Page 77 of Risky Match
Mr. Grumpy is here in full force again. I understand his disappointment. He’s also dealing with the fact he just faced his mortality firsthand. I’m not sure how I would feel in his situation, but I certainly hope I wouldn’t be rude and obstinate with the people I’m close to.
“I know we don’t have a real chance at winning the tournament, but we played well as a team. And this is my one chance. Whatever happens, it should be decided on the court, not by us walking away. If we lose, I can accept that. But it’s important to me that my time at Wimbledon lasts as long as possible. I need you to do this for me.”
He closes his eyes, wiping them with his fingers. In a soft voice, he admits, “I don’t know if I can. I’m not ready to go back out there.”
I should have known. He’s afraid he’ll have a panic attack on the court. I feel like a heel, forcing him to do something that could crush him. Yet again, my mission and my heart are at odds.
“At least think about it, and let’s talk again in the morning. Good night.”
I walk out of his room, softly closing the door.
I’m conflicted. I wanted to tell him that this isn’t my fault. I’m not his enemy. But if he’s guilty of smuggling, then technically, weareon opposite sides.
I also wanted to call him selfish for not wanting to play, but am I the selfish one? I’m demanding he fulfill my dream when his was crushed.
I remind myself that the mission requires me to encourage him to stay, but I also want to continue competing. What kind of person am I to push someone who almost died to go back on the court in two days?
I reassure myself that his medical doctor signed off, and his sports psychologist actually recommended that he keep playing. But they aren’t the ones guilting him into continuing. I am.
This is the first time a mission has made me face this type of dilemma. Prior to this one, I merely collected information for our intelligence officers or passed something for them. This is an entirely different experience. Our training didn’t prepare me for the ethical and emotional tradeoffs I’m encountering. It makes me wonder if I’m really cut out for the Covert Royals.
In addition, I thought Blake cared for me. He’s the only guy I’ve given a real chance to in a long time. That’s over though. He’s made it clear that he doesn’t want me in his support system. Even worse, he’s willing to trample my feelings without a second thought.
From here on, the only things that matter are my country’s interests and my tennis career.
Why does that hurt so much?
26
BLAKE
Iwake from a nightmare, drenched in sweat. My memory is hazy. In my dream, I think I collapsed on the tennis court, woke up in the hospital, and forfeited my Wimbledon match. What a colossal disaster. Thank goodness it was just a bad dream.
Wiping my forehead with my hand, something sharp grazes my face. I pull my hand away and freeze. I’m staring at a hospital wristband.
No. no, no. It wasn’t a dream.
I was released from the hospital last night. And just like that, the memories of the last two days come flooding in.
Shite. I’m hit with the sickening realization that I was a complete arse to Bri, at the hospital and again when I got home last night. I was grumpy and snapping at everyone, wanting them to share my misery.
If I’m honest with myself, I’ve been frustrated and difficult since I pulled out of the quarterfinals at Wimbledon last year due to a torn hamstring. The people around me have tolerated my behavior, probably because I pay them salaries well above what they would make elsewhere.
But I don’t pay Bri. And she’s the one I treated the worst. I was another level of arsehole to her. It’s a miracle she hasn’t already left. She must really want to play. Otherwise, she’d have told me to shove my attitude and walked out.
She didn’t deserve my wrath.
I toss the blankets aside and stumble to the bathroom to splash cold water on my face. As I reach for my toothbrush, I stare at my reflection, assessing the damage. Surprisingly, I look better than expected. If I didn’t know what had happened, I’d think this is just the beginning of another day to gear up for my next match.
A knock on the door interrupts my thoughts.
“Come in.”
“Good morning, Blake. How are you doing?” Natalie asks.
What kind of question is that? I almost died. How the hell does she think I am?
But attempting civility, I respond, “I’m alive. I guess that’s not too bad given the circumstances.”
