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Game Point
By the same author
Game Point
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First published 2025 001
Copyright © Meg Jones, 2025
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For anyone who ever just needed somebody to believe in them. Keep going. You’re so close.
Author’s Note/Content Warning
Please note that the following subjects/topics are touched upon within this novel:
• Explicit content throughout with open door scenes (Dicktionary available at the back of the book)
• Alcohol consumption
• Injuries during training
• Controlling coaching
• Toxic friendships/relationships
• Anxiety/panic attacks
• Car crash
Playlist
Simmer – Hayley Williams
Homemade Dynamite – Lorde
Risk – Gracie Abrams
Spotlight – Mutemath
On & On & On – Maggie Rogers
Friends – Band of Skulls
The News – Paramore the grudge – Olivia Rodrigo
Figure 8 – Paramore
She Calls Me Back – Noah Kahan
Matilda – Harry Styles
Sober – Lorde
Eyes on Fire – Blue Foundation
Running Out of Time – Paramore
Sober II (Melodrama) – Lorde
Smile – Wolf Alice
Down Bad – Taylor Swift
On Your Side – The Last Dinner Party
The View Between Villages – Noah Kahan
Rose-Colored Boy – Paramore
Keep Driving – Harry Styles
Close to You – Gracie Abrams
New Perspective – Noah Kahan
Already Over – Sabrina Carpenter
Slow It Down – Benson Boone
1 Dylan
Simmer – Hayley Williams
A lifetime of giving up everything for this sport had led to this. Arthur Ashe Stadium, US Open final. One set already hers, a single game point separating me from another failure. I was a nervous wreck on the baseline, one hand gripping the handle of my racket, the fingertips of the other pressing into the green material of the ball, gripping so hard I felt like I might never let go.
Across the net, my eyes caught on the serve clock rapidly ticking closer to zero. I was running out of time. The options were: win this point and claw this set back, or miss and the past few months will have been for nothing.
I bounced the ball, repeating the simple words over and over again.
I can do this. I can do this. I can fucking do this.
Catching the ball, I felt prickling against the soft palm of my hand as I tried desperately to hold down the vomit churning in my stomach, the mantra only serving to increase my anxiety and exhaustion. I’d barely slept the night before, tossing and turning and dreading this exact moment.
The moment I lost. Again.
I should be familiar with it by now, but every time is just as devastating as the last. I was staring defeat head
on, and she looked like a 5’7” American who had already smelt blood in the water.
Just before the clock reached zero, my arm stretched back, instinct and practice throwing my body into the trophy position. I tossed the ball upwards, swinging my racket forward to meet it, and the final game began. It landed inside the box and Jasmine Carter lunged forward, returning the shot. She aimed for the open court to my right, but I still carried enough strength in my legs to meet it. The incredible speed of her returns was still hard to adapt to, even after almost two sets.
Jasmine played long and hard from the baseline, glory within her sight while failure was in mine, and I was doing everything I could. She aimed again, making me run to the left as if I was her dog playing fetch, a plaything. She was making it easy to give in, but I couldn’t help but try and use the last bit of fight my body had left. But I was bone tired and weary, my initial surge of last-stand adrenaline burning away under the hot September sun.
I got to the shot, managing to hit it back. I was almost caught off my feet by the speed when she fired it right back at me.
Swing and return. Swing and return. She trapped me in a rally, the ball flying back and forth between us, screaming across the net. My arms ached with the intensity, Jasmine’s own grunts filling the air along with mine.
I felt the pressure of the moment, the tension of this last battle rising.
Jasmine broke the rhythm of the blistering baseline rally, slicing low over the net. I adjusted, pushing forward on my feet, stretching out to meet the shot. My backhand
took everything I had left in me, praying over and over it was enough to end this. To give me one last shot at pulling this set back from the brink.
The ball connected with my strings, refracting back over the net. And then my racket shattered, the head breaking off, leaving only the handle in my hand. Horror filled me as it disintegrated, Carter easily meeting the ball, hitting it softly over the net and winning the point. Closing out the set and taking the match.
‘Game, set, match – Carter. 2 sets to love. 6–1, 6–2.’
The voice of the chair umpire was cut off by the roar of the congratulating crowd, embarrassment sinking into my soul and yet again, the roar of the New York crowd was for somebody else.
In a mortifying two sets, Jasmine Carter had claimed the trophy as her own and finally put me out of my fucking misery.
My legs wobbled under my body, but somehow I remained standing up, my attention focused on only the pieces of the handle I still held in my grip.
How the fuck had this happened?
I let out a single laugh, unable to contain my shock any longer. Even my equipment was giving up on me. I looked up, noticing Jasmine standing beside the net.
‘Are you okay?’ she asked, worry creasing her brow. I took a moment and swallowed down my own feelings, remembering how I’d screwed this up two years ago against Scottie Sinclair. I’d been mean and vindictive in a moment when it was uncalled for. I uncurled my hand, wiping my sweaty palm on my skirt as I closed the gap between us.
‘Congratulations,’ I said, pushing down my jealousy
that another win had escaped me. Losing was becoming too much of a bad habit. ‘You played a good match.’
‘So did you.’ She smiled brightly as we shook across the net, braids framing her beautiful face. Victory looked good on her. She winked, adding, ‘It’s true what they say about playing against Dylan Bailey.’
