go for a drink tonight?’ he asks. ‘We could go somewhere in the village. The Dog and Fox maybe?’

My mouth drops in surprise. ‘Uh. Well, yeah, but only if you’re not needed somewhere else.’

‘I’m not,’ he tells me. He turns back to Neil. ‘I’m busy having a drink with Flossie at the Dog and Fox tonight.’

‘Kieran,’ Neil begins, his voice low and urgent, ‘I don’t think this is a good idea.’

‘I think it’s a great idea,’ Kieran counters. ‘Tonight is not important, Neil, and after a long day, I don’t want to have to wear a tie and make polite conversation with a bunch of people I don’t know. I promise I’ll be at the All England Club chairman’s big fancy do for the players tomorrow, okay? I’ve got my tux ready and everything.’

Neil takes a moment to respond, putting his hands on his hips and looking down at the ground, shaking his head. I glance up at Kieran nervously, but his mouth remains straight and serious. Neil eventually lifts his eyes up to him.

‘Fine,’ he seethes, his jaw tense. ‘As long as you’re there tomorrow.’

‘Promise, coach,’ Kieran says, reaching out and patting him on the arm.

Agitated, Neil’s eyes scan to me and his nostrils flare.

‘It’s just one drinks evening, Neil, it’s not a big deal,’ Kieran reminds him, his lips twitching upwards into a small smile. ‘It was a good win today. You should take my advice and have some strawberries. We’ve worked hard for them.’

Kieran reaches down to take my hand in his, interlocking our fingers and leading me away from Neil, who watches us go with a grim expression. My cheeks flushing with heat, I keep my head down as we walk down the path towards the exit, increasingly aware of the number of people noticing us and openly staring.

By taking my hand in front of Neil, it feels like Kieran is making some kind of statement, confirming Neil’s dreaded suspicions. By continuing to hold my hand as we walk through the crowds of Wimbledon, it feels like he’s telling everyone else.

And when he lifts my hand to his lips to lightly kiss my fingers when no one’s watching as we leave the grounds, I’m hoping he’s making a statement to me.