Chapter 27
Chapter Twenty-Seven
SAM
Vancouver, Canada – August
Canadian Open
Generally speaking, I was fine in all conditions.
Today, the humidity felt like it was trying to take me out.
I felt lethargic and seemed incapable of generating any kind of power.
My body had felt fine, great even, in practice.
But now it was competing, it was falling apart.
I’d sweated through two hats and was having to change my T-shirt at a frequency I’d never had to before. No amount of ice towels was helping.
The humidity of the day was like a blanket I didn’t ask for, and it was starting to suffocate me.
I wasn’t stubborn enough to never retire from matches, but somewhere in my head, it felt stupid to retire because it was too hot for me to handle.
I’d started the match feeling fine and was convinced this was just a rough patch, and if I played through it, I’d be fine.
Dad seemed to think I would be able to get through it, too.
As I wrapped the ice towel around my neck at the next changeover and reached for a new T-shirt, having lost the last three games, I saw my phone light up where it was resting on a jacket I was never going to wear in these conditions.
Naomi:
Get off court. Now.
I had no idea what was going on in Montreal in terms of schedule, but it did surprise me that she would be watching my match.
More so, that she had even bothered to text.
As my screen went dark, I thought about the implications of her message.
She knew there was a high chance I wasn’t going to see it, but she had taken the time to send it anyway.
Which meant, however rough I felt, there was a chance I looked even worse.
I looked over to my dad. He was nodding his head, but the longer I looked at him, the more I realised he wasn’t in focus.
In fact, most of the court wasn’t in focus anymore.
I looked up at the umpire, who was already looking at me like she expected me to make this call. I removed my ice towels and slowly stood up to shake her hand and let her know I was retiring, then walked over to my opponent, Ryder, and shook his hand.
“You good?” he asked as he rested a hand on my upper arm.
“Nah, this heat is trying to kill me.”
“Ah, shit. Hope you feel better soon.”
“Yeah, thanks, man.”
I slowly packed my bag and chanced one more look at my dad. He looked furious.
My hands were shaking, and I was in a heap in the corner of the gym as I tried to open an electrolyte sachet and fill up a bottle. That was how my dad found me. There was another person just behind him that I didn’t recognise.
“What was that?” he spat. He still wasn’t quite in focus.
“Dad, I can barely stand,” I said quietly.
“You were playing fine.”
I laughed humourlessly and tipped my head back to rest against the wall. “No. I wasn’t. Plus, I can’t see properly.”
The person with my dad dropped down next to me and started opening a bag. I realised it was a doctor just before I felt a blood pressure cuff wrap around my arm.
“You could’ve called the trainer on. They would’ve been able to help.”
I said nothing as the doctor kept fussing around me. Now that I was out of the humidity, my skin cooled, and I was starting to feel cold instead of overheated. I knew that wasn’t a good sign.
“You’re the defending champion,” my dad offered, like that would change the fact that I’d basically melted on the floor and wasn’t sure when I was going to be able to stand again.
The doctor confirmed my blood pressure and a concerningly high heart rate.
It all went over my head as I focused on slowly drinking water.
The general vibe of whatever the doctor was saying could basically be summed up as ‘he’s not well’.
Dad started peppering him with questions.
I caught the odd word, all of them about when I’d be okay to practise again.
My phone lit up again, and I fumbled for it.
Two messages were there.
Naomi:
Are you okay?
Wyatt:
You okay?
The doctor finally uncuffed the blood pressure monitor and said something about rest and hydration. He stressed that I should take it easy, that I was lucky it wasn’t full-blown heatstroke. When pushed, he said I could go to the court again in about three days, and then, it was just my dad and me.
I waited for him to ask how I was. I waited for him to prove me wrong. I waited for him to make me a liar, so I could go back to my sisters and tell them our dad did actually see me as more than a ranking.
But he didn’t.
“He was probably just being over-cautious. We can probably get back on court in the next couple of days. With the extra training, we can go to Ohio in pretty good shape to win.”
I sighed heavily. “I’m done,” I said quietly, but I watched his mouth close, and his jaw clench, so I knew he heard me.
“What did you say?”
This was nowhere close to the plan. I was supposed to be able to make it another year. I had no safety net now.
“I said, I’m done.”
“Done with what?”
“I can’t do this with you anymore. You’re standing there telling me I can be on court again in two days, and I don’t trust my legs to get me to standing right now. I feel both too hot and too cold, and you’ve not once asked if I’m okay. I just can’t do this.”
He finally seemed to understand what I was getting at.
“Are you firing me or quitting completely?” Even that sounded stern. Practical. Devoid of any emotion.
“The first one.”
“Think very hard about this. If you do it, I’m leaving now. We’re at a crucial part of the season.”
“I have thought about it. And I can’t live like this anymore.”
Once again, I waited for him to say something to prove me wrong.
He walked away instead, and in one fell swoop, my entire on-tour support system disappeared.
I unlocked my phone and opened my sisters’ group chat.
So, I might have just blown the plan.