MATCH POINT , art donaldson

II.

2006.
Flushing, New York

" AGAIN!"

It's her dad's voice, the jet lag from London to New York seeps into the same tanned skin that sweat secretes from. Her eyes are heavy and become more weighted as they widen when focusing on the one tennis ball out of what Elodie Riener believes is millions that head towards her side of the court. Despite the ache in her legs, she's still fast. The breath that exits her lips as she begins to run aches her throat. Her mind dull but her body sharp.

But then again, that's none of her own doing. Everything she has, she lays down at the feet of her dad, Spencer Reiner. The face of tennis until his retirement six years ago, with eighteen grand slam titles under his belt. Spectators loved him, competitors feared him. And a part of Elodie wanted to be him,

And he wanted another chance at his days of glory, through her. The girl who squints her eyes as the sun begins to rise over the roof of the rental house for the open for the next two weeks.

The girl who was born a Reiner so should have tennis coursing through her veins, who he found on the court in the early hours of the morning practicing her swings on the tennis court. The girl who Spencer sees himself in, beyond genetics. The passion, the love of the sport, the way her eyes light up when she wins. The smirk that contorts her lips when she knows she's about to win.

It's a back and forth, the ball passing between the rackets of the father and daughter — Spencer more focused on the way Elodie plays instead of himself. He had left his legacy, now it was time for his children to leave theirs.

The ball passes by the blonde who grunts slightly and turns away, palming her free hand over her hair. Slicking back her ponytail as she hears her dad's voice " come on you can play better than that."

The comment makes Elodie's eyes roll as her body turns and she looks at her dad, " you do realise I'm not the one playing in the open today?" she jokes yet a tone of mocking still slips on her tongue as he laughs.

" but maybe one you will be." he tells her. Elodie tensing at this conversation rearing its ugly head again. In no way did Elodie want to be a professional tennis player. Was she good? yes, did it pass many hours at the country club? Yes could she play professionally and dominate if she wanted to? Abso-fucking-lutely

But she didn't want to. She found comfort in the fact that the sport would be her party trick, her hobby, an escape from whatever pressures her future job would have. Driving home and spending an hour on the court before she'd perform her duties as a mother or wife.

She reaches for her water bottle, looking at her dad who stands beside her " you've been trying to get me to play professionally since I was kid."

she takes a sip, eyes closing at the relief of the chill that coats her tongue in comparison to the sun which is already heating up her skin this early.

Spencer shrivels up his nose slighty as he shakes his head " have not." he closes his eyes in a similar fashion to his daughter take a sip of his water. Opening when a scoff leaves Elodie's mouth.

His eyes fixated on her five foot seven figure, how her head tilts and one hand sits flat over her brow line to block her eyes from the sun. As she looks rather amused by her dad's claim.

" the private tutor? the boarding school which so happened to have one of the best tennis programmes for young people? Giving me a job at the foundation?" she begins to list off, each one that slips from her tongue sounding contrasting her dad more and more.