Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
NAOMI
London, UK – June
Once I’d given Wyatt the go-ahead on kickstarting my career again, everything else seemed to fall into place alarmingly quickly.
At S&S, we were a small team of physios, six in total, but they’d all descended on my office after the announcement, full of understanding and eager to figure out a plan on how to make it work.
The plan also included moving Jamie’s clients because, before he worked with me, he was my physio, and they wanted to make sure I could keep him instead of being at the mercy of the tour physios.
It took about a week to finalise all the details, but we’d sorted it, and I was officially only a tennis player again.
All my clients, most of whom were elite athletes, were all too happy to see me go back to my other job and had total faith in the people who would take over their care.
It was kind of a dream scenario.
Being back in training felt like I was taking a full breath for the first time in over a year.
The overwhelming sense of rightness was so much that the first time I stepped out onto the grass, I cried for a whole five minutes.
Wyatt left me to it, no longer alarmed by his oldest sister bursting into tears at the drop of a hat, as he set up some drills, and then it was like we’d never left.
I hadn’t forgotten how to hold a racquet.
Once Wyatt had handed over my old black racquet with a midnight blue grip, muscle memory took over.
I hit the strings against the heel of my wrist to check the tension.
I spun it in my hand twice, then my fingers were moulding around the handle, and we were off.
For the past two weeks, we’d been working on my movement around the court.
Running up and down the baseline, quick shifts to the net and back, working on my reflexes.
Wyatt was right, I was in the best shape of my life, and it was showing.
It was hard and a shock to my system after so long out, but I could do it.
I was feeling good about most aspects of my game. I had no way of knowing if it would hold up in an actual match, but all the elements were there.
Wyatt had decided that he was going to make me practise my serve at the last possible moment.
Which, in this case, was the Sunday before I was due to play on Tuesday.
On paper, it sounded like a terrible plan.
One that I’d questioned. But Wyatt told me to trust him, and he’d never let me down before, so I decided to do that.
But as I approached the practice court mid-morning, my entire body felt weak. This wasn’t a normal training session. This had the potential to make or break my comeback. If I couldn’t serve, then I’d lost my biggest weapon. And at this point, I had hardly any time to fix what might need fixing.
“We’re gonna focus on all your weak spots today.”
I snorted, and some of the nerves left my body. Usually, if he referred to my weak spot, it was just that. Singular. My backhand. “What a state of affairs that you’re calling my serve a weak spot.”
He shrugged. “It’s an untested spot. I don’t think it’s going to be weak. And even if it is, you know how to hit your marks. Plus, you’re a lefty. That swing throws people off.”
“Right, yeah. Sure,” I mumbled.
Wyatt stepped up to me and put his hands on my shoulders, forcing them down, away from my ears. “It’s gonna be fine. Now let’s warm up.”
It felt like my backhand was worse than usual because I knew once I finished with these drills, I was going to have to finally face my biggest on-court fear.
“Alright, we’re just gonna have to do it, because if I watch you send another ball wide, I’m going to lose it,” Wyatt said as he retrieved the last ball I’d hit so badly, I didn’t think I’d ever be able to repeat it.
He walked around the net and threw three balls at me. I caught them in my free hand out of habit.
Habit also made me check the balls before I bounced one back to him. I went to tuck one of them into my shorts before remembering I was wearing pocketless leggings, so I sent the other one his way as well.
“Serve the ball, Mimi,” Wyatt said quietly. Kindly.
I bounced the one still in my hand twice.
Then I served it.
Underarm.
It barely made it over the net. But it was valid.
Wyatt kissed his teeth.
“Naomi.” He sounded sterner now. He bounced a ball at me. I caught it on my racquet.
“What? It was a valid serve,” I said, only sounding mildly petulant.
An eye roll that made my eyes hurt was his only response.
“Just because it’s valid doesn’t mean you should do it. Especially if you’re going to do it that badly. Serve.”
I bounced it twice as I staggered my stance. Then I threw the ball up and hit it.
I didn’t drag my back foot in. I didn’t push off the ground to generate more power.
The ball once again barely made it over the net.
Wyatt didn’t say anything, but I saw a ball bounce into my eyeline. I caught it with my racquet and repeated what I’d just done.
It landed further in, but it still lacked power.
Another ball.
Another serve with my feet planted firmly on the ground. This one went into the net.
Wyatt sighed so loudly it almost sounded like a scream, but bounced another ball in my direction.
This time, I bounced it for longer and finally employed a tactic suggested in therapy this week.
I took a deep breath and closed my eyes, letting a memory of a time when I was serving well flood my mind.
I watched past me track the ball into the air as my racquet arm lifted, and I pushed off the ground, connected with the ball, and thumped it over the net.
I’d won the point before my foot had even touched the ground.
That was what I could do. If the rest of my game fell apart, I could still win free points on my serve. It was a weapon, and it was the greatest one I had. I couldn’t lose it because I was scared.
I opened my eyes and bounced the ball twice more before throwing it and launching into the air.
The ball flew through the air and landed straight down the T.