I wanted to ask exactly what they said about me, a million versions of Dylan, the ‘cunt’ running through my head, but I didn’t dare ask. Forcing a painful smile to my lips, I released her hand, allowing her to turn and face her celebrating audience.
All throughout the ceremony, I wanted to scream. I stood there; my condolence prize held tightly in my hands as Jasmine rightfully took the trophy. She held it above her head, a huge smile spread across her face, the one thing I wanted more than anything in the world held triumphantly in her arms. I smiled so hard my cheeks started to hurt, my jaw clenching through the force of emotion. I bottled it down, held it all in, and tried, really fucking tried, to be happy for her because she deserved it. She won. She won, and I lost. Again.
She walked around the court, claiming it as her own, as she took it all in, basking in the cheer from the crowd, and finally I got to go inside.
There was nobody waiting for me. No coaches or support staff, my friends all off at other matches supporting friends or preparing for their own. My family were on the other side of the world, my sisters running after my nieces, my parents working. They were where they should be, safe in Melbourne.
At least it meant there was nobody to hear me cry and sob so hard it rattled my already pained and aching body.
Dylan
Homemade Dynamite – Lorde
‘He’s cute.’ I nudged Inés sharply with my elbow but kept my eyes trained on the tall, broad man. The splash of freckles across his nose was clear from the other side of the room.
I’ve never slept with a redhead before. I bet he’d burst into flames every time he steps into sunlight.
Inés’ attention pulled away from her phone, where she’d been texting God-knows-who, and followed my line of sight, across the busy kitchen filled with the familiar faces of competitors and supporters alike. We were tucked into a corner of a swanky Manhattan apartment belonging to another tennis player, Scottie Sinclair, the competition having come to a close just hours before.
‘Ruari?’ she barked, the loudness of her voice lost to the crowd. ‘No. Not armed with a thousand condoms.’
I washed down my own laugh with some of the expensive champagne. ‘I’m not sure I trust your opinion on this one.’
‘I’m gay. Not blind.’ She rolled her eyes, taking a long sip from her own glass. ‘He has slept with every girl on the tour, and if you get stuck with a baby, it will be the spawn of Satan.’
‘Every girl, except for me.’
Her expression was unamused, a perfectly waxed eyebrow raised in surprise. ‘That is not the challenge you think it is.’
‘You said you were going to be supportive tonight.’ Inés opened her mouth to respond but I cut her off with a wagging finger. ‘Wingwoman of the century was your promise.’
And the only reason you convinced me to come. That, and Scottie’s expensive taste in champagne.
Thankfully, she’d at least allowed me to spend last night after the women’s final alone. My regular ritual of crying in a corner, ordering wings from the hotel room service, and then crying again in the bathtub to get rid of all the sauce. My classic ‘you lost again’ tradition. Bathe away the sadness with smoky chipotle BBQ sauce.
She was silent, so I pushed again. ‘Besides, I never thought you’d be so judgemental.’
Of course, I knew who Ruari Reilly was. He was ranked number 3 in the men’s competition, and number 1 hottie on tour. And there was the added fact he’d just gone and won the US Open. There were countless stories of his exploits, none of which I’d ever been interested in until Inés called me up, begging me to come with her to the party.
‘I know you know him,’ I crooned, pushing her slightly. ‘You had to do promo together after Roland Garros last year. And you did the joint campaign together for ELITE . You should introduce me.’
Inés looked reluctantly across the room. ‘I’d like to register my complaint at this terrible idea.’
‘Give me one good reason not to introduce me.’ Her mouth opened to answer me, and I cut her off before she
had a chance to start. ‘Other than the man-whoreness. That’s not a problem here.’
‘He’s really full of himself.’
‘If all goes to plan, I’ll be the one full of him.’
She grimaced. ‘God, I hate the straights.’
‘So do I, babe.’ I laughed at my closest friend. ‘But we do make populating the earth a much more straightforward task.’
‘This might be the weirdest conversation I’ve ever had with you.’ She downed the rest of her champagne. ‘Fine. Let’s go. I’ll introduce you.’
A small wave of relief washed through me. I’d begun to worry she’d only forced me along so she could make me talk about yesterday. She stormed ahead, intercepting a waiter on the way over and swapping her empty glass for a new one. Well, at least she meant business. She took a long sip as she reached him, the person Ruari was speaking to dismissing themselves, leaving him alone. I was barely by her side in time for the introduction.
‘Reilly. Good match today. Meet Dylan Bailey,’ she said, with the driest greeting I’d ever heard. My head swivelled towards her, registering there might be something more to her dislike of him. Inés was nice to everyone. Outside of competition, she was everyone’s best friend, a total people pleaser at heart.
But if her demeanour caught Ruari off guard, it didn’t show. A sly smile curved onto his lips as he repeated my name back. ‘Dylan Bailey. Nice to meet you.’
‘Congrats on your new trophy.’
He shrugged. ‘It’s a replica, but it will still look great in the case.’
The comment struck me like a slap as I fought the urge to scream. The image of my empty shelf at home. I’d made space for trophies, back when I was naive and full of fucking hope. Manifestation, I’d called it. Stupidity is what I now realize it was.
‘I’m sure it will.’ I was unable to keep a bitter edge from my voice.
‘I’m going . . . somewhere else,’ Inés said, dismissing herself. Guess her wingwoman duties are done. I took a sip from my glass, refocusing on the redhead. He was all sharp lines, strong jaw and high cheekbones. He could be a model if it wasn’t for tennis.
