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It’s the third round. Tonight, we’re prime time. Rod Laver Arena. The crowd is loud and messy, and most of them are on Reid’s side. I’m not one to worry about who the crowd supports or doesn’t, but I can’t lie: when they chanted his name as he stepped onto the court, a shiver ran down my spine.
I’ve only played against Bailey Reid three times in my entire career—and I’ve lost every time.
Glancing up at my box, Papa gives me a tight smile. Tonight, Phoebe’s sitting beside him, and my stomach flutters at seeing her in my player’s box.
It’s a cool night. Dry. The ball is light off the racquet. A gentle breeze blows through the open roof and down through the arena.
I take a breath and gather my thoughts, preparing for my service game. The audience goes silent. Bouncing once, twice, I get a feel for the ball before serving. It lands in the top corner of Reid’s service box. He returns it with a strong forehand, but I meet it easily, sending the ball flying across the net. He runs for it, but it’s not enough. The crowd applauds.
In the next serve, I ace him.
Somehow, I close the service game quickly, and then I’m up four–love. Across the court, Reid shakes his head and swears. I have to keep this pressure on him, I have to wear him down. If I can snatch this set six games to love, it’ll shake him.
Reid sets up for his service game, and I soften my knees, let my spine curve and prepare to receive. His serve is intense, fast and precise. In our last match, two years ago, he destroyed me with this serve: 6–1, 6–2, 6–0. But this time, I’m ready for it. I return the ball with just as much force as he served it with.
Every play I make, Reid’s there. Every ball is returned. Every time I think I’ve run him off his feet, he makes the shot. The crowd applauds as he claws back a game.
Four–one.
It’s my service game again. I let out a long breath and calm my thumping heart. Reid stares at me across the net. I serve,hard. He returns. The set descends into a flurry of volleys, of hard-earned points, and me falling flat on my face as I run to return a ball. I don’t even get a point for my effort, either.
I close out the third set when, on the set point, Reid’s ball hits the net. We’re a set all, and I’ve just won six games to one.
I head to my bench and grab my towel. There’s a five-minute break between sets, and I use it to refuel, to recentre and, most importantly, to towel the sweat off my body. Grabbing a fresh shirt from my bag, I try not to make a show of changing my shirt but someone in the crowd always whistles. In my mind, it sounds a lot like Phoebe.
After switching my shirt and swallowing a mouthful of water, I take to the court again. Glancing over at Reid, I realise he’s berating himself. He’s angry. Good. Let me get in his head.
I win the first two games and the match finally feels like it’s swinging in my favour. Reid stumbles a little lunging for a ball, grabbing his ankle as he falls. Play stops. Reid rises to his feet and walks it off, raising his hand to indicate that he’s okay. The crowd cheers.
Reid sets up for his serve. It hits the net.
I prepare again, knees soft, crouching.
Reid serves, but again it hits the net. A double fault. He throws his racquet down and swears, loudly. The umpire glances at him from her box, her mouth a tight, disapproving line.
I don’t pity Reid. I know exactly what he’s going through; he’s trying to put the frustration of his stumble behind him; he’s trying to reconcile our history together because he’s beaten me so many times—why should this time be any different? Why isn’t he playing as well as he’d hoped? Has he lost his mojo? No doubt somewhere, subconsciously, he’d thought I’d be an easy opponent. Barely a pebble on his smooth path towards the finals.
I’m playing better—better than I ever have—maybe because I’m no longer weighed down by the emotional baggage of living up to my papa’s ambitions, or being chronically in the closet.
I’m playing for something, and someone, and a chance to stay here, even if just for a few days longer.
After eight games between us, I take the next set from Reid 6-2, and he throws his racquet towards his bench in frustration. The crowd jeers him and he walks off the court in a fluster. The umpire leans down to speak to him, but I don’t catch their exchange.
I glance up to my player’s box. Phoebe looks pumped, standing up on her crutches to cheer me on. The passion on her face sends a thrill through me.
As we break Reid calls a medical timeout to have someone look at the ankle he’d stumbled on earlier, and I eat a banana. Instagram always descends into a frenzy whenever I eat a banana. No prizes for guessing why.
The medic leaves the court and Reid stands up, loosening the tension in his ankle with a light jog back to the baseline.
I throw away the banana peel. I need to close this.
As we move into the fourth set, I win the first game, the second, the third in quick succession. He swears loudly again, his anger bubbling over, and gets a warning from the umpire.
I close the next two games in fifteen minutes, and then, Reid hands me the last game without scoring.
He’s done.
The crowd erupts into applause. Papa’s out of his seat. Victor’s jumping around like a madman and Phoebe cheers with her hands cupped around her mouth. I fall to my knees, delirious with the win, and close my eyes as the glare of the stadium lights washes over me. I’m into the fourth round of the tournament—the round of sixteen, and just one match away from the finals. It’s the best I’ve ever done at the Australian Open. I look up to my box and wish Noah was there, but I know I’ll have time to celebrate with him later.
