‘What was it Nora said last time we had one? That we just need to play one point at a time?’
‘Did she? My mind has gone totally blank.’
I want to say something wise and encouraging, but my mouth is dry and there’s no time anyway. We just need to step up and get this job done.
The winner will be the first to ten, with two clear points. But over the next few minutes, it feels like time itself has been elongated and stretched to an agonising degree. It’s testament to how close this match is that for every point they win, we take the next – and vice versa, over and over again.
We make several stupid mistakes: a double fault by me, a return by Rose so wild that it flies onto the next court. But the clangers they make suggest they’re just as nervous. Until. . . by some miracle, we end up at match point.
The score is 12–11 to us.
One more point. That’s all we need.
One.
Only my legs are like jelly and I feel like I’ve forgotten how to breathe, let alone run.
I serve the ball. Fault on the first. I go again. And we’re in play.
The rally is one of the longest in the match. There are volleys, drop shots, ground strokes that fly high over the net and others that land like the crack of a whip. But when one oftheir players attempts to lob the ball over my head – and fails to get it high enough – I have my opportunity. An overhead smash is the only way to go.
I do exactly what Nora said. Hand in the air, ball above my head, get the timing just right and . . .
I swing haphazardly and miss.
Ifuckingmiss. Again.
I want to scream. To shout and cry.
But I become aware of a scramble and look up to see that Rose has swept in behind me and got her racquet to the ball. It clips the edge of the frame, the most inelegant of shots, if you can even call it that. But the contact is enough to make it float over the net . . . and onto the opposing side.
Only the roar from the terrace makes me fully register what just happened.
Rose drops her racquet. Slams her hand over her mouth.
Walks towards me.
‘Come here, you.’
She slams her arms around me and squeezes me so tight that my lungs almost complain. This was not a brilliant victory. We made a mess of much of it. But none of that matters. Only one thing does.
We won.
We tear ourselves apart and shake hands with the other team, before inviting them in to join us for tea in the clubhouse. Rose leads them towards the terrace, but I find myself walking towards my water bottle, still slightly shaky as I savour my last moments on court.
‘I think you’ve earned this. Unless you want to go straight for the strong stuff.’ Sam is walking towards me across the court, an ice-cold glass of lemonade in his hand.
‘This is perfect,’ I say, taking it from him to take a sip. ‘God, that’s good.’
‘You werebrilliant.’
‘You obviously didn’t see the first half of the match. It wasn’t pretty.’
‘Whatever you did, it was enough to win. That’s all that counts.’
‘But do we know about the other team yet? And whether we’ll get to stay up next year and still play in the league?’
‘Someone got a text about thirty minutes ago,’ he tells me. ‘They lost. So thanks to the win by you and Rose, Roebury Women’s B team will get to play another day next year.’
