For the Love of Tennis | ✅

Chapter 22

It’s pissing down when I reach the courts. My hair is flat and sticks to my head like a swimming cap.

“Typical British weather,” Sam says with a grin as I set my things down.

Some of the girls haven’t arrived. Mel is nowhere to be seen.

We begin in the same way, jogging like prisoners happy to escape their cells for a while. The courts are slippery, but we all remind ourselves it’s a test to see who has the crappiest shoes.

Then, after hurtling a ball over the net, a shady figure comes into view.

Megan flounces into the court, holding a polka dot umbrella tightly in one hand and gripping her racquet in the other. Sam shoos me away to the back of the line before stopping the next girl from stepping forward. Then he takes off into the rain to confront Megan.

I watch their stance. Megan seems lazy whilst Sam bristles like an angry cat. His face is contorted into an expression of rage, something to which Megan just gazes at. I can’t hear what they’re saying because the drops of rain splash the tarmac at irregular intervals.

They split; Sam shakes himself down whilst Megan sets her things down to the side of the court and the joins the back of the line behind me.

“Where have you been?” I murmur.

“Fucking Dayson,” she replies, pouting.

I grit my teeth, suddenly regretting ever talking to her in the first place. But, surprisingly, her comment doesn’t bother me. Perhaps there was a tiny voice in me that wondered whether we could start being friends after our last encounter. But it seems to only have riled her up even more.

I launch myself into the activity, determined to be Sam’s star once more. It seems Megan doesn’t care; she lobs the ball more than ever, all the while with a careless expression of boredom glued to her face.

“You think this standard will be acceptable in the Wimbledon trials?” Sam snarls at her.

He’s right. Every year, Wimbledon holds a tournament for young tennis players from around the world. It’s a tough competition with the best spot having the place to train with an even more elite team and eventually play in leading matches to win Grand Slams.

Sam can enter two people. I sure as hell hope he picks me.

I whip ball after ball over the net. Then, I throw myself against one of the girls in a singles match, winning relatively easily. I can revel at Sam’s figure out of the corner of my eye; he's watching everything.

Then it’s doubles. Sam pairs me with Megan and she stands by me in the rain but we keep our distance, unsurprisingly. It’s only during the first break that she attempts another conversation.

“I have a plan,” she tells me.

I turn to her in surprise. “Plan for what?” I ask.

“To shove my dad into the shit.” she says.

“Has he lost his job?” I ask.

Slowly, she shakes her head. “But I want him to. That’s not enough, though. I have a plan to make him pay.”

“Which is?”

She smiles sweetly. “You meet me out by the courts at midnight tonight.”

She turns round and the game continues. I try grilling her with questions but she ignores me, focusing entirely on the ball flying towards us from the other side of the net.

We smash the other two girls and I don’t even think we blink an eye.

***

“How did the interview go?” I ask Mum as soon as I enter the house. I’d been thinking about it during the whole walk home.

She looks up from chopping tomatoes before sliding them into a sizzling pan.

“As well as it could have gone,” she says. “Now I just have to wait.”

“That’s great,” I say but all the while I’m trying to think of a plan to sneak out tonight without her noticing.

The Bolognese is a success. That sets the mood for the rest of the evening and soon we find ourselves sitting on the sofa again, Mum flocking lazily through the channels, me watching her do it.

“It’s your father’s anniversary in a few days,” Mum says gently.

I lean back further into the cushioned fabric.

“I know.”

“Don’t tell me you’d forgotten.”

I had, but I don’t say that. With everything that’s been going on, with Amias and my tennis, I haven’t left a moment for thought on Dad. Guilt rises within me like water, and I can’t seem to subdue it.

We’ll do the same thing we do every year. By the motorway that witnessed his demise there is a small cemetery. Every year on his anniversary we sit by his tombstone in silence, a bunch of flowers between us, the hustle of the cars behind us, and every time I wish the grass could swallow me whole, and I’d be reunited with his rotting, decaying body.

“I know it’s an emotional time for you,” my mother says softly. “But it’s nice. He wouldn’t get any recognition otherwise.”

I barely knew him. I have flashes sometimes, vague memories that come fleetingly once a year. I remember a beard, kind eyes, a gap between his teeth. And there’s a pounding in my chest whenever it comes.

“Anyway, tell me about Amias,” she says, finally switching the TV off since she’s finally realised that there’s nothing good on.

That makes my stomach sink even lower. I can’t tell her about my newly found discovery. She’d be off in a second. We’d never be able to see each other again.

I know he’s a bad influence but I find myself not caring.

So, instead I say, “Great. Things are going perfectly between us.”

“Oh, how wonderful.” When she smiles, I see a small piece of minced beef stuck in her gums. “I’d love to meet him.”

That warms me. “Same. Although I’ve barely known him a week.”

“Of course. Give it time.”

Silence unfolds between us. I don’t know what to do to fill it in so I grab the remote from the table and switch the television back on. A cheesy quiz show appears.

We watch that for the rest of the night, wallowing in our own thoughts. Then I leave for bed early without a word.