He leaned back, perching himself on the arm of the chair behind him. ‘So how long have you been friends with Scottie?’
‘Three weeks, give or take.’
The space between his eyebrows creased. ‘Do you not know each other very well?’
‘Oh, we’ve played against each other for years. But we weren’t friends.’ I almost had to stifle a laugh at my own words. We weren’t anything near friends. For the last two years, I’d cursed the name Scottie Sinclair. She’d beaten me at Wimbledon a couple of years ago, another women’s singles final. I’d taken it . . . badly. But then she’d come forward, admitting to using performance-enhancing drugs and somehow, that had made it all worse.
His head tilted forward in question, a single ginger curl falling across his forehead. ‘Until recently?’
I took a second, trying to figure out if he hadn’t heard or actively didn’t follow the news. ‘Well, we took down her dad together.’
The father being the one who’d drugged her, without her knowledge. I’d even gone as far as to work with him for a few weeks and . . . I’d walked away with a much better understanding of the woman I’d once called my rival.
‘Matteo Rossi,’ he interrupted, his amber eyes catching the light.
‘The very bastard,’ I mumbled.
‘Can’t believe the stories that came out about him, eh?’ His Scottish accent rang louder, and I narrowed my sharp eyes at him. To my further surprise, I found his attention distracted, his gaze across the room, his bottle of beer raised to his lips as he absentmindedly took a long sip.
‘Believe it? I said it!’ My words had no effect on him. I glanced around, trying to find what or who was more important.
I turned back to him, swallowing down my pride, ready to try again when he mumbled, ‘I’ll be right back.’
He pressed his empty bottle into my hands. As if he was mesmerized, he disappeared into the crowd.
I blinked once. Twice. He fucking left? The urge to scream again slammed into me. Why were men like this?
My phone buzzed in my pocket, pulling my attention from the disappearing act Ruari had pulled, a text from my oldest friend appearing.
AVERY
Sorry you lost again. Call when you can.
The reminder of what had happened felt like another knife twisting in my gut. That’s it. I’m going home.
‘Don’t blame yourself.’ I turned to my right and found Oliver Anderson, another past US Open champion, standing beside me, his dark-brown eyes trained on me. ‘Ru has a habit of straight up ghosting people.’
I held his gaze and pushed my phone back into my pocket, text unanswered. My tone was only a tiny bit bitter when I asked, ‘Even when he had a good chance at getting laid?’
A sharp laugh escaped him, and he took Ruari’s place on the armrest in front of me. ‘Weirdly enough, yes.’ He took a sip of his beer, my eyes temporarily fixated by the bob of his Adam’s apple, the curve of his thick neck.
‘The rumours around him have been greatly exaggerated.’
‘What do you mean?’
He shrugged as another waiter passed us, and we both swapped our empty glasses for fresh. Me, another champagne, Oliver a beer. So much for taking it easy tonight. He took a moment to consider his words. ‘Just don’t take it personally.’
Intrigued, and without any other choice, I sat down next to him, already sick of standing up all night.
‘It’s a little late for that, don’t you think?’
Oliver just smiled brightly at me, switching his bottle to his left hand. ‘I’m Oliver,’ he needlessly introduced himself. I’d met him briefly months before, but still, it was strange, being in the same room as so many fellow players, so many people you already knew the name of, even followed their careers, but had never really spoken to or
even had more than a basic introduction. The curse of professional sports.
My hand slid into his, his palm cold from the icy glass of his bottle. His well-earned callouses meeting my own. There was something in his touch, an intention to the firmness of his hold.
‘Dylan.’ I held his gaze, the dark colour of his eyes hard to place in the low light of the apartment. For a moment, I forgot to let go of his hand.
He smiled as if he knew. ‘Nice to meet you.’
I took a sip, trying to wash the moment away, the one fact I knew about Oliver trying to coordinate itself with the bareness of his fingers.
He was supposed to be married. The tan line on his left fourth finger, beneath his knuckle seemed to confirm it. For safety, I told myself, he took it off in the shower, left it in the bathroom.
‘Have you seen Inés?’ I asked, turning my attention back to the room, the density of the crowd somehow increasing with every moment that passed. ‘I’m in need of my wingwoman.’
‘Inés Costa?’ he asked. I only nodded in reply. His teeth pulled at his bottom lip, and I swear this man blushed as he stumbled for the right words, a pink tinge heating his cheeks. It was annoyingly cute. ‘I think she might be . . . somewhat indisposed.’
I rolled my eyes, somewhat acknowledging I couldn’t be mad at her. At least one of us was getting laid. ‘Who’s the lucky girl?’
‘Some trainer, I think. A blonde?’
‘That’s her type alright.’ Inés might be sweet, one of the best friends you could ask for, especially considering
there were girls on the tour who would gladly stab you for a boost in their ranking (myself included). But if you were blonde, and open to sleeping with the same sex, you were her type.
‘Guess I’m on my own here,’ I added, before realizing that with Inés suitably distracted, I could slip out with nobody noticing. I doubted anyone would actually miss me.
‘I mean, I could step in,’ Oliver offered. He casually took a sip from his bottle, the tan line on his finger catching my attention again. Dangerous proposition, my friend.
‘In for Ruari?’ I asked slowly, trying to work this man out. What did he want from tonight? I wasn’t interested in being a homewrecker.
