Matchpoint

Chapter 54:

Sweat drips down his forehead. Every time there's a break between points, he lifts his cap and swipes a sweat band clasped wrist over his head. As he does so, he releases that raging flame hidden beneath his cap. I miss running my fingers through his locks. Trailing my hands down his muscular arms. Exploring the hills and valleys of his torso. God, it's torture.

He's so far from me, yet it's the closest we've been in weeks.

It's a rest day for Holly. And though I should be on the practice courts preparing for her match tomorrow, I couldn't help but sneak away to watch Dom.

He's playing French, left-handed, rival, Ugo Humbert.

Ugo's achieved multiple titles in his time as a professional tennis player, only a few years older than Dom.

"I don't like his excess grunts. It's making me very uncomfortable." Jayce huffs beside me, "like, save that for the bedroom."

I don't know why I allowed him to tag along. He's done nothing but complain the whole match.

"Some tennis players just have different styles and habits. In Ugo's case, it's excessive grunting for motivation." I explain calmly.

"Well, Dom doesn't have any habits." Jayce scoffs beside me, flopping back on his seat.

Jayce is wrong, as usual. Dom has many. You just have to watch close enough to see them. His most recent habit is glancing up into the box to see if I'm there. I'm currently not, of course. 

Ugo is playing a very aggressive baseline game. He's forcing Dom further back, controlling Dom's distance with every mighty forehand. I can tell by the lack of depth in Dom's swings that he's being worn down.

As the ball spars far into Dom's side of the court, I watch as he graciously slides those long, lanky legs across the ground. If time slows, it would seem as if Dom won't make it.

And yet, his arm stretches, racquet poised, and as the ball decends, it makes an almighty impact onto the strings.

It's a well thought out shot. Perfectly angled. Precisely held. Hardly any force needed. The ball simply makes contact with the racquet and goes soaring back over the net.

There's a glimpse of the Dom we've been missing.

Ugo is too slow getting to the ball. His wingspan no match for Dom's.

The crowd erupts. A sudden serge of energy roars through Dom as he pumps his fist into the air.

"Come on," I mutter. One good point isn't enough to convince me that this match is a winner for him.

He's looking shakey. Unstable. Incompetent, even. It's a concern. Dom would be smashing Ugo in no time if he was under my coaching. But with my dad, he seems to have lost confidence. And so much of it.

Where's the smug wanker that walked into the academy and decided to try and hit on me moments into arriving? Where's the guy who got fired up when I beat him, or when he got trash talked on the court? It's like that guy no longer exists.

"He's like a deflated balloon." Jayce chuckles beside me. I turn to him with a sharp glare, and he raises his hand innocently. "Am I wrong?"

"No, but it's not helpful." I slap him on the arm softly.

"Sorry, darl, I'm a realist. I don't want to get my hopes up, but the big guy is definitely not winning this." Jayce stretches his arms behind his head, clumsily knocking the lady behind him in the knee.

"You saw the shot he made. He just needs more of that." I explain, tugging Jayce's arms down and apologising inaudibly to the lady behind us. A not so understanding look plastered on her face.