I nodded, accepting his rule for what it was. I understood it better now – if he celebrated too soon, it might have a knock-oneffect on the drive he needed to win. He was going to have to play the absolute best tennis of his life today, and if he wanted the gentlemen’s singles title, he was going to have to fight for it.
‘I’ve missed seeing you, Ava,’ he said.
‘You’ve seen me. I’ve been at every match.’
‘I know you have,’ he said. ‘But it feels like we haven’t had a moment alone. Not since ...’
I swallowed. He couldn’t seem to say the words either. Not since the night we’d spent in bed together, when I hadn’t been able to sleep, when it had taken every ounce of resolve not to wake him up and saylet’s just do this. Let’s just sleep together and see what happens.He put one hand on my waist, tracing circles on my hip with his thumb.
‘Tell me what you’re thinking,’ he said.
‘You need to focus on your game,’ I replied, glancing out at the stands filling up.
‘You’re right,’ he said, looking over his shoulder. ‘But being with you makes me feel calm. And the less tense I am, the better I’ll play.’
‘Does that mean you trust me enough to tell me your game plan?’ I teased, trying my luck.
‘Is this you with your journalist hat on?’ he asked.
I shook my head, knowing without a doubt that this was not about my article. ‘No.’
‘You really want to know?’
‘I really want to know.’
It probably wouldn’t mean much to me anyway, but I wanted to push him, to see if he trusted me enough, and in turn, whether maybe I could learn to trust him. He was playing the world number three, a French guy called Alexandre Duardin, who had also done his fair share of racquet smashing in his time.
Marcus lowered his voice until it was barely a whisper. I had to move closer to hear him, so close that my body was touching his at several points: at our temples, our shoulders, our hips; my fingers had inadvertently laced through his. A tingling sensation ran down my spine, and I didn’t think it was the anticipation of hearing what he planned to do out on court.
‘Alex will serve big,’ said Marcus. ‘He rarely misses. And his reach is incredible – no matter where I put the ball, he’s capable of getting there.’
‘So how will you beat him?’ I asked, keeping my own voice low.
‘He never has a Plan B. So if for some reason his game isn’t working, he can’t change it up mid-match. So I have to make him feel like his game isn’t working.’
‘How?’
‘I return his serves, no excuses. And if his focus drifts, even for a second, I take advantage. Get him running, keep him on the baseline, press him until he starts making mistakes.’
Extricating his fingers from mine, Marcus stood up straight, ruffling his hair, although there wasn’t so much of it to ruffle anymore.
‘I should probably go and get ready.’
‘I believe in you,’ I told him quietly. ‘Go out there and win this.’
It seemed like the British public might finally be getting behind Marcus, too, as he made his entrance on court. Every single seat in the arena was filled and almost everyone stood as he emerged from the tunnel, looking very different from the man I’d seen enter the court for his first match in Monte Carlo. He’d lost the scowl and replaced it with quiet concentration – his face was softer as he waved at the stands, his lips widened out to form a half-smile, which I thought was the most he – anybody – could manage given the pressure of the enormoustask ahead. My heart began hammering in my chest – I felt nervous for him. I knew how much a win would mean to him. Wimbledon, the world’s most prestigious tournament, was just over a week away and triumphing today would take him one step closer to the ultimate prize. Had everything come together for him at exactly the right time?
Dean was seated next to me, with Patrick and Nick on the other side of him, and there was a tension in the box I hadn’t felt before. As Marcus took his position to serve, I saw him adjust the grip on the handle of his racquet. He looked at Alexandre Duardin for a beat or two, then dipped his eyeline down to the grass, bouncing the ball five times. He’d told me it helped him find a rhythm for his serve, but it didn’t always have to be five bounces, sometimes it was three, or four, or seven.
He delivered a strong serve to the corner of the box. Duardin flicked it back but only just and Marcus ended the point with a flat forehand that went spinning past Duardin, landing just in front of the baseline.Fifteen-Love.I realised I’d rarely seen Marcus hit a ball long – it must be one of the strengths his opponents took into account when they were creating game plans of their own.
He won the first game easily. Alexandre Duardin won the second – I could see what Marcus meant about his strong serve. Marcus had to work harder for the third game, but he won it on an advantage point. As the crowd roared, Marcus looked over at our box. It seemed to be Patrick he was searching for, but Dean was the first to his feet.
‘Come on, Marcus! Let’s go!’
I found myself pumping my fist without even realising it.Come on, I mumbled under my breath. I knew it was better to make an early break, particularly if his plan was for Duardin to lose focus and begin to doubt himself. Marcus had to try to break his serve, and the sooner the better.
The crowd were respectfully silent as Marcus took his position behind the baseline, crouching down, swinging his hips ever so slightly from side to side, gripping his racquet with both hands, entirely focused on what Duardin was about to do with that ball.