‘No,’ he said quickly, and I pushed away the slight sting of embarrassment. ‘I’ll step in for Inés. I’ll wingwoman you.’
‘I think you mean wingman?’ I asked, narrowing my eyes at him. ‘Don’t you have better things to do?’
‘Normally, yes,’ he said, ‘but I lost today, so I’d like to at least help somebody else score.’
‘Commiserations.’ I stretched out my arm, my glass meeting his bottle. ‘To the second-place losers in the room.’
He looked at me a little funny as the neck of his bottle met my glass, clinking together. ‘Second place is still second place.’
I forced a smile and took a drink of the champagne to clear the roughness in my throat, but the bubbles still burned as I swallowed. It’s funny how Veuve Clicquot tastes like defeat.
‘It’s not first.’
He blinked, his eyes not moving from me, as if he was
taking a moment to try and understand, to really see me. I did not like it. Not for a moment.
‘Come on then, wingperson,’ I said. ‘Where do you suggest we start? Who’s single?’
His shoulders pulled back as his attention shifted away from me, and instead he looked around the room. We surveyed the other party goers, and I could practically hear both of us mentally crossing people from the list.
‘Have you met Alexei?’ I followed his line of sight across the luxuriously appointed apartment where the controversial blond player was laughing obnoxiously.
I scrunched my nose, looking back at Oliver with horror. ‘You mean the asshole who claimed the women’s competition was easier?’
He reeled back, obviously remembering the unfortunate headline from a year ago. ‘That’s true. I’m not sure who invited him.’
‘I suspect he snuck in.’
Oliver laughed. ‘What about Léna Nagy? She’s nice.’
I sighed, almost resigning myself to the disaster of a night. ‘Unfortunately, like many, I have been cursed with heterosexuality. I have considered on many occasions making the switch, after all the male species are . . .’ I struggled to find the word, so many descriptors coming into my brain all at once.
‘Pretty awful?’ he suggested.
‘I was going to go with fucking terrible, but that works just as well.’
He held his hands up in innocence. ‘I didn’t want to make any assumptions.’
I hummed in agreement, readjusting my position on
the sofa. His thick arm grazed mine, bare skin meeting as he moved, his head leaning slightly closer to my ear as a familiar face passed us, a friendly, flirty smile sent my way.
‘Ryan?’ Oliver asked, his eyes following Ryan to the back of the room. A night I had failed to forget from a year ago replayed in my mind, a very regretful mistake after the last US Open. I shook my head.
‘Been there. Done that.’ I turned to meet Oliver’s dark gaze. ‘Never again.’
‘Okay, well, this is impossible. I give up.’ He threw his hands up in defeat.
‘You give up? Already?’ I laughed. ‘Am I that much of a terrible prospect?’
‘Far too picky.’
‘I think you overestimate your wingman capabilities.’ I rolled my eyes at him, ‘You only gave me three options. All of which were unsuitable.’
‘One was perfectly fine before,’ he pointed out. ‘What’s wrong with a repeat performance?’
Blunt honesty bit at my tongue. ‘Yeah, we just were . . . not a good match.’
Oliver sent me a look of slight confusion, his eyebrow raised in question.
‘In bed,’ I added, trying to answer his silent question. His gaze only turned more burning; the question was still apparently unanswered. A small smile threatened at my lips, the truth a little scandalous. I held his gaze as I told him the truth, watching his confident expression crumple. ‘The man failed to make me orgasm. He was a very selfish lover.’
Oliver’s cheeks burned a gorgeous shade of red as his
gaze shot across the room. He swallowed down a mouthful of his drink, his throat bobbing before he spoke. ‘Okay then. Not a reasonable choice.’
‘Exactly.’
‘And women are definitely out?’
‘Trust me, mate. I wish.’
He sighed, seemingly tapping back into his endless well of positivity. ‘Okay, different game plan. Follow me.’
I weighed up my options, wondering if I should take a second look around for Inés, or even take the opportunity to leave. After all, I had been dragged to the party, and then unceremoniously abandoned.
But then I considered my empty hotel room. A small replica runners-up trophy sitting in its box on my dresser. I hadn’t even been able to open the lid. When they’d given it to me after the match, I’d forced myself to smile, refusing to look bitter from the loss. I knew what they said about me, how they whispered about ‘always the bridesmaid never the bride’ Dylan and my inability to close out a fucking final.
But what they didn’t see was the Friday evening before. When I spent the entire night tossing and turning, unable to find any relief. My mind played over and over the last run of finals I’d managed to make, picking apart all the lazy mistakes, all the stupid returns I should’ve run faster for, cursing myself for not training enough because obviously if I had, I would’ve won by now.
I’d arrived that morning at the arena with little over a couple hours of sleep, a jittery anxious mess. And I’d walked off empty-handed. Somehow, being alone with these thoughts felt marginally less appealing than spending another few hours here.
I followed Oliver as he led me across the apartment to the dining room, where a little white net separated the table into the two halves.
‘Table tennis? Really?’ I looked to Oliver, unsure if this was supposed to be a joke. ‘Isn’t this a little too on the nose?’
He laughed, that damn smile of his breaking out again. I had to stop with this champagne, it was making me delirious.
‘It is,’ he agreed. ‘But the excellent thing about table tennis is . . .’ He found the tiny net that was set up in the middle of the table and pulled at the knots that kept it in place, the net turning slack. ‘It doubles as an excellent surface for beer pong.’
