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But it’s never that easy. Not with Lukas. Lukas fights me in his service match. He’s a grubby, dirty player who has an annoying habit of convincing you to play fast and loose. Unlike Ruiz, he likes to play long volleys. He likes the trick shots, he likes the performance, but above all, he likes the mind games.
He doesn’t know I’ve been working on my slow game, on ways to convince him out of his play style. He hits the ball back, but it’s smothered by the net. The score changes by fifteen points.
Every single point is a fight.
Even as I take the lead, racking up five games to his three, he chases.
We’re neck and neck. There’s no clear winner. We’re as well matched as we’ve always been.
I suck down a lungful of air, but it’s warm and damp. My chest feels tight and my legs ache. Glancing at the clock, I realise we’ve been playing for close to four hours.
Lukas pushes back his hair, wipes his sweatband across his forehead and serves the ball. It flies across the net but lands short. My legs burn as I lunge for it, but my racquet hits the ground a second too late. The ball bounces twice and the point falls to Lukas.
I look up to my box, to the crowd, trying to keep my mind and body in the game. Papa’s staring down at me, arms crossed over his chest. Close it, he’d say if he could,close it.
There’s only a handful of points between me and the semi-finals. Lukas is down a game and it’s his service.
I know what the commentators would be saying on TV right now: this is my chance to break on service, and win the set 6–4, but there’s a small part of me that says,If you just lost, this would all be over.
Having made the finals, I would leave the tournament satisfied with my performance. I’d be able to spend a week or two with Noah, rest and recharge.
I’d be happy to see Lukas move to the next round.
I turn and position myself to recieve. Lukas bounces it once, twice, and then sends it flying over the net. I manage to return and the ball just barely scrapes the line as it hits the back of the court. A lucky shot for sure. The score levels again.
Lukas sets up for serve. Faults.
‘Fuck,’ I hear him mutter from across the net. He bounces the ball and prepares to serve again.
Double fault.
The crowd cheers.
Gabi, Gabi, Gabi.
It’s 30–40. I’m one point away from closing this set. The tingle of winning starts again, the surge of adrenaline. I swallow down the thickness in my throat, the nerves, the fear, the excitement. I focus on the bounce of the ball on the other side of the net—the one-two bounce that Lukas does before he serves—and return it as best I can. It’s a struggle. I lunge for the ball and barely have time to scramble my way back to the centre before Lukas hits it back. It falls into the far left-hand side. Lukas is almost immediately opposite, leaving his right side bare. I see an opportunity, an expanse of space. He won’t be quick enough. We’re both already so fatigued.
It’s a hard angle. My backhand might not be good enough, but it’s worth a shot. With a grunt, I push my arm back and return the ball. For a terrifying second, I think I’ve put too much into my backhand and overshot the mark. The ball barrels over the net. It curves, twisting in the air, before landing on the baseline.
I don’t need to hear the umpire’s call to know it’s in. Lukas sags in defeat.
I’ve won the match.
The crowd roars. They’re up on their feet celebrating as I drop the racquet and fall to my knees. The hardest match of my life is over. It’s done.
I beat Lukas.
All these years I’ve come up short.
All these years I’ve had to smile through my tears as he went on to the next round and I went home.
All these years, a part of me accepted that he was better than me—that he wouldalwaysbe better than me.
‘Great match, Gabi.’ Lukas pulls me to standing and wraps his arms around me. We’re both sweaty and smelly and exhausted. ‘I’m proud of you.’
‘Thank you.’ I sob into his shoulder, no longer able to control my emotions. He hugs me a little longer, a little tighter, than what’s normally acceptable on camera, and I dig my fingers into the meat of his shoulders.
‘I love you, man,’ he says, pulling away.
