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I glance up at my player’s box. Victor and Papa stare back at me, quiet and emotionless. Bile rises into my throat. I swallow it back down and taste the burn.
The ball hits the net. I lose the game.
Four games to love.
Ruiz has broken me. I’mbroken.
Stalking over to the bench, I grab my towel and sink into my seat. I need to refocus. I’ve beaten Ruiz before.Outlast. Outplay.I have to remember I’ve got further in tournaments than this when I’ve hadlessto play for.
But this match iseverything—it’s a pathway to a championship as I come into the peak of my career; it’s a chance to put all the issues with my team behind me; it’s a chance to fight another day.
And of course, this time there’s Noah to fight for . . .
Getting up, I take a deep breath and taste the salt on the ocean breeze coming from Port Melbourne. I hear the hum of the stadium lights, and feel the droplet of sweat that trickles down the divots of my spine. Ruiz is already on the baseline, and crossing the short distance to my side of the court feels like a monumental effort.
Steeling myself, I serve.
The ball flies down the middle of the court and hits the back wall.
Ace.
Good. Okay.
I take another breath and set up for my next serve. I aim for the top corner of his service box, hitting the ball hard crosscourt. Ruiz catches it easily, drop-shotting it so it lands short. I run forward, not even thinking, and return it. It flies past him, hitting the corner of the court before bouncing out. My knee protests, and a deep throb of pain radiates from it.
Ruiz stalks back to the baseline, muttering under his breath.
Somehow, I claw back another point and then a game. Ruiz huffs and rolls his shoulders and I watch as a quiet discontentment pervades his body.
My momentum doesn’t last long. Ruiz sticks to his game plan and slowly wears me down. I’m dripping sweat onto the court by the time he closes out the third set, 6–4, and I drag myself to my bench, completely and utterly broken.
Collapsing into my seat, I grab my water bottle and try to refocus. I’mstilla set up. As much as Ruiz wants me to think he’s outplayed me, this match isn’t over.
I can’t leave Melbourne yet.
So, as play recommences, I make a calculated choice.
A choice I may come to regret.
I play hard.
I play into his hand.
I picture my father on the sidelines, his eyes wide with fear and worry as I veer off our carefully constructed game plan.
But he’s not the one down here, aching in more ways than one. If I let Ruiz take this to five sets, he’s going to beat me. I’d rather push myself and win than play it safe and lose.
Play continues, and I chase down every ball, serving with precision, and biting my tongue when things don’t go my way. I refuse to let Ruiz know I’m sore, even as my knee catches painfully again during one return. I refuse to allow any sliver of emotion to come through my game, no disappointment, no joy, no frustration. If there’s any chance of me closing this set, I need to keep Ruiz out of my head.
I serve and Ruiz slices cross-court, his stroke fast and precise.
‘Out!’ the umpire cries as Ruiz’s return skims the line.
Ruiz approaches the net, clearly checking the call for himself.It’s out,I sign.
Ruiz looks to his interpreter, signing at them, and in turn, the interpreter speaks to the umpire. After a few tense exchanges with the umpire, he walks away, shaking his head. He signs something to his player’s box. While my ASL isn’t good enough to know what, anger’s a universal language, so I can hazard a few guesses.
I swallow. The dry-mouth feel is back. The end of the set is looming; and I’m up by two games. It’s Ruiz’s service game, and the ball crosses the net at an alarming speed. I return it, and as Ruiz prepares his backhand, the ball hits the frame of the racquet and veers into the audience. A point to me.
