Page 77 of The Rebel
I couldn’t breathe, captivated by his gorgeous green eyes and the smile just for me.
“Rules are made to be broken,” I gushed right before his lips collided with mine and he stole my breath and the heated seat warmed me from beneath.
I heard my protein bar drop to the floor, but it didn’t matter. My mouth was occupied with other things.
Chapter 20
PARIS
“40-15.”
Match point.
I crouched into ready position, my stance wide, torso gently swaying. He’d served out wide on the last deuce court, so I anticipated he’d go down the tee this time, my body slightly veering to my backhand side.
I got it wrong. Like I had too many times this week. And last week. And the week before.
The ball landed on the side line and spun away from me so that I’d need a ten foot handle to reach it.
“Game, set and match to Hugo Hombre, 7-5, 6-3,” the umpire announced for the entire stadium to hear. I approached the net, watching as Hombre jogged joyously up to me. With a customary hand shake and patting of one another’s shoulder, I offered my congratulations.
Be gracious in defeat.That was one of the many things Mom had ingrained in me.Always show good sportsmanship.
I smiled as I shook the umpire’s hand, returning to my seat to pack up my bag. I jammed in the rackets, drink bottles, towels, electrolyte sachets and bananas that I hadn’t needed. I daren’t look up toward the seats where Mom and Dad were sitting. Because if I did I might cry.
I took my time in the locker room—Mom couldn’t come in here and Dad wouldn’t because his role was backup to Mom. He didn’t involve himself in the actual tennis, in analyzing the play.
It wasn’t supposed to be like this. This European tour was to be a stepping stone to proving I had what it takes to be on the professional circuit. After my wild card entry into the US Open,there was pressure to perform, to show that I deserved my place and that I had what it takes to be on this stage. I should have been winning these tournaments, but so far making it to the second round had been my biggest achievement. Big deal.
The dream was turning into a nightmare.
I couldn’t figure it out. There was no reason that I should be failing. Sure, the countries were new, the court surfaces were different but not so much that I couldn’t adapt. I’d had a great spell at the academy in Florida, learning so much from the coaches. I’d been eager to get on the road, to experience the life of a traveling tennis player.
Yet, somehow I was a failure.
I couldn’t string together points, couldn’t fully focus, couldn’t make adjustments on court. I’d flounder, I’d panic, I’d play stupid shots and forget my game plan.
Was it burn-out? Was I doomed, had I passed my peak already? Was I not cut out for this next level of tennis? If I couldn’t win matches I didn’t get points, and if I didn’t get points I didn’t get into tournaments, and if I didn’t play tournaments my sponsors would drop me. I could see the headlines already—Paris Reid, failed tennis star at the age of 19, spent his whole life preparing for this but couldn’t step up to the big time, a one-hit wonder known only for winning a first round match in the US Open as a wild card. Was that going to be the pinnacle of my success?
“Hey, hard luck, man. Next time.” One of the players knuckle bumped me as I took the dreaded step toward the door.
“Sure.” I nodded, appreciating his support. The tennis community was like that, my competitors were also my supporters, on court we battled, off court we bantered. But now my heart thumped at the thought of seeing my parents. Dad, not so much, but Mom was likely to be disappointed. And not just disappointed, but crushed. She’d given everything for this, forme to live my dream and this was how I was repaying her—by losing, letting her down. I was a dud, a failure.
I shook my head, my damp hair spraying around and took a deep breath of courage. I’d need it...time to face the music.
I wasn’t wrong. Mom held a kind face until we got back to the apartment where, as expected, she let rip.
“You went soft!” she yelled. “You were dabbing at the ball, scared to hit through it.”
“I was trying to!” I shouted back in retaliation.
“Your arm was weak. And you stood back behind the baseline. Defensive the entire time.”
“You don’t think I was trying to come forward?” My sarcasm was thick. “You don’t think I wanted to attack?”
“It’s like your feet were stuck in concrete. There was no footwork,” Mom griped. “Your movement was awful.”
“Well, I told you I don’t like the soft bananas. They’re too mushy and make me gag.”
