Page 3 of Serve
Now he wondered; did he truly love tennis?
If he was honest with himself, he’d remember why he was desperate to get away from home. Mom and Dad were miserable drunks, who lived for cocktail parties thrown by their socialite friends. He remembered knock-down, dragged-out fights, and his name slurred in a way that made his stomach ache with anxiety. Getting rid of him had possibly saved their marriage, since they were still together, and still drunk. They ignored him to this day. A celebrity son, who on the surface was perfection, but underneath, was a nuisance. After he left, he’d come up with any excuse possible to stay away, and they never demanded his presence.
Save it for the shrink, he thought, and resumed watching the kids struggle to keep the ball in the court.
He used to hide in his Suburban, spying from the parking lot of the Hidden Creek Tennis Center. Grant, his sports psychologist, told him he was being silly. The kids would get used to his presence in the stands. Plus, it might make him feel better to get positive recognition. But, the thought of talking about why he was here in Hidden Creek, instead of getting ready for the next tournament, made him queasy.
Playing tennis used to be his reason for living. He missed competing. Most of all, he missed winning. The heart-racing thrill of eking out a win over a top player was addictive. The problem was, he wasn’t winning any more. Withdrawal from winning was the worst feeling in the world. So bad, now he saw a shrink to cope with it.
Glancing at his phone, he saw that he needed to hit the road soon. He wanted to be on time for his appointment with Grant. Since he’d taken the season off, he limited his human interactions to his psychologist. Oh, and the barista at the local coffee shop, who didn’t know who he was. Make that twenty minutes; he wanted to get a latte before driving into Houston.
The people around him cheered. Tyler glanced up, and saw the two teens shaking hands over the net. Game over, and he had no idea who’d won. His phone vibrated in his hand, and it was the last person he wanted to talk to; his agent, Sania.
Damn it, he didn’t want to talk to her right before he spoke to Grant. He had enough to bitch about in therapy, and talking to her would only add to it. Thing was, she rarely called. Since most of their business was conducted through email, it must be important.
“Hey, Sania, what’s up?” He stood, and left the bleachers.
“Well, I think I am going to ask you that. How are you? Why haven’t you returned my last five emails? I can’t make decisions without your input.” Sania was pissed, and her professional, icy tone was a dead giveaway.
“I’m doing as well as can be expected.” He kicked at the dirt with his sneaker. It was humiliating, being called out by the person he paid to take care of his business.
“I understand why you are taking time to figure out what you want to do next, and I also respect the fact that you’ve worked hard, since you were what, twelve years old? But, my hands are tied, because of your lack of decision-making. I have deals sitting here that I can’t sign off on because of your silence.”
He imagined Sania behind her huge, wooden desk. It was never cluttered, everything in its proper place. She was one of the most successful agents in the business, and he was her biggest client. He understood her frustration; if he wasn’t making money, neither was she.
“Look, Sania, I know you’re frustrated. I, um, respect and admire everything you’ve done for my career—”
“Tyler—” she interrupted, “—focus on you, not me. What I need is a time frame. Tennis Network and The Cable Sports Network both want you as a commentator if you don’t return to the tour. If you are going to resume playing, then your sponsors need to know when to expect your return.” She said what she needed to say, then let ruthless silence communicate how pissed she was.
He felt guilty for his indecisiveness, but he couldn’t commit to anything just yet. His heart didn’t know what it wanted anymore. He held the phone away from his ear, pressed it into his chest, and took a deep breath. How was he going to put her off this time? Finally, he decided to just speak the truth.
“I don’t know what to do, Sania. That’s why I’m seeing Grant this afternoon. I’m not sure I can go back on tour, not without a different, I don’t know, attitude? What I’m trying to say is, I need a little more time before…”
“How much time, Tyler?”
He pictured her face. Sania Barve was a no-nonsense woman who cared for him, despite her brusque manner. She deserved a better player than him.
“Two weeks. I will make a decision by then, I promise. And I’ll go over those emails you sent me. I haven’t even looked at them, to be honest.” He took off his baseball hat, looked up, and saw the two teens who’d been playing walking cautiously toward him.
“Sounds good, Tyler, but I need a firm decision. I can’t conduct your business without your full participation.” She sighed, then he heard her pulling on a cigarette, a habit she’d struggled with for years. Frustration, laced with concern shaped her words.
“Relax, Tyler, and figure out where you want to go next with your career. If you permanently retire from the tour, that’s great, because we have some lucrative offers from the networks. If you decide to rejoin the tour, we can make even more money.” Her voice softened, the frustration gone. She’d always been on his side, and really wanted what was best for him.
“Will do, Sania. I’ll make a solid decision and get back to you within two weeks. I’ve gotta go if I’m going to make my appointment on time.” The two boys were smiling, wanting to speak. He smiled back, and held up a finger to let them know he’d be right with them.
“Thanks, Tyler, I look forward to hearing from you.” She disconnected the call. He grinned, then addressed the two teen players.
“Hey, guys, y'all played great this afternoon.”
Even though he’d tried to be anonymous, most of Hidden Creek knew he lived there. Eventually, the kids playing tennis would figure out who was watching them every day.
“Can we get your autograph?” One of the kids held a bright yellow tennis ball and a black magic marker in his hands.
“Sure.” He tried to sign the tennis ball, but the marker was out of ink. He always carried a black sharpie for moments like these. He pulled it out of his pocket, signed the ball and handed it back to them. Their excited grins sent a familiar jolt of pleasure through him.
“You’ve watched us before. Do you think you could give us some pointers?” The taller one asked, then backed up a couple of steps and swung his racket through the air. They looked up at his face, hoping he’d say yes. He hated to disappoint them. If he wasn’t going to be working, he could spend an afternoon here occasionally. He’d like that.
“Can’t do it today, I’m running late for an appointment, but how about I stop by one afternoon in the next week or so. Oh, and only if your coach allows it. He’s the boss, okay?” Thinking of their coach reminded him of his own. He sighed, realizing exactly what he and Grant would be talking about this afternoon.
