Matchpoint

Chapter 21:

I told Stack I was sick.

I told her that so that I didn't have time to do hitting practice with Dom.

I didn't even want to show up to the game, but I felt a lot of shame in not showing up.

The crowd is loud. I push my way down to Dom's team box, where I find Jayce sitting with sunglasses over his eyes and his head bowed down staring at his phone. I flop down beside him, causing Jayce to jump.

"Look who the cat dragged in, I heard you were sick." Jayce's voice is raspy. It sounds like hours of drinking and screaming songs at the top of his lungs.

"Yeah, it passed." I whisper and lean around Jayce to wave at Stack, Phillip, and Paul. Apparently, Ladley is having a pregame talk with Dom but will be here soon.

They call on Ben Shelton first. He's a beast. Arms toned, calves of steel, jaw of a blade. He's scarier in person.

Just as Ladley sidles down beside me, Dom's name is called over the loud speaker, and the crowd erupts.

Dom walks out with his Gucci bag seung over his shoulder, a white Nike cap on his head, and a swagger in his step. He waves at the crowd, his eyes momentarily catching mine as he looks up to us.

"How's he feeling?" I ask Ladley, her eyes move from Dom's figure and settle on me.

"Fine. I told him to play to his strengths. At this point, I don't really think he has a chance against Shelton." Her words, though quiet, seem to echo in my ear. She's his coach. She should have more faith.

"Don't you think he should try something different, you know, be less predictable." I whisper. "Shelton would have been analysing Dom's game play all day. He'll know what to expect and when to expect it."

Beside me, Ladley huffs, and I can see her shaking her head. "Maybe you should've been there to do hitting practice then."

"You told me not to overstep, you're the coach, you should be the one picking up the improvements he needs to make." I can't help it.

♤♤♤

The tension in the arena was palpable. The only sound gracing my ears was the heaving breathing of Dom and Ben as they faced off.

The match had started with promise. Dom's forehand was sharp, his serve precise. But now, it was like watching a fool learn to walk, each missed shot more painful than the last.

Across the court, Ben moved with the effortless grace of a player in his prime, his movements fluid, calculated. He barely seemed to be breaking a sweat, as if the game were nothing more than a casual hit, while Dom, on the other hand, was visibly unravelling. His foot slipped on the clay after an ambitious lunge, sending him stumbling awkwardly, but Ben, ever the professional, returned the ball without missing a beat.

Beside me, Ladley hisses in frustration. Every miss causes her more distress.

At this point, Dom's received two language violations, one more, and he'll receive a penalty.

Dom hits the ball wide, and when I say wide, I mean way out of the court. He stands frozen on the clay, his grip tightening around his racquet. As if something snaps in him, he brings it up over his head and brings it down, stopping inches from the ground.

A soft murmur from the crowd begins to errupt, the shock surrounding Dom's lack of control.

Beside me, Jayce's face scrunches in concern, and beside him, Ladley buries her face in her hands.

Another serve from Ben, this one a low, fast shot that sends Dom scrambling across the court. His racket meets the ball, but the contact is off, and the ball clips the top of the net, falling to the ground in a futile thud. The crowd exhales sharply, some heads shaking in disbelief.