For the Love of Tennis | ✅

Chapter 06

Just as the bell rings and I hoist my bag over my shoulders again, I let myself sigh. The entire day I’ve been telling myself one thing. As soon as the bell goes, you can get the hell out of here and run home. Then you can cry again.

It’s only when I’m halfway down the road that Kylie mentions something.

“Isn’t today your training day?”

I stop dead in my tracks as the traffic blares past.

“Holy crap.” I can only stare at her. “And here I thought I could have just gone home and had a nice cry.”

Kylie chuckles. “Lucky I reminded you otherwise Sam would have been mad.”

She’s right. Sam, my trainer, will go to any lengths to make sure his GB team are punctual.

“I swear he went round to someone’s door with a spare racquet,” I say with a small smile. We begin walking again.

“And he screamed in the poor girl’s face,” Kylie continues. “Only afterwards did he realise that her Nan had died.”

“And then he went round with a box of chocolates,” I finish.

“Yeah. I remember you telling me that.”

We near the bend and I’m sad to see it. It can only mean one thing; Kylie and I go our separate ways.

“Try not to be late!” she calls as she crosses the road. “I don’t want to dress up as your dead Nan!”

* * *

The air is fresh as I let myself into the Wilton Courts Tennis Club. Waving to the receptionist, I jog through the automatic double doors and out onto the battlefield.

It may as well be a battlefield. No one on the team is exactly nice.

We’re all fighting for the main spot; everyone wants to be in the limelight.

Myself included.

Sam doesn’t even look my way as I leave my racquet near the fence atop of its case. His hair is tied back today. He bends down, collecting balls from across the court.

Turning away from him, I jog to the other four girls huddled together in the shade.

Eight eyes turn my way. I avoid the piercing brown ones. Ever since this lunchtime in the canteen, I don’t want to look at Megan the Massive Bitch’s face.

We jog out onto the court at Sam’s signal. I keep a close tail on Megan.
Let’s hope she’s feeling my hot breath down her neck.

I can still feel the anger vibrating in my bones from what she did this morning. I want to continue what I started, drag her down again.

But I stop myself. Push harder.

Any sort of violence could get me out of here. And that’s not something I want. Not after all it took me to get here.

Sam barks. Our legs propel faster until we’re sprinting laps of the tennis court, arms pumping, pumping. I feel the smoke in my chest rising until it reaches my throat. But I don’t stop.

Eyes trained on Megan. I won’t let her take the spotlight. And yet I can’t overtake her nimble figure.

Eventually, Sam calls us in. There’s no welcome, only a brief sweeping of his eyes as he assesses us all, singling the weak ones out. Some try to hinder their breathing in hope that Sam will think they’re fitter, but I let my pants run long and loud.

Fitness isn’t about how tired you are, Sam once told me. It’s about how you recover.

“Racquets,” he snaps now.

We turn. Like machines, we grab our racquets. Like faithful dogs, we return to the baseline, fighting to be the first.

“Megan in front,” Sam says nonchalantly as he positions himself behind the net.

Megan’s eyes turn feral as she barges herself to the front. The other girls recoil, hurt at not being called today. I slip into the line behind them.

I hear Megan’s shot before I see it. It’s loud and clear, piercing in the quiet air. It flies over the net and bounces neatly on the other side.

“Good, Meg, good,” Sam croons. “Correct your stance next time.”

Megan’s smug face passes all our expectant ones as she joins the back of the queue. I can almost hear her thoughts. Meg. He called me Meg.

Sam launches more shots at the girls. They take them well; not a single one goes astray.

Confidently, I take my place at the white line. Sam launches his arm in the air, tossing the ball before he slams down on it with all his might.

I see a yellow blur and I’m after it like a cheetah, swinging it back to him with every fibre of my being. It almost nicks the net.

“Not too high on the elbow,” Sam calls out. “Keep it level, Pandy.”

I almost growl at the nickname. There are stifled laughs behind me.

We carry on like that for a while; trying to out-beat each other, clawing for Sam’s attention. Despite what he says, we know there can only be one or two winners. Only a very selected few of us will win our matches and catch the eyes of other scouting groups if any. But I doubt Sam will want to let any of us go. He's been training most of us since we were toddlers.

Not me. I was a late starter.
By the time he signals for us to pack up, I’m almost keeling over from exhaustion. Nonetheless, Sam beckons me over.

“You didn’t play well today,” he says. Just like that. A blunt statement that would send any of the other girls crying, except me. “In fact, you were terrible. Keep those fingers nimble.”

I glance down at the chapped skin on the pads of my fingers.

“Sorry,” I mumble.

He nods his head. “Go. See you next session.” I’m slinging my racquet case over my shoulder when he calls, “And take a relaxing bath! You look stressed out."

I leave the court without a reply. He doesn’t expect one.

Then, as I pass the bushes, I hear a sound. Faint, familiar murmuring. Inching closer to the brush, I sweep two fern leaves aside.

Standing by the fence are Dayson and Megan.

He has her pinned to the fence, her opulent bag in-between them. Their noses are almost touching; breaths mingling, bodies intertwining.

Then Megan reaches up and kisses him with such a passion that it brings tears to my eyes.

“I did well, baby,” she murmurs, pulling away. She doesn’t get far; his hands are wrapped around her slim waist and I watch with wide eyes as they begin to lower. “He called me Meg.”

“Well, fuck that,” Dayson replies, drawing her closer. “Only I call you Meg.”

And I’m tearing down the path before I can hear another sickening, lovey-dovey word.