I had to fight down my own smile that grew across my lips at the sound of the words ‘beer pong’ in his rich and heavy English accent. ‘And this is supposed to get me laid how?’
‘We are in a room full of competitive athletes, Dylan,’ he answered. ‘Competitive athletes, with one night off. And we’ve got a drinking game.’
Maybe the man did have some good ideas in him. ‘Guess we should get some beer then.’
Turning, Oliver caught the attention of one of the waiters, quickly ordering a few bottles of beer and cups.
‘Alright then, Bailey,’ he said when the table was all set out, the beer poured. He threw the small white pingpong ball to me. ‘Time to show the world what you’re made of.’
Thirty minutes later, there was a deep crowd gathered around the table, cheering as I perfectly aimed a shot into
my competitor’s cup. Felix, a German coach with freakishly big hands, grinned in defeat as he fished the ball out of his cup, throwing it in a glass of water to clean it.
‘Prost!’ He downed the last of the beer. The crowd cheered again as he finished the glass in one gulp, the player clearly used to the game. I tore my gaze away from Felix, catching a sly smile from Oliver, who had been dutifully refereeing the games, his plan clearly succeeding. Our eyes connected, and for a second, the noise of the room fell away.
I picked up my last remaining cup and took a sure but steady sip. Eyes still on him. I forced my mind to take an important list into consideration.
Reasons Oliver Anderson is a Bad Idea™.
1. He’s married (as far as I’m aware)
2. That goddamn smile.
And those two very good reasons were enough for me to tear myself from his eyes, his kind smile and pretty face, and look across the table to Felix.
‘Want to get another drink?’ Felix suggested. ‘Perhaps one that hasn’t had a ball floating in it?’
I nodded, asking him to lead the way, pushing any and all thoughts of Oliver from my mind.
I didn’t think about him again. Not as Felix got me a new drink. Not as we sat on one of the sofas and asked questions about each other, awkward moments filling up the space in between. Not as he flirted, and I forced a laugh at his questions, trying to skip to the end of the night when we’d get on with it and kiss and I’d feel the warm pull you get when someone is interested in you, and
maybe for a night both of us could forget about whatever life shit we had going on.
Nothing real, a band-aid on a sinking ship.
Felix leaned in, his mouth meeting mine. The first touch of his lips cold against mine. The second touch just as strange. When we pulled apart, I looked up at him, trying to place what had felt so wrong about the kiss. Over his shoulder, I caught a glimpse of a familiar frame at the other side of the room. Oliver. When his gaze caught mine, a small smile curled onto his lips when he clearly saw I was successful, and his hand raised in a wave goodbye.
My stomach knotted as I was struck with the realization of how fundamentally bored I was. Felix was nice enough, but the time I’d spent with Oliver was the highlight of my night. He’d been the first bit of fun I’d had in a while, and now . . . he was going home alone. I had genuinely enjoyed hanging out with him and I wanted more of that.
I softly waved back, returning his goodbye, somehow finding myself already missing his warm sunshine smile.
‘Who was that?’ Felix asked, turning around, but Oliver was already gone. I blinked, refocusing on the cute German in front of me.
‘Oh, just a friend,’ I said, shrugging his question away.
‘Anyway,’ he asked, ‘is your hotel far?’
His question was a given, seeing as I’d been laughing at his jokes and chatting him up, my hand on his arm since we sat down. But there was an ache in my bones. I pulled back, any flirty mood disappearing.
‘Actually, Felix, it’s been great meeting you. But I’m going to call it a night.’
He took a moment, sensing the change in tone and mood, before nodding in understanding. ‘See you around, Dylan.’
A slight relief washed over me at the ease of it all as I smiled back at him, thankful for the friendly exchange. Instead, I headed for the front door and out into the New York evening.
Dylan
Risk – Gracie Abrams
The warm evening air was still a relief from the overflowing apartment, and it took me a moment to fully place myself in the city street, my eyes searching for any sign of Oliver.
I found him a little further down, his phone in his hand as he stood by the road. A white saloon drove past me, slowing down to pull up in front of Oliver.
In a panic, I shouted his name as I silently thanked my sensible choice in footwear. His head twisted from the car to me, his hand dropping from the door handle as surprise washed over him.
‘Dylan? What are you doing?’
I closed the gap between us. ‘You didn’t say goodbye.’
‘I did wave.’
‘That’s no way to say goodbye.’ I knew I was grasping at any old excuse now. ‘You were my wingperson after all.’
‘I’ll remind you my duties are completed. You looked like you were closing in there.’
‘He was boring. All he spoke about was tennis.’
‘All anyone in that damn room speaks about is tennis!’ His lips curled into a grin. ‘Still as picky as ever.’
‘I’m definitely proving hard to please.’ I realized I couldn’t exactly argue with his point anymore. ‘Are you going home?’
‘I have a hotel.’
‘Which one?’
His expression changed then, and with a slight twist of horror, I realized my mistake.
I raised my hands, ‘I promise I’m not making any moves here. You are totally one hundred per cent safe.’
‘You can’t blame me; you are trying to find out where I’m sleeping.’ There was a relief in his voice, and for a second, I wasn’t sure if I should be offended.
‘You’re really making me sound more like a stalker,’ I joked. ‘I was wondering if you wanted to get a drink.’
