Love Game

Jesus, I can’t keep going five sets every round.

But by some miracle, the game point came to me and I mustered all my strength to find one more ace. I slammed it home and my racket nearly fell out of fingers as I watched Roger make a play for it and miss.

“Game, Solomon,” the ump intoned.

The crowd went wild and Roger smiled ruefully—tiredly—as we shook hands at the net.

“This one’s yours,” he said, always the class-act. “Take it home.”

I nodded in thanks, too tired and too elated to speak.

Not to mention, I just shook hands with Roger Federer.

That alone was reason enough to make the finals more often.

The Finals. Of the Australian Open. I’d made it. And my opponent was, of course, Brad Finn.

“Fuck,” I muttered under my breath in my hotel suite as Mum, Jason, and my fitness team watched as Rafa Nadal (#2) dropped out of the match due to a hamstring injury. Brad then beat the #1 in the world, Novak Djokovic, who’d been having issues with his shoulder. I hated to admit it, but I’d rather have lost to Djokovic than have to play Brad.

Don’t be such a titbag. Do it for Dad. Do it for Daisy. For Jason. Hell, do it for yourself.

I had two full days off to recover. I texted Daisy but she didn’t respond. I called her a few times, but she never picked up.

“Fuck it, whatever. I don’t need a crutch.”

I said the words out loud, trying to find a piece of my old armor and put it back on. But I’d realized that despite my best efforts, I needed people in my life. Mum. Jason. Daisy. And ultimately, I was responsible for myself. Blaming Brad for being a racist prick, Daisy for not being here, or even my dad for dying wasn’t getting me anywhere.

I had to play my best. Win or lose, that’s all that mattered.

The morning I had to face Brad on the court, I psyched myself up, vowed to keep my shit together and make everyone proud. To make my dad proud from wherever he was. Watching me, I hoped. Somehow, I knew that he was.

Brad and I had to shake hands at the start of the match and pose for photos with the director of the Open.

“Good luck, halfy,” Brad muttered through his teeth. “Wouldn’t dear old Dad be proud?”

“Fuck off,” I muttered back, and tried to keep his words out of my heart.

But when we began to play, and it was as if nothing had changed. As if Brad embodied all of my old pains and anger; as though they had been right there the entire time, waiting.

I tried my best, but I had three unforced errors in the first game alone. I felt the heat in

my blood rise and fought for calm. To remember the peace Daisy had given me. But trying to feel peace was useless. Forcing it only made it more elusive.

Brad took the first set, 6-2, and I began to wonder just why the fuck I’d bothered giving a shit about anything. I’d battled through six rounds, most of which went to five sets, just to lose to this arsehole? What kind of cosmic justice was that?

In the second set, I was hit with an audible obscenity warning and then nearly earned another for yelling at a ball boy for being a goddamn slug bringing me a towel. The set—and the title—was slipping out of my hands. I lost, 6-1. One more set and the match would belong to Brad.

I looked up at my box where Mum sat with Jason. I started to shake my head at them. As if to say, I’m sorry, I tried.

And there was Daisy.

She was so goddamn beautiful, sitting in the sun in a wide-brimmed hat, glinting gold, silver, and copper.

My precious metals.

She raised her hand, palm out. Tennis-speak for I’m sorry.

I raised my hand back. I’m sorry, too