AllFreeNovel
Share Us
It hits the net.
Fault!
With a huff, Auer sets up again. I’ve never been able to get a read on this guy. He’s a complete machine on the court but couldn’t be nicer off it. Where other tennis players will go on training camps together, he trains alone with the same coach he’s had since he was ten years old. You’d think his game would get stale but it never does. I’ve watched hundreds of his matches over my career, and I can read his playing style—but watching him play and playing him are two different things.
All I know is I’m losing control of this match.
I can feel it.
35
Gabriel
6–4, 5–7, 4–6, 7–5 . . .
It’s come down to the last set. It’s almost midnight. The blisters on my palm weep and stain the thick bandage I’ve put on it. Every swing, every hit, every serve hurts. Everystephurts.
My socks are soaked with sweat and there’s probably another blister forming on the bottom of my foot, right where it’s rubbing against the insole of my shoe, but I ignore it. I ignore everything. There will be time to recover after this match.
I’m so close to glory I can feel it.
Pejo Auer sizes me up from across the net, bounces the ball once, twice, three times, and then serves.
My body protests as I lunge forward to return the ball and feel my muscles instantly fatigue. I can’t play these long rallies anymore. All my points are short, sharp and quick, and I know Auer’s noticed it. He’s playing me hard, making me run.
Auer steals the first game; the score’s 1–0, but now it’s my service game.
The racquet handle catches a blister the wrong way and I flinch on my first serve, sending the ball into the net.
Adjusting the bandages on my hands, I try to bite back the tears. The match has slipped away from me, and I’m physically and mentally exhausted. Risking a glance up to my player’s box, I meet Papa’s eyes. Noah’s still not here. He was my person, and he’s not here.
I needed him here.
‘Allez, Gabriel!’ Papa calls back. I know he must be able to read every emotion on my face; he understands the exhaustion, he’s dealt with it before.
Play restarts and I fight Auer for every point. I chase the ball across the court, send it along the line, but he’s there, every time. Finally, a drop shot causes him grief and he loses the game. 1–1.
The crowd cheers. I can barely take it in; two weeks ago, I’d never made a grand slam final. Now I’m being watched by millions of people across the globe.
Auer serves. Every point, every game, is hard won. We’re pushing each other to our limits. When, at the end of the third game in the fifth set, Pejo hits the ball out of the court, my player’s box erupts. Lukas gets out of his seat, shouting as I take the lead. Papa’s smile is so wide and bright, it looks unnatural on him. Hope flutters in my stomach. I’m close. Closer than I’ve ever been.
Why isn’t Noah here?
God, I wish I knew where I’d gone wrong about tonight; what I’d said. Did I push him too far? Was this . . . all of this . . . too much for him? I can’t blame him if that’s true. The fans, the tour, the gruelling hours, the distance—it’s a lot for anyone. And maybe I just wasn’t worth it.
Glancing up at the stadium lights, I blink back tears and force myself to turn my attention back to the match.
Pejo mutters on the other side of the court, clearly beating himself up about the break. I wipe my hands on my towel and notice the red streaks on the fabric. I quickly re-tape the blisters bleeding through the bandages, strapping them firmly before taking the court again. A soft breeze flows through the arena, bringing with it a small amount of relief. Above me, seagulls squawk as they hover around the roof.
Taking a deep breath, I set up to serve. We’ve been playing for almost five hours now, so my serves aren’t what they used to be, but the sudden force with which Auer sends the ball back shocks me. I try to return it, but the newly strapped bandages have compromised my grip on the racquet and it falls to the ground with a clatter. The ball careens away, bouncing into the media seats.
Auer, clearly riding a second wind after his one-sided pep talk, steals my service game. My control’s fraying. Then, Auer hits a killer serve and aces me in the next game. I claw back another two points but it’s not enough. I’m not good enough. In a handful of minutes, our scores are level.
Three games each.
I adjust my bandages and prepare to serve again. The blister that was forming on the sole of my foot is now a full-on fluid bubble. I feel it pinch with every step, but I have to keep playing.
I serve decently; not my best, but it sails across the net. Auer returns. I try a drop shot that doesn’t work. Lose a point. Gain a point. Back and forth, back and forth. We desperately try to one-up each other, neither of us willing to give in.
