Matchpoint

Chapter 13:

The room was dark, I could hear the sound of the crowd in the arena, waiting for my inevitable arrival. Whilst I wait for my coach, I fiddle with my racket, pulling at the strings, pinching them closer or further from each other.

The door creaks open, and in walks, my coach, his eyebrows, are dipped, and his fists are clenched by his side.

"Clove, you need to be getting ready." He stares down his nose at me, shoving a bottle in my face. "You have three minutes till you'll be called on court."

"Yes, Papa." I mutter, grabbing the bottle and tucking it under my shoulder as I sweep my bag over my arm.

As I go to leave the room, a hand wraps around my wrist. It's tight, too tight, but I'm used to it. "Clove, do not disappoint me, you know how hard I've worked to get you here, now I expect you to perform."

My head nods softly, but no words escape my mouth. It's the same pep-talk he's given me for the last several years. It's never anything about how hard I've worked to get myself to the final, but how hard he's pushed me, all the great coaching he has done.

I resent it.

"Clove, words." His eyes are darker than mine, I think I get my green from my mother. I find the darkness in them daunting. Serious. Maybe it's too serious.

"Yes, father." I huff and swiftly turn on my heel, walking towards the exit and lining up at the exit, waiting for my name to be called.

The jitters grow within me, spreading down my arms to the very tips of my fingers.

My fathers face flashes in my mind as I recall my last game. The game where he screamed so hard that the referee sent him out of the arena.

I didn't mean to start losing in that game, I just got distracted, I grew tired. The hours spent training the night before hindered my ability to get a comfortable night of sleep, I'm not sure what my father expected.

I understand he wants to push my limits, but the exhaustion keeps weighing me down. I don't know how much more I can take.

My body hasn't felt the same in months. Every bone seems restless, even when i wish to sleep. The cramps have been endless, and no amount of magnesium oil seems to assist.

With a light quiver of my lip and the heat pooling beneath my eye, I snap my chin upwards and push through the exit.

My name echoes around the arena, just as it has many times before.

Except, this time feels different. This time, the buzz seems to have disappeared. I am no longer excited to stand behind the baseline. Instead, I dread the idea of even poising my racket above my head.

Ignoring my father's usual instructions, I allow my eyes to wander around the arena. I see at least a hundred pairs of eyes staring back at me, waiting for my match to begin, to see me win, to watch what they came for.

My bag falls to the ground, and I drag out my towel, placing it on the back of my shaded seat before I sit and read through my father's notes from our morning session.

Darcy Jones, my opponent, is 5'6, with a mousy face and piercing blue eyes that intimidate you before you've even taken one step towards the baseline.

She may be older, but I've beaten her before. She may have experience, but I have more.

Father often reminds me of her short temper and weak right hand. However, over my time playing against her, I've picked up on her tendency to slack on net shots. She doesn't like the chase. I told Father that earlier in the week, stating that I could try a few soft hits to get her uncomfortable, but Father dismissed it immediately. Besides, he knows better.