11. Noah
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.”
We load up, and as the car pulls away, Maddie turns to face me, eyes bright. “Did it feel good to play again for real?”
My heart clenches. “Yeah, it did.”
It wasn’t the same, but it did feel good.
Sabrina watches me, but I avoid looking her way. With my luck, she’s already seen the interview. Maddie, thankfully, hasn’t said a word about it.
By the time we make it back to the hotel, I’ve gotten a handful of calls and twice as many texts. Mostly from Fisher. I ignore them all. He’ll probably show up at my door, but maybe by then I’ll be in a better state of mind.
After I’ve helped Maddie out of the car, I stuff my free hand in my pocket and rock back on my heels. “I’m going to grab a coffee. Do you guys want anything?”
Sabrina watches me with a far too knowing expression. Fuck, it unnerves me to know she can read me so easily.
“Coffee would be good, thanks. Come on.” She takes Maddie’s hand. “Your dad needs a minute.”
My daughter looks back at me, brows creased in confusion.
It’s hard, navigating the grief of losing a spouse while doing the best I can for my child, who lost her mother. Sometimes I think Maddie has coped better than I have.
I watch the two of them through the floor-to-ceiling windows, and only after they step into the elevator do I stride down the sidewalk.
I’d love nothing more than to get drunk, but I know better than to anger my coaching team like that.
While I wait for our coffees, I sit at a table in the corner.
I’m entitled to my reaction—it’s okay to be hurt by the casual way my wife’s death was brought up—but this is my job . I can’t fuck it up. Regardless of the anger or hurt inadvertently caused, I have to put on a brave face and get through it. I can be upset about it when cameras aren’t capturing every minute flicker of emotion on my face.
When my order is ready, I stride back to the hotel, head down. All sorts of people from the tournament are staying in the same place, and I’d like to make it back to my room without running into anyone.
Luckily, I have the whole elevator to myself. Leaning against the stainless-steel wall, I focus on breathing steadily, wondering whether Annie would be embarrassed by my reaction or if she’d understand.
Even a year later, my feelings are still raw. It doesn’t matter that we had months to “prepare.” It’s impossible to ever really be prepared to lose a loved one. Even when the doctors said there was no hope, my brain refused to believe it. There had to be something we could do to change her fate.
Annie was far more resolved.
When the doors slide open, I choke back the emotion threatening to bubble over and head down the hall.
Inside, I don’t hear or see Maddie, but Sabrina is settled on the couch, legs curled under her. Her hair is pulled back with some sort of bandanna thing, and she’s changed into a pair of leggings and a sweatshirt. I hold the coffee out to her without a word.
She takes it, the bright pink color of her nails snagging my attention.
Maddie went on and on about how Sabrina let her paint her nails. I’m pretty sure when I fell asleep, she was still talking about it.
“Where’s Maddie?”
“Shower.” She takes a sip of the coffee. “How are you?”
I huff, dismissive. “Fine.”
With a roll of her eyes, she sets her coffee on the table. “Don’t be stupid. I meant after the interview.”
“Fine,” I answer again.
“You know, it wouldn’t kill you to actually talk .” She ducks her head, averting her eyes in a shy way that is not at all in character for her. “I just want to make sure you’re okay.”
It’s like I can’t help but be an asshole to her. Every day, the attraction I feel toward this woman only pisses me off more. I’ve only ever been with my wife, and I’ve only ever had eyes for her. Until now. The way I feel about Sabrina has completely thrown me for a loop.
“I’m okay.”
She lowers her chin and shoots me a glare, clearly unimpressed with my elaboration.
“I should’ve expected them to bring it up, but it caught me off guard.”
“I’m sorry they did that to you. He should’ve been more sensitive to your loss.”
The sincerity in her eyes and tone of voice are like a single stitch keeping the two halves of my heart from separating completely.
Throat thick with emotion, I choke out a “thanks.”
It seems as though, according to the world, men shouldn’t grieve. At least not for long. I’m the head of my household, so I’m supposed to put on a brave face and not let my emotions get the best of me. But grief drains the life out of those who suffer from it. At times, it felt like I was dying right alongside Annie. Now that she’s gone, I’m a different person, and I haven’t figured out how to function in this world as this new version of myself.
Now that I’ve returned to such a public space, it doesn’t feel as though I’m allowed to be sad. It doesn’t feel as though I can deny the media’s desire to talk about my wife. I’m still grieving, and I don’t want to have to put on a facade so the world can feel more comfortable. I don’t want to pretend to be okay when I’m not.
Especially when I’m in such a complicated spot, torn between grief and this new unexpected attraction to Sabrina.
“I can’t pretend to know how you feel, but if you want to talk to someone who doesn’t know a lot about you or your life, then I’m here.”
I rub my jaw, the stubble rasping against my fingers. “I appreciate it.” I have no intention of taking her up on it, but her offer is commendable, since I haven’t exactly been the kindest to her.
“You’re welcome.” She stands, and a moment later, the door to her room clicks shut.
I lean back on the couch, stretching my legs out wide.
Before I can get too comfortable, a pounding on the door echoes through the room.
“Here to chew me out?” I ask when I let my best friend in.
“No.” He glowers, hands on his hips. “I’m here to ask if you’re okay, you fucking asshole.”
With a shrug, I step aside to let him in. “As okay as I can be.” I drop back onto the couch. “Should I order drinks?”
Fisher joins me, sitting in the spot Sabrina just vacated. “Only if you want one for yourself. I’m fine.”
I pick up my coffee. “This is enough for me.” Silence settles between us for a long moment. “There’s nothing wrong with what Shawn said, but it just…” I clench my jaw and zero in on the paper cup in my hands. “I guess I wasn’t prepared for it.”
The few tournaments I played at the end of last year were smaller and had minimal press coverage, not to mention Annie hadn’t been gone long, so I avoided any possibility of an interview.
“Understandable.” Fisher cocks his head and zeroes in on my shirt. “Nice sticker.”
Smiling, I pat it, confirming it’s still sticking well. “Maddie gave it to me. For winning.”
“She’s a good kid.”
“The best,” I agree.
“I told the network not to bring up Annie to you unless you mention her first.”
I swallow past the lump in my throat and nod. “Thanks.”
“You’ve got a lot of support out there, you know,” he goes on. “You don’t have to run away.”
“I know.”
“No. You don’t get it.” He smacks my knee and hauls himself to his feet. “One of these days you’ll figure out how many people truly care about you.”
As he lets himself out, I stay where I am, replaying his words, trying to figure out what he means.