Page 9 of Risky Match
I take a deep breath, exhaling slowly.
It doesn’t help. My heart continues to pound. I can’t catch my breath.
Think. What did they tell me to do?
Repeat calming thoughts. That’s it.
I’m going to be okay.Breathe in.
Winning is not everything.Slowly exhale.
I’m not in real danger.Breathe in again.
This is temporary.Slowly exhale.
Unfortunately, repeating my mantras only helps a little. My brain is on autopilot, inserting unsettling thoughts between the positive ones.
“This time has to be different.”
“I can’t fail again.”
“Everyone is counting on me. I can’t let them down.”
The overwhelming sense of anxiety is more than I can handle. I need out of this bloody car, so I can sprint down the road until I’m too tired to think. Unfortunately, there’s nowheremy driver can pull over, and I don’t want him to know what’s happening to me.
Trapped in the backseat, I keep taking slow, deep breaths and hope the calming thoughts will eventually prevail, allowing my heart rate to slow to a reasonable level.
This predicament is all my fault.
I shouldn’t have let my business manager talk me into hiring a driver today. But I didn’t want to explain why I preferred to drive myself to the rental house near Wimbledon. It’s none of Noah’s business, but the last thing I needed was all this quiet time to think.
If I hadn’t been hellbent on protecting my secret, I wouldn’t be stranded in this freaking car where I can’t escape.
So far, I’ve hidden my recent panic attacks from everyone except my coach and my new sports psychologist. I can’t let the press or my opponents know. If my anxiety makes headlines during the upcoming tennis tournament, my opponents will have an advantage, and that will make my anxiety even worse.
Unfortunately, I’m sitting alone in the back seat for the hour-long drive from the center of London. It’s only about ten miles, but heavy traffic allows time for my mind to repeatedly play worst-case scenarios, letting self-doubt creep in yet again. Until recently, I’ve never experienced these frightening physical manifestations of stress. I’ve always been the strong, determined winner that everyone feared on the court. How could this have happened to me?
I grab my mobile phone and start the app that’s supposed to calm my thoughts. I should have remembered it sooner. As the app plays sounds of nature and guides me through a counting sequence, my heart rate slows.
Finally, the rental house comes into view. Thank fuck.
The luxury, three-story-plus-basement home built with tan brick, accents of yellowish stones, and white-rimmed windowsmatches the photos Noah emailed. The best part is the parking for six or seven cars inside the wrought-iron gated entrance that will provide privacy.
As the car passes through the gate, relief floods over me with my escape in sight. I practically jump out of the backseat when the vehicle comes to a halt. The fresh air hits my face, and my breathing eases further.
The driver emerges from the front of the car, and I ask over my shoulder, “Can you bring my bags in? If you don’t mind, they go in the primary bedroom at the top of the first flight of stairs.” At least that’s what Noah’s email said.
“Of course, sir.”
Fortunately, I don’t think the driver noticed my situation. That gives me some solace. I can’t afford him gossiping to the press.
Hustling to the door, I pull out my phone to search for the keypad code. At first my sweaty fingers slip on the buttons, so I dry my hand on my shirt and try again.
As I successfully punch the numbers in, my pulse and breathing are finally back to normal. It’s amazing that the change of focus helps. I’m still struggling to understand what is going on with me, but I’m grateful that the current attack is fading.
Walking inside, I call out, “Anyone home?”
Silence.
