Page 80 of Game Point
I shook my head at how convinced he had been that I’d change my mind. How well he knew me. I changed the subject. ‘I thought all your stuff upstairs was gone.’
‘I just don’t leave it lying around my room like a messy gremlin. There’s a closet for a reason, you know.’ He stepped back into the yard, the path at the back leading straight to the court. ‘Anyway, see you in five?’
‘Make it ten?’ I asked, earning my first scowl from Coach Oliver, his eyes piercing and narrowed.God, he looks dangerously good in coach mode.‘I’ll be quick. I promise.’
He nodded once, and I shot off back upstairs, the ache in my body starting to nip at my strained muscles. Last night had, on top of everything else, been a workout. As I changed, I inspected the marks he’d left all over my body. Hickeys down my neck, small bruises where his fingers had held me. I wanted to tattoo every single one onto my skin.
Wearing an oversized top over a pair of mid-thigh shorts, my hair tied up into a messy bun, I stood across the court from Oliver. It wasn’t anything to write home about. The net a little tattered, weeds growing at the side.
But standing on that baseline, now that felt like home.
We’d started with a warm-up, some stretching and cardio before I was ready for the good stuff.
‘Okay, live ball drill. Let’s get those legs working,’ Oliver shouted. ‘Start with six crosscourts, then six down the lines.’ He picked up a ball from the cart next to him, hitting it over to the left side.
Immediately, I found my legs, running and positioning myself to intercept the ball. I pivoted, leading with my left shoulder, swinging the racket forward in a sweeping motion to connect with the ball. I watched every movement, tracking the shot as it arched back over the net.
‘Watch your elbow!’ he instructed, just as another ball came straight at me, and I repeated the movement, this time making sure to pay attention to the movement. Four more flew over the net, and I knocked every one back over.
I moved into the next position, hitting six more down the line. It took a moment for my brain to turn on tennis mode, the wheels a little rusty after a few weeks off. But it was second nature that I lived and breathed as he continued to feed balls. I grew faster, hitting each down the line back to his side of the court.
‘Good, X-Drill!’ he instructed, hitting it to the opposite side. Given a second longer, I would have complained, begrudging him for upping the pace and intensity. I ran, both hands finding the racket handle. I turned to face the sideline, planting my right foot as I continued my forward momentum. I swung, meeting the ball, using my body rotation to generate power, sending it flying.
The next ball flew over, heading to the opposite side of the court. My heart raced, sweat growing on my browagainst the Australian sun. But my body, even with my muscles burning and legs racing beneath me to make each shot, felt that ache that only anyone as sick in the head as tennis players could enjoy. That burning satisfaction of making the return.
I grinned as he called another forehand, shooting it back over the net.
‘That looked good!’ he instructed again.
Oliver continued torturing me. Whenever I made a misstep, I’d hear him shouting at me to bend my legs, step earlier, a little piece of feedback that only half the time had me tempted to drive the racket into his head.
But it was the compliments I lived for. The ‘that was great!’, ‘keep it up’, the occasional ‘yas!’ paired with finger snaps that would have me grinning as I hit another shot.
Memories peeked out from behind the curtain I’d tried to pull over last night. The words he’d spoken as he slid inside me again, whispering gently into my ear, telling me how good I felt for him.How his brat was behaving like a good girl.It just made me ache for him all over again.
This was not the plan.
Attempting to outrun the thoughts, I hit another backhand, listening as he instructed for an overhead next. I ran, moving across the court to catch the ball. I stumbled, my feet catching on the ground, and I tumbled forward, slamming my side into the ground.
A sharp twinge of pain shot across my ribs, my injured side taking the blow. All the air was pushed out of my lungs on a pained gasp, my fingers going to my side as if to hold and protect it from any more damage.
‘Shit, Dylan!’ I heard Oliver swear. I watched him runningtowards me, leaping over the net like it was nothing, before he slid down next to me, his hands hovering over me like he didn’t know where to touch,ifhe should touch.
I rolled onto my back. ‘Crap, that hurt.’
‘How badly?’ His voice trembled. ‘Do you think we need to go to the emergency room?’
I sucked in a deep inhale as if to test my chest. The doctor had said to start with ‘light’ exercise, but I’d been more than happy to feel the racket back in the palm of my hand, the power it gave me. I hadn’t realized how much I had truly missed playing.
Maybe I missed playing without the looming pressure of a competition, without a coach screaming at me.
When there was no burning pain in my chest, I knew I was safe, the ache in my ribs growing duller and duller with every passing moment.
‘I think I’m alright.’ Apprehensively, I moved forward, testing my limit. My muscles ached, but I’d woken up that way. My chest, ribs and lungs all felt fine, if a little bruised.
‘You don’t look okay,’ Oliver said, his voice tinged with worry.
‘That’s because my muscles are in recovery.’
