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What if he loses?
He’ll be on the next flight home.
‘Where’s Gabriel’s next tournament after Brazil?’ I ask Bernard.
‘We have a break and travel back to Spain for the clay season,’ he replies. ‘Of course, Gabi is a favourite at Roland-Garros this year.’
Brazil, and then Spain, and then France. So much time on the road; so many countries to visit; people to see. It’s hard not to feel like just a blip on his map.
Lost in my own crippling insecurity, I don’t notice Gabriel lose the second set. The crowd cheers, and O’Lachlan soaks it all in. Gabi, on the other hand, returns to his player’s bench with his shoulders slumped. I can see him talking to himself, and I wonder what he’s saying.
Maybe Bernard and Victor are right. Maybe O’Lachlan did throw the first set.
This is anyone’s game.
13
Gabriel
Achant floats around the arena during the break, a riotous wave of:Gabi, Gabi, Gabi. A gentle breeze touches my face, cooling the sweat on my brow, neck and chest. Taking a deep breath, I suck down a final mouthful of sour electrolytes and take the court again.
O’Lachlan’s come back.
It’s one set all.
Three sets to go.
O’Lachlan serves. Immediately, I recognise that his game is purposely slow. Dropping the first and winning the second is an old tactic of his; give your opponent a head start and burn them out quicker. Finish them when they’re tired and sloppy and questioning themselves. He’s trying to trap me.
Not this time.
I return the ball, sending it down the sideline. O’Lachlan easily catches it, returning the ball crosscourt. I stride close to the net and hit a solid backhand. The ball bounces on the baseline.
O’Lachlan runs to get the shot, but he’s not fast enough.
The crowd cheers. I shake my racquet in celebration. He won’t get in my head.
Outlast. Outwit. Outplay.
Struggling against the sun, O’Lachlan’s next serve is a double fault. Then he concedes another point in a poor volley; then another, and another.
For every point O’Lachlan makes, I make two. Then three. I refuse to lose this match. Losing means going home, it means leaving Noah and ending whatever’s between us before it even starts . . .
We break play and I risk a glance up at my box. Noah’s dressed in an outrageously bright shirt. The wind gently tousles his fringe. Our eyes meet. He smiles and my heart stutters. I’m not ready to leave.
O’Lachlan serves and the ball whips past me. I lunge for it, my shoe skidding on the court. Ace.
A few good shots later and we’re neck and neck on the scoreboard. Somehow, he’s clawed his way back to a tie breaker at the end of the third set.
And I’ve barely moved from the baseline; barely had a chance to get the ball in play before conceding the point. He’s playing hard, recklessly.
We reset for the tie breaker. The set will go to whoever gets seven points first. No advantages, no weird points system, just simple round digits.
I stare at O’Lachlan over the net. I can’t lose. Not yet. Not now. There’s too much to stay for, and I’ve been on the circuit too long and worked too hard to bow out in the second round of a major tournament.
O’Lachlan serves. The ball hits the net and I can’t help but think that his second serve percentage is taking a hit in this match. No doubt Victor will take that into consideration for our post-match debrief, and note it the next time I face O’Lachlan.
‘Fuck,’ I hear him cry. The score’s 0–1.
