Chapter 11
NOAH
The methodical thunk-thunk-thunk sends me into a sort of trance. The rest of the world melts away. My lingering grief. My worries about Maddie. Sabrina.
All that exists is this court, the ball, my racket, and my opponent.
With a grunt, I hit the ball with a strategic mix of force and finesse to send it where I want it to go. When it returns, I dive for it, my shoes sliding across the synthetic court surface.
My opponent, Aldo Mancini, is a newcomer from Italy.
Surprisingly, facing off with him is more intimidating than if I were playing someone with more experience.
I don’t know his playing style or what to expect. Some players are even-tempered, while others throw tantrums. Then there are the few who question every point.
I’d consider myself an even-tempered player. Now, at least. When I was younger, I was a bit of a hothead. It used to drive Annie crazy.
“You act like a petulant child on the court. Even Madelyn doesn’t act like that.”
I slam the ball back over the net, and Aldo returns it, though it catches the net.
“Yes!” I pump a fist and smile at Fisher and my coaching team.
During the short break between plays, I wipe at the sweat dripping down my face and pull as much air into and out of my lungs as I can, then scan my box until I find Sabrina and Maddie, who are cheering.
When the ball boy has sent two balls my way, I survey them and choose the one with the least amount of wear. The fluffier a ball is, the less predictable.
Bouncing on the balls of my feet, I close my eyes.
Focus. Breathe in. Breathe out. Anticipate his moves.
I bounce the tennis ball off the court six times, like always, before I toss it into the air and hit it.
My record serve speed is over one hundred and forty miles per hour.
Since my absence I’ve only been averaging around one hundred and ten.
Eventually, I’ll get back to where I was.
I spent most of my life working up to it in the first place, so it’ll take time.
As Mancini returns the serve, I’m zeroed in on the game and nothing else.
It’s turning into a long rally, and my breath is starting to get away from me. When the ball returns to me again, I surge forward, going for a drop shot. Aldo sprints for it, but he doesn’t make it in time, and I get the point.
I’m on a high as the game continues.
Fuck, I missed this.
I don’t regret stepping away to spend what little time I had left with Annie, but tennis is a huge part of who I am. Without it, I’m not whole.
When Aldo gets the break point, I stalk to my chair. I whip out my water, annoyed. Realistically, I can’t win every point, but when I’m on the court, logic tends to flee me. Panting, I wipe the sweat off my face with a towel. Then I take a bite of banana.
When the two-minute break is up, it’s Aldo’s turn to serve.
I twist my racket in my hands, swaying from side to side in anticipation.
He serves, and the umpire hollers, “Fault!”
Mancini shakes his head and huffs. He bounces the ball off the court and tosses it.
I’m in my ready position when the ump calls, “Double Fault!”
A thrill zings through me. Point for me. I’ll take it.
Three hours and twenty-one minutes later, I have my first win of the season.
At the net, Aldo and I shake hands.
“Good game,” I tell him, my breaths still coming quickly.
He nods, and in a thickly accented tone, says, “It’s good to see you playing again.”
He shakes hands with the umpire, and I do the same. Then I turn to the crowd and make my way to the end of the court, waving as I go. When I’m standing below Sabrina and Maddie, I point up at my daughter.
Waving like a maniac, she yells, “Good job, Daddy!”
Her praise might mean more to me than the win.
After I’ve packed up my gear, I meet my team and stretch my muscles.
Early on in my career, I spent a season suffering from terrible cramps.
Never again do I want to experience that kind of agony, so I take my time stretching.
As a professional athlete, I have to treat my body like a tool, one that must be crafted and maintained.
That means taking care of it in any way it needs, including stretching.
Fisher crosses his arms, watching my form.
“Tennis Network wants to interview you.”
Where once a thrill would have zapped through me, weariness is all I feel. Once upon a time, I thrived on the attention. Today, the last thing I want is to do a postgame interview. Not that I argue. I understand the interest.
“Okay.”
Though I’d much prefer hitting the shower and heading back to the hotel, I make my way to the interview table.
During commercial break, they instruct me to sit and hand me a microphone.
I’ve been interviewed by the network many times before.
Shawn York and Hailey Keegan both retired from tennis, so they’re knowledgeable about the sport.
“And we’re live in three, two, one—”
Immediately, I regret agreeing to this. My head swims, my thoughts muddled and my vision blurry. Fuck, is this what a panic attack feels like?
