Three
IN TENNIS, ALMOST everyone loses. Dozens of players fly in for a tournament and all but one will lose and fly out, off to repeat the process at next week’s tournament. We were all used to it; the high of winning matches along the way what we chased, and the bigger the win, the better.
Unfortunately, Nottingham was not Paris – the high of winning my first-round match at the Nottingham Challenger nothing like my win against Geroux, at a grand slam with the whole French crowd against me.
But it was still a win, and that was never nothing even when it felt like nothing.
And at least if I lost in the next round, it wouldn’t feel as bad as losing to Miles Callahan on centre court with the whole world watching.
He’d made it to the quarter-finals while I had left Paris behind. Thinking about how differently things might have gone wasn’t going to help, but knowing that never stopped me.
I pedalled harder, ignoring the bustle around me.
Player gyms were always busy at the start of tournaments, like the break room at an office job.
I’d shoved my headphones on to watch a video Dad had sent about the critically-endangered swift parrot, because while I had no great interest in parrots, swift or otherwise, this was just how he communicated.
Halfway through a description of mating habits, a text notification appeared at the top of my screen.
Scrunchie
you’re going to wimbledon, right?
I tapped the message, abruptly cutting off the video. Gym sounds returned around me, muffled by headphones and confusion. Who the fuck was Scrunchie? The only other message from them had been nine years earlier, and just said: my number.
Legs still mindlessly spinning on the bike, I typed back: Who is this? and waited. The clock on the bike counted up, each second seemingly an age before the answer came.
you didn’t save my number? asshole
Then: it’s miles
My rhythm faltered, momentum all that kept the pedals turning for the few seconds in which I froze.
I could remember him asking for my number at that training camp.
Could even stretch my memory to him having texted so I would have his.
But I could not for the life of me recall why I had labelled him Scrunchie in my contact list. I considered informing him that I had indeed saved his number, just not under his name.
Instead, I frowned at my phone and wondered what the fuck he wanted.
callahan, a fresh message added when I didn’t reply.
world number 4
we played rg a couple of weeks ago
i won
I rolled my eyes and sped to my previous pace on the bike. I know who you are. What do you want?
to know if you’re going to wimbledon
Why? I typed back.
cos i need to know how much i can spend on this swing, you dick
There was no way he would actually attempt to play on my budget, but it might humble him to know how tight it was, so I pulled up my spreadsheet and took a screenshot.
Here, I typed back, attaching the picture. I work in Australian dollars but I’m sure you can spare one of your five trainers to look up the conversion.
I waited. No reply came. I set my phone down, and the realisation that I had just sent Miles Callahan my UK budget slowly crept over me.
“Fuck,” I whispered, and slammed the pedals to a halt. Leaping off the bike, I grabbed my phone and thumbed to my endless conversation with Katie. I just sent Miles Callahan my UK budget. Please tell me there’s a god of idiots who will avenge me when I die of embarrassment.
While I waited for a reply, I strode out into the late afternoon sunshine. Or at least what passed for sunshine in England. A security guard watched, blank-faced, while the distant hum of the tournament happened to other people.
Katie called.
“Kaolemos,” she said in greeting, the sound of wind crackling down the line. “Ancient Greek personification of stupidity. Though whether he would avenge you is a whole other question. Dare I ask why you sent it to him? I didn’t know you two talked.”
“We don’t,” I said, long strides taking me to the end of the building and back. “I gave him my number years ago and now this.”
“What is this?”
I hadn’t told her about my run-in with Callahan because it was easier to let hurts scab than pick at them, so as I paced alongside the tournament office, providing entertainment for the world’s most bored security guard, I explained how I had told Miles exactly what I thought of his hard work.
“Ouch,” Katie said when I finished. “Maybe he’s taking up the challenge.”
“Miles Callahan is not going to risk his ranking just because I called him a coward.”
“You never know, he might.”
“He won’t. Which means I’ve just embarrassed myself for nothing.”
The phone crackled like she’d swapped it to her other ear. “What’re you worried he’ll do? Post it on his socials? You know, he’s not actually a dick from all I’ve heard.”
“He’ll probably laugh about it with his team. Like I need another reason for the whole tour to whisper behind their hands about me.”