‘A drink?’ His apprehension reappeared, and I wondered if I was pushing too hard. I had just met him, but tonight was a bust and the only time I’d felt marginally better was when I’d spoken to him. Something about him, the friendliness he seemed to radiate, it felt familiar and comforting.
‘One tiny, totally innocent, completely friendly drink,’ I continued. ‘I realized . . . I might need a friend, instead of somebody I can’t stand talking to, and as we figured out, Inés is pretty busy. Plus, you might understand,’ I reached out, my fist connecting playfully with his shoulder. ‘Second-place buddy.’
‘Second place isn’t bad, you know.’
I stuffed down the urge to scream. ‘Come for a drink, and you can try to convince me of that.’
There was barely a moment for him to consider my proposition before a voice shouted from inside the car, the driver clearly impatient to get on his way. ‘Are you wanting this ride or not?’
Oliver pulled open the back door and motioned for me to climb inside. ‘After you, stalker.’
‘Why thank you, victim.’
He followed me inside the car, saying a quick ‘thank you’ to the driver as he pulled away, rejoining the traffic.
‘I’m a little across town, at the Belmont Regency.’ Oliver said.
‘Same hotel as me,’ I grinned. ‘This is all very convenient for the murder plans I have.’
He turned to look out the window at the passing buildings, Manhattan speeding by. ‘I’ll start to worry if you’re on the same floor. I mean, chasing me up the street.’
‘I’m mostly harmless, I swear.’ I held my hand up, thumb holding down my pinky. ‘Scout’s honour.’
‘There’s no way you were a scout. None of us had time for that.’ He narrowed his eyes. ‘Besides, I’ve heard the opposite.’
‘Oh, so you’ve heard of me.’ Talking with him felt like filling up a balloon, my ego inflating with every word.
‘The wrath of Dylan Bailey is pretty well known.’
My cheeks burned hot as the balloon burst. A thousand different incidents played on my mind. I knew who I was, knew how badly I had reacted to things in the past. Even this summer, when I thought Scottie, another tennis player, had cheated, I’d gone behind her back to her father. I’d . . . I’d reacted, and while I hadn’t known the truth of the situation, I’d ended up making a bigger mess in my rage. Now, I felt exhausted and burnt out by the constant let-down of second place, the spiral down only a step away.
The rest of the car journey was quieter, the radio playing some pop song in the background. I kept looking over at Oliver, kept wondering what insanity had driven
me literally running from a sure thing and down the street shouting his name. I must’ve looked so desperate. When the car pulled up outside the hotel, I was beginning to rethink the entire thing.
I followed him out of the car, my hands wringing together as social anxiety started to kick in. Oliver was on his phone as we headed through the glass doors, entering the lobby of the hotel.
‘I think I’ll head up,’ I said, as he began to head to the hotel bar.
His head twisted to look at me. ‘What happened to needing a friend to talk to?’
I shrugged, my entire body turning hot. ‘You were heading to bed. I feel like I’m being a nuisance and –’
‘You aren’t,’ he said, cutting me off. ‘Being a nuisance, that is. You’re saving me from being horribly boring and spending my last night in New York flicking through a hundred channels before settling on the first option.’
I could feel my anxiety pulling me towards the lift, the call of the relative safety of the empty room where I could overthink everything.
‘I need to get up early,’ he countered. ‘That’s why I agreed to one small innocent drink. Or is that not what you promised?’
‘Are you sure?’
He didn’t give me another chance to change my mind. ‘Come on. It’s on me.’
Taking a deep breath, we headed into the bar, patrons scattered around the wide space. Oliver walked right up, a kind smile on his face as he ordered his drink from the bartender.
‘Can I have a Jack and Diet Coke and . . .’ He trailed off, looking over his shoulder at me.
All other drink options left my brain, leaving me on autopilot as my eyes scanned the bottles at the back of the bar, before I found myself saying, ‘I’ll have the same.’
‘Two please.’
The bartender nodded, walking away to make our drinks.
‘If you find us somewhere to sit, I’ll bring the drinks over,’ Oliver instructed. I swallowed as I looked around, trying to find a seat. There were plenty of options, but my overloaded, overthinking brain refused to focus on a final choice. I didn’t realize how long I had been standing debating the pros and cons of a booth over a table seat when Oliver came up behind me, passing my drink to me.
‘How about we sit over here?’ he said, pointing towards an empty booth. I nodded and followed him, still feeling an invisible tether between me and the elevators. How quickly could I finish this drink and leave him be?
Silently, I cursed Inés. This is exactly why I stay locked in my room for as long as possible. Being around people and champagne, after another loss, it loosened my lips. Oliver relaxed into the seat, smiling over at me as I struggled for an excuse to leave him alone.
He broke the silence. ‘What was wrong with him?’
‘Who?’ I lifted my glass to my lips, taking a sip of the sweet liquid.
‘Felix,’ he answered.
‘I mean . . . nothing really.’ I winced. ‘I didn’t think we had anything in common.’
‘Did you need anything in common?’ He almost laughed. ‘And tennis? Isn’t that enough?’
‘It’s like talking about work. Sometimes, you want a night off.’
‘And what do you think we are going to talk about?’
‘Touché,’ I said, finding the courage to ask the question that had been lingering on my mind all night. ‘How are you this cool about it? Second place.’