Discreetly, I inhale deeply and let the breath out slowly.
Get through this. It’s only a few minutes.
“Hello, tennis fans.” Shawn swings his right arm out. “Welcome back to the Australian Open. Noah Baker is here with us now. He’s just won his first match of the tennis season—his first professional game in nearly two years. Noah, tell us how it felt to be back out there.”
“It felt great,” I say, relying on the media training I had years ago. “Aldo was no easy opponent. I’m looking forward to seeing what’s to come at this open.”
My stomach turns over itself. Did that answer sound okay?
“Do you think you have a good chance of winning?” Hailey asks. “You’ve won this event three times in the past.”
I repeat her question in my head, trying to muddle through the fog that’s threatening to overtake me. I’ve never had a panic attack before, but if the way spots dance in my vision is any indication, I’m on the verge of one.
I should’ve fucking practiced for these too.
“I’d love to win again,” I choke out. There’s no sense in lying. It’s why we’re all here, after all. “But we’ll see what’s in the cards for me.”
My answer will suffice, though my words are clipped and there doesn’t seem to be any fixing that.
“How are things going for you?”
Before I can answer Hailey’s question, Shawn speaks up. “For any of you who are new to tennis, Noah took time off from playing professionally to take care of his wife while she fought her battle with cancer. She passed about a year ago.”
I flinch and hot anger flares to life inside me. What the fuck? Did this guy really just casually mention my wife and her death?
The fogginess that had settled over me vanishes in an instant. I clear my throat, though I can’t remember Hailey’s question. Heat rises inside me, mixing with fury and pain. I set the microphone down on the table and inhale sharply.
It’s inevitable that I’ll be asked about Annie. I knew that coming into this, but knowing it and experiencing it are two very different things.
Off to the side, Fisher shakes his head. Whether in annoyance at me or the interviewers, I’m not sure.
A shot of adrenaline courses through me, causing my whole body to shake.
“We’re done here.” Abruptly, I stand. “I have to go.”
It’s unprofessional for me to walk off, but if I stay, I worry I’ll lose my shit and make the situation worse.
Noah took time off from playing professionally to take care of his wife while she fought her battle with cancer. She passed about a year ago.
Shawn’s words play on a loop in my head as I hop on a golf cart and head for the locker rooms. Fisher hollers after me, but I don’t turn around.
Why the hell do people call cancer a battle? It’s not a war to be won or lost. It’s a disease that wreaks havoc on a person’s body. That’s not a battle. That’s a tragedy.
She passed about a year ago.
Such a casual way to say that my wife died.
Why do people hate that word so much? It’s what she is. She’s dead. People don’t like the finality of such things. Using the word passed is easier on their sensibilities.
But Annie is gone.
I lost my wife. My best friend. My lover. My confidant.
Maddie lost her mother.
I hop off the golf cart when I get to the locker room. I’m bound to get chewed out by Fisher later, the rest of my team as well, but for now, I tune out the world and head to the showers.
Once I’m dressed in a fresh pair of shorts and a t-shirt, I discover a missed text from Sabrina letting me know she and Maddie are headed out.
Me: If you’re still here, I can meet you and we can ride back to the hotel together.
Her response is almost instantaneous.
Sabrina: Okay. We’ll wait for you.
I sling my bag over my shoulder and pull my cap on. Then, keeping my head low, I book it out of the building. I don’t make eye contact with anyone as I go, not wanting to risk getting pulled into conversation.
When I make it to the entrance and find Sabrina and Maddie, my shoulders sag with relief.
“Daddy!” my little girl cries, running straight for me.
Despite how worn out I am, I pick her up and hug her close, soaking in the scent of her shampoo and a hint of sweat.
“You did so good! I’m so proud of you.”
My throat gets tight. The words are simple, but coming from her, they mean so much. “Thanks, princess.”
After I set her on her feet, she pulls something out of her pocket.
“For you, since you won.”
I hold out a hand, and she drops a sticker into my palm. It’s a smiley face giving a thumbs-up, and above it, it reads You’re #1!
Fuck.
I might cry.
There’s no point fighting a smile as I peel the backing off the sticker and press it to my chest.
Lips quirking, Sabrina assesses me, then turns her attention to my daughter. “Maddie insisted that win or lose, you deserved a sticker, so we picked some up before heading over.”
I tap the smiley face with my index finger. “Thank you. It’s perfect.”