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My thoughts went, as they had a hundred times since I landed in Melbourne, to Daisy.
She should be here.
But nope. I was on my own. Mum and Jason would be in my box as usual, watching, but the seat reserved for Daisy would remain as empty as the one where my dad would’ve sat.
Fuck it. Who cares? Same old story.
Except the thought wouldn’t catch fire. I missed Daisy like I hadn’t missed any woman in my life. Her gentle hands on my arm, her compassion, her sweetness… They’d left their mark. She’d left her mark on me, and the anger that fueled me for so long felt distant.
But for how long?
I mustered a smile for Jason. “Sure. I feel great.”
As per tournament rules , the players were randomly divided into two draws. You had to make your way through opponents in your own draw, and if you made it to the final, you’d play the guy who’d defeated everyone in his draw.
Naturally, Brad-fucking-Finn was in the other draw, meaning I could conceivably play him for the trophy. With no Daisy there to support me, my chances of keeping my cool with that racist arsehole weren’t great. With any luck, he’d be knocked out in early rounds and I wouldn’t have to worry about it.
My first-round draw was pretty easy. My opponent was an unranked player who was about to get his first taste of a Major.
That’s how to get through this. One player at a time.
“Hey,” Jason said, his hand on my shoulder, jolting me from my thoughts. “She’d be here if she could.”
“I know,” I said and scoffed. As if I couldn’t give a shit one way or the other. And then my phone, secure in Jason’s pocket, chimed a text.
He handed it to me, and I read the message there. From Daisy.
Greetings from the past. ? (It’s 5pm yesterday here) I hope things are looking good in the future. More than anything, have fun today. I’ll be rooting for you. <3
Jason caught my smile before I could hide it. Before the ache of missing her swooped in.
“My advice to you,” he said, taking my phone back, “is to do whatever she said.”
I put on my headphones and gave Jason the thumbs up as I hauled my bag onto my shoulder. It held all the crap I’d need for the match—extra laces, head and wrist bands, my rackets.
With every step down the hall, alone but for a cameraman walking backwards, broadcasting me to the stadium, I felt lighter and lighter. Daisy was doing her best. So would I.
I played against my first opponent like a real tennis player. No fun stuff. No “antics.” I aced him twenty-seven times in three sets, hardly cracking a smile as the hometown crowd cheered. I didn’t complain when the ball boy was slow-as-fuck bringing me a towel between shots, or when that slowness got me a time violation warning.
I beat the unranked kid handily, but instead of savoring it or gloating, I kept my head down and mentally readied for
the next guy.
Mum kissed my cheek after that first-round win. “So proud of you, baby,” she said. “But where is your smile? You look like you’re having as much fun out there as you would at the dentist.”
I shrugged. “Just trying to get through it.”
“You’re doing great,” Jason said. “Four more matches just like that, and you’ll wind up with your first Major.”
Another first, I thought.
I hoped wherever Daisy was, she was watching and proud.
Over the next week, I defeated two more opponents in my draw. Only Daniil Medvedev, the high-ranking Russian bastard, gave me a real game. I beat him in a tiebreak that took me to the semi-finals where I faced Gael Monfils.
The tall Frenchmen was known for his “antics” too—spinning on his heel before slamming home easy lobs. Unlike me, though, Monfils was universally beloved by the crowd, likely for the winning smile that shown white and bright from his dark skin and his friendly, easy-going demeanor.
He gave me a tough fight, but I prevailed in three sets to two. We were both dripping with sweat after five hours of battling each other in the Australian heat. When I’d hit the last winner, I’d been too tired to even celebrate.
