Page 67 of Risky Match
Six racquets. Check.
Extra sweat bands. Check.
An extra shirt. Check.
Trail mix and drink bottles. Check.
Until this year, I assumed my coach properly packed my bag. Then one of my friends showed up on court without his racquets. We haven’t let him forget it. Since then, I’ve personally checked my own bag.
Hoisting my gear onto my shoulder, Josh and I walk down the tunnel toward the court. Along the way, fear rises. What if I have a panic attack? I quietly do the breathing exercises that Doc prescribed.
Suddenly, an image of Bri pops into my head. I smile. She promised to be here. I need to see her. Somehow, I know that will calm me.
At the end of the tunnel, I pause. When my name is called, I step onto the sunlit court. I wave to the crowd and search the section where Bri will be sitting. My heart sinks. She’s not there.
She’s probably just running late.
I unpack my drink bottles and set them in front of my bench. As I pull a racquet from my bag, I look again—still no Bri.
There’s a pit in my stomach, but I shake it off. She’ll be here. At least, I hope she will.
During warmups, I force myself not to glance at the stands. When the umpire signals the start of the match, I allow myself one last look.
Her bright smiling face locks on mine. I exhale. She’s here. That helps me even more than my breathing exercises.
The match begins, and soon I confirm that Josh was right. Geoff doesn’t like coming to the net. Taking advantage of that knowledge, I easily win the first game. During the break before the next game, I munch on a handful of trail mix to tame my grumbling stomach. Tennis burns a lot of calories.
Fifteen minutes later, I win the first set. But something is off. My energy is fading too fast. My stomach isn’t just growling—it’s queasy. It must be the heat. I need to hydrate better if I’m going to win two more sets.
Geoff’s first serve of the second set whizzes by me in a blur. I shake my head. What’s wrong with me? It wasn’t any faster than his prior serves. I shake my head, but that makes it worse. I’m overcome with dizziness, and a stomach cramp doubles me over.
Bloody hell. Don’t tell me I picked up a stomach bug at Wimbledon again.
I have to push through. I can’t fail again.
My palms sweat and heart rate soars. No! Not the fuck now. I can’t be having a panic attack too.
Barely catching my breath, I signal the umpire to call for a trainer to come. At the end of this game, they should be ableto give me something for my stomach ache. That will get me through the match.
At the baseline, I try to focus on Geoff’s movements while attempting to block out the pain. I just have to last a couple more points.
Mustering every ounce of remaining strength, I return Geoff’s serve and dash across the court. Seeing the blurry ball cross the net, I stretch, barely getting my racquet on the ball. It skims across the net, dropping just out of Geoff’s reach.
As my body falls to the ground, the crowd erupts.
I try to stand but can’t. The pain is unbearable, and the dizziness is worse than any hangover.
I’m screwed.
The last thing I hear is the sound of fast-paced footsteps.
Darkness envelops me.
23
BRIANNA
Blake makes the shot of the match.