He scoffed, ‘I mean, I’m disappointed. It was a hard competition, and to come this close, only to lose to Ruari. But you know, it was the same at Roland Garros. He’s having a good year. You win some; you lose some.’
‘I haven’t won any.’
‘I thought you won Wimbledon a couple of years ago?’ His words were an unintentional gut punch, the pain of the old wound still not fully healed.
I took a long sip from my drink, hoping to drown the bitterness in my tone. ‘Doesn’t count if your opponent was disqualified for cheating. And imagine that being the only time you’ve won a slam.’
He winced at my words as if he couldn’t stand it himself. Under the table my leg began to bounce nervously.
‘You do make it to a lot of finals,’ he pointed out. I could see his thoughts written across his face: Lots of finals, but no wins.
‘I do.’ Countless finals ran through my mind. The exhaustion of them hitting me all at once. It was vastly underappreciated how much energy it took to get to the final round every single time. Vastly underappreciated the disappointment to walk away empty-handed as well.
His expression softened. ‘What happens?’
I snorted a harsh laugh. ‘I lose.’
‘No.’ He shook his head. ‘What I mean is, why do you
lose? What’s different in you, in your play between that final match and all the others?’ A silence fell as we both waited for my response. ‘Sorry, if I’m digging too much.’
‘It’s fine.’ Anger and frustration bit at my words, but the feelings were not directed at him. ‘These are the questions I ask myself over and over. What went wrong? Why didn’t I make the shot? I get so close sometimes only to fuck it up. Did you see the score yesterday? She demolished me. I should be embarrassed for losing like that.’
He pulled back, sitting into the cushion of the booth, his eyes assessing. ‘Those matches are the worst.’
‘I wasn’t doing anything right. I made it so easy for her to win, I practically gave it away. I don’t even know why I kept going after the first set.’
‘But you do get there,’ he pressed. ‘How are the other matches?’
‘Fine. Child’s play,’ I waved my hand as if to push the idea away. I took those matches so easily, so brutally and without a second thought to my opponent. I left girls crying as they left the court, and I fucking loved that power. In contrast, losing felt like a bucket of icy water to pull you from the haze. ‘And then I reach the final and it’s like I can’t keep it together.’
Frustration had me fisting my hands so hard my knuckles turned white.
‘I’m tired of this,’ I admitted. Quitting was for losers, for people who gave up. I’d never ever considered it before, but now . . . ‘I’m tired of losing, and I know it’s still second place, and some players would kill for that. But I’m not doing all of this to be second best. I’m here to fucking win.’
He let out a heavy breath, and I felt the tension grow between us, heavy and tangible.
‘Sorry,’ I apologized. ‘I’m ranting and I’m ruining your night. I said a fun drink and here I am being bitter and stupid and –’
‘No, keep going. You said you needed a friend.’
I looked at him for a moment. Really looked. The softened gaze of his dark eyes, the relaxed posture as his long arms stretched out onto the table. He was listening, interested even.
‘I’ve known you for hours.’ The point felt moot, given everything I’d admitted. Feelings I’d never even told my best friends, things I keep buried and safe from my therapist.
Oliver shrugged. ‘Every friendship starts somewhere.’
‘I have a therapist,’ I said, taking another drink. ‘I should call them.’
‘Is it helping?’ he asked easily. ‘Therapy?’
‘Not really,’ I admitted, thinking over the last few weeks, few months. Sadness coloured the memories blue. ‘I get so angry. It’s valid most of the time, but it makes this big mess. I lash out and I’m mean. I’m so mean and . . .’ I stopped myself from saying anything else. What had happened with Scottie. I couldn’t have known, but maybe if I’d stopped and asked myself why. Why her dad had taken me on to coach so easily. Why Jon, her coach, had taken her back.
‘I can relate.’ Oliver sounded just as grim as me. His head swayed from side to side, as if he was fighting some internal conflict. ‘I’m . . . There’s a lot going on in my life right now.’
He held up his bare left hand in answer, the saddest
curve on his lips. ‘There’s nothing I could do to stop it. For years, it was fine, and then she – she wanted something different. And it wasn’t even her fault. It was nobody’s fault. But somehow it makes it feel worse.’
I didn’t think about it as my hand stretched out across the table towards his. One big squeeze. It should’ve felt stranger, being this raw with someone I barely knew. But maybe that’s how it was to be around Oliver. Some people allow you to open up. More than a friendly demeanour and a fun time, somebody you could sit with in a crowded room, and they still managed to make you feel like the only two people there.
‘So,’ he cleared his throat. ‘What’s next?’
My shoulders slumped. Even the simple thought of the remaining tour was difficult enough. ‘It feels like giving up would be easier at this point.’
‘After all of this?’
I was scared of my own answer. Scared to admit to anyone how much it hurt to keep going when I kept ending up in the same position.
‘I’m alone a lot. I miss Melbourne. It’s nice to have a home open but it doesn’t mean I get to spend any time there. I miss my family and my sisters. It’s so loud and chaotic and they don’t put up with any of my bullshit.’
He chuckled, ‘I doubt you take that well.’
‘It results in a fight but it’s a sister fight: the next day, all is forgiven,’ I said, a little sad at the memories. I nodded down at his hand as I said, ‘So that’s why no ring?’
His fingers curled into his fist under the sudden attention. He stretched it out as if to fight the unwanted reaction. ‘It feels weird without it. I kind of miss wearing it.’