“Do try not to panic, Mat,” Katie sighed. “It’ll probably just make him feel bad, right? At least for a few seconds – long enough to remember to thank some service staff. Really, you’re doing the world a favour.”
I laughed, some of the tension loosening in my chest. “And if he shares it on his socials, you’ll call your pal Koala-lemons to avenge me?”
“Koalemos. And yes. I’ll avenge you.”
We chatted for a while longer, about her cursed journey to Ilkley and my win, before confirming our London plans and hanging up. As I headed back, my phone vibrated.
where the fuck you stay for that little?
Because apparently, he hadn’t tortured me enough. I thought about not replying, but my budget was just a fact of life for players outside the top hundred who didn’t have rich parents, so if he was going to play this game then I would play along.
I’m staying here, I wrote back, adding a link to the dinky apartment block. Katie’s covering half.
i don’t have a katie, he replied before I’d made it back to the gym.
Pity. She’s pretty great.
not answering my question
You didn’t ask one. I slumped down beside my bag and leaned against the wall. You know I’m busy, right?
sure
Silence. I dropped the phone and tried to focus on stretching rather than imagining Miles hastily trying to organise his own cheap accommodation, as amusing as it was. I failed, and when the phone vibrated again, I immediately looked up.
i’m just going to pretend i have a katie
I didn’t answer. For all his questions, the chances he was serious were vanishingly slim and I couldn’t afford to waste time thinking about it.
A whole hour passed without another message, then when I was leaving the tournament grounds for the day, he said: outside the pickup range? seriously?
I shoved the phone into my bag and didn’t take it out again until I was back in my room, had showered and heated up food.
mat?
mat how tf you get in from there?
mat!
Fucking chill! I manage, all right? I wrote back, shoving dried-out microwave dinner into my mouth. There’s a court and a gym nearby. And taxis. I’m sure you’ve heard of those.
yeah i figured that out
Then stop bugging me and piss off
too late
I stared at the screen, but no further message came.
Not then, not after I’d finished eating, not even while I scrolled through his social media for some hint of where he was.
His last post was from Paris, but a quick search found he’d pulled out of the Stuttgart Open.
Next on his calendar was the Queen’s Club Championships—the precursor to Wimbledon—which meant he was probably on his way to London.
London, where he absolutely wouldn’t be staying anywhere but in a very fine hotel close to the tournament.
THE MACHINE LAUNCHED another ball with a thwump and I ripped it back, sending it slamming into the wire fence around the edge of the court.
I’d been drilling for an hour and my mood wasn’t improving.
With each ball, I tried to imagine I was smashing my doubts one by one, but the chant of them only grew louder.
You were never cut out to be pro. You should never have come out. Hard work isn’t enough. You’re wasting your time. Even if you get somewhere, you’ll just have another accident.
Losing was getting harder. It was just part of tennis, even for the world number one, but a loss on the back of many wins was easier to swallow. After four years, my losses were stacking up like straws on the proverbial camel’s back and I wasn’t sure how long I had until I broke.
I had fucked up my second match in Nottingham.
Had choked, every shot sailing long and pulling wide like in that final set against Miles, leaving my whole career flashing before my eyes.
I seemed destined to keep making the same mistakes and couldn’t let it go.
Now, I had ten days until the start of Wimbledon’s qualifying rounds, and I needed to be ready.
By the time I called it quits, I was sweating a river. Thankfully, it wasn’t far back to the apartment, and while I walked, I sent my coach the videos I’d taken so he could tell me what I was doing wrong.
The apartment Katie and I had taken in London was tiny – two cramped bedrooms with faded wallpaper, a bathroom the size of a cupboard, and a central lounge with a brown laminate kitchenette.
For now, I had the space to myself, and so dropped my bag in the middle of the lounge room’s worn carpet.
As I pulled off my shoes, my phone buzzed.
Scrunchie
guess i have a katie after all
He’d attached a picture of a scruffy grey cat curled up in a bolt of sunshine.
Cute, but I bet mine is a better hitting partner, I wrote back, before dropping my phone on the bench and heading for the shower.
When I eventually dragged myself back out, my phone was vibrating. It stopped as I snatched it up, the screen registering a missed call from Miles and several messages.
where are you
mat?
mat!
fuck you’re so bad at this
Chest tightening, I typed back, I was in the shower! What do you want?