Page 106 of Double Fault

NOAH

Frustration barreling through me,I smash my racket against the court. My opponent, a new guy from Spain, is about to take me out. Fuck. I was sure I had the cinch Championship in the bag. Maybe the extra training with Elias instilled a false sense of confidence. I was so sure I was going to win this and I could really use the much-needed ego boost as I head to Wimbledon.

On the sideline, Fisher shakes his head, then exchanges words with Terese, another one of my coaches. She responds, wearing a look of disappointment.

Fuck. They’re probably having the same thoughts I am.

That maybe I’m not cut out for this anymore.

I’ve been playing well since my return, so the notion is ridiculous. Even so, I can’t stop the intrusive thoughts. I’m not like some of these guys—so overly confident that I can’t see past my own ego. Not anymore, at least.

I grab a new racket from my bag, swipe my towel off my chair, and wipe my face. With a harsh inhale, I turn, preparing myself to serve.

I hate losing.

Of course I do. Who doesn’t?

This defeat, though, feels more painful than any I’ve experienced in years. Maybe because I’ve been training harder in preparation for Wimbledon. Maybe because of the way my relationship with Sabrina has been changing—she’s in the crowd, watching me fail, after all. Or maybe it’s because I feel like I’m failing in so many ways. Like with Maddie. Despite her mostly sunshiny attitude, she’s still struggling with the loss of her mom, and I don’t know if I’m supporting her in all the ways she needs it.

I make my serve, anticipating the volley. Even though a win from here is nearly impossible, I won’t go down without a fight.

I send it soaring back over the net. When it returns, I sprint to my right and smack it, but rather than sail over the net, it hits it and drops to the ground, taking my happiness with it.

He won. I lost.

And so it goes.

I’m sad. Angry. Frustrated.

I want to trash this racket too, but I rein in the urge. My daughter is watching; it’s bad enough she saw me lose my temper once. I need to set a better example.

I meet my opponent at the net, shake hands, then shake hands with the chair umpire.

I pack up my stuff silently, then wait for the crew to set up for the trophy ceremony. Second place shouldn’t feel so awful, but there’s no recovering my tanking mood. Not right now. When the cameras are rolling, I plaster a smile on my face and channel all the lessons I’ve learned in media training over the years. After destroying my racket, I don’t need to give them any more ammunition.

Smashing a racket isn’t the worst thing a player can do—some assholes have been known to send theirs flying into the crowd—but it is frowned upon. Tensions run high in professional sports, and even the best of us snap at times.

I give a short speech, accepting my pathetic excuse for a trophy, all the while smiling like I’m not losing my shit on the inside.

Doubts plague me, telling me I’ve lost my mind to think I have a shot at Wimbledon. How could I when I couldn’t even secure first place here against a player who’s never made it this far?

I need to nip these thoughts in the bud before they fester and grow. I’ve seen players completely lose themselves on the court because of mental gymnastics. Nothing is worse than when a player becomes his own worst critic.

By some miracle, I hold my shit together until I’m alone with my team.

“What the hell was that?” Fisher sputters in the training room assigned to us. “It’s like you forgot how to hit the damn ball.”

Terese merely shakes her head. She doesn’t speak nearly as often as my other coaches, but when she does, it’s because she has something important to say. My guess is she’s still gathering her thoughts.

Teeth gnashing, I grunt. “I don’t know. The pressure got to me, I guess.”

Fisher gets right up in my face. He’s angrier than I’ve ever seen him, which only pushes me closer to the edge. I want to throw something. Smash my fist into a fucking wall.

I fell apart out there.

“The pressure got to you,” he says, his tone mocking. “You’re better than that, Noah. Give me a reason, tell me why.”

“I just got in my head. I was fixated on things I shouldn’t have been worried about. Not out there. I put too much pressure on myself and I cracked.”

---