I nodded as if I understood, but I didn’t, no romantic relationship of my own coming anywhere near to even living together, let alone marriage.
‘How long were you together?’ I asked. I’d known his wife; she was a player too, a little lower down in the rankings, but good, nonetheless.
‘Five years.’
I winced, but Oliver just shook his head. ‘We’d been together so long. Even though it wasn’t a shock when the divorce came, nine months on, I . . . I’m still figuring life without her.’
‘I guess now you learn what it looks like.’ My humour was dark, a little dry, but he still cracked a slight smile.
His hand held his glass, tipping it absentmindedly. ‘Apparently it looks like a hotel.’
I related, instantly missing my own home in Melbourne. Missing Australia entirely, homesickness hitting me hard.
‘Hotels suck. I mean, sure –’ I gestured at the modern luxury around us. Everything was perfectly appointed, the comfortable leather chairs, the marble tables and gold-foiled bar. Even the air was perfectly scented. ‘But . . .’
‘It’s not home,’ he repeated. There was a moment, a silence, when I wasn’t sure what to say next, how to ask him if he was okay when he was clearly heartbroken.
‘Do me a favour?’ he asked, his attention meeting mine again.
‘Beat your ex-wife on the court?’ I joked.
He raised a single eyebrow. ‘You have already, and you know it.’
I grinned, a little twisted with confidence and ego. It had been an excellent match a few seasons ago, the kind
when you enjoy destroying somebody’s game probably a little too much.
‘Don’t quit,’ he said, our eyes meeting.
I tried to keep the surprise from my voice as I defended myself, ‘I was joking.’ I was, right? Or had Oliver seen something I hadn’t?
‘I know, but just . . . don’t.’
I swallowed the uncomfortable lump in my throat, the feeling of him seeing right through me growing intense. Maybe I’d shown too much, dipped the cards too low.
‘You’re closer than you know, Dylan.’ He said the words with such assurance, I wondered to myself if I’d ever match his confidence. ‘You’ve gotta keep your head on straight.’
I laughed, trying to escape the tension. ‘Easier said than done.’
‘If you can keep your cool in the final, you’ll win. Panic, and you’ll end up in the same place.’
‘Has anyone actually ever calmed down after being told not to panic?’
‘I mean it.’ The intensity of his words had me still in my seat, my attention entirely his. ‘Sometimes you need somebody who believes you can do it. Someone with no investment in your success other than wishing you the best. I’ve seen you play; you’ve got a killer instinct. Nobody on the tour looks forward to a match against you.’
I didn’t answer him, struck a little by his enthusiasm.
‘I bet,’ he paused, thinking to himself. ‘If you give yourself a chance and cut yourself a break with the pressure, you can win the Australian Open.’
I looked at him. ‘You bet?’ His answer was a single nod. ‘And what do I win if you’re wrong?’
‘Well, if I’m right, and you keep going and finally take the final in Melbourne, you have to buy us a round of drinks.’
‘A round of drinks?’ I looked around as if I was being punked. ‘What? Because you can’t afford to buy your own?’
‘I did just have to pay a divorce solicitor so I’m very out of pocket,’ he pointed out, before continuing, ‘But I’ll make sure it’s an expensive round of drinks.’
‘And if I lose?’
‘I’ll be your wingperson for life?’
‘After tonight’s performance? I don’t think so.’
‘I’ll remind you it wasn’t me who bailed on Felix.’
‘Left him high and dry too.’ I smiled, almost beginning to regret abandoning poor Felix now. At least with him, I wouldn’t be spilling my guts and making bets with relative strangers. I tried to focus on what I’d want from this stupid bet. I wasn’t going to walk away from the court, I knew that. But if I lost again at the Australian Open, it’d sure be nice to win something at least. I took a moment, looking around the bar as if I wanted anything there. My eyes caught the TV screen, a recap of today’s events, Ruari holding a trophy high above his head. Jealousy twisted in my gut, and before I could take a moment to double think it, I answered.
‘Alright, fine,’ I said, ‘If I lose, I get one of your trophies.’
‘A trophy,’ he repeated, dumbfounded.
I nodded, ‘The US Open one looks nice and shiny, and it’s made by Tiffany.’
He stared at me blankly for another beat. And then
another, his mouth opening and closing. He pulled himself together enough to repeat me. ‘You want my US Open trophy? The one from last year.’
‘If I lose, I’m going to need something to put on the goddamn shelf.’
His arms folded over his muscled frame as if he was battling with himself on whether to agree. I realized then I’d set a trap. There was no way he’d agree to this, especially a Grand Slam trophy. This way, he’d back out and I was free to do whatever I wanted and –
‘Okay. Fine.’ His words struck me cold. ‘If you lose, you can have it.’ I swallowed down my surprise; after all, now either way, I’d be a winner. ‘You have to stick it out, make it to Melbourne.’
‘Excellent. I agree.’ I stretched my hand out towards him without any hesitation. He looked at it, still considering exactly what he was agreeing to.
‘I feel like I’m paying up a lot more here.’ For the second time that night, Oliver’s hand slid into mine.
‘You did say it would be an expensive round of drinks.’
‘Better make it a bar tab.’
‘Too late now, you’ve already agreed.’
He tipped his glass towards me. ‘To the second-place losers.’
I couldn’t help but return the smile, his words echoing mine. ‘To the second-place losers.’