i don’t have a katie, he replied before I’d made it back to the gym.
Pity. She’s pretty great.
not answering my question
You didn’t ask one. I slumped down beside my bag and leaned against the wall.You know I’m busy, right?
sure
Silence. I dropped the phone and tried to focus on stretching rather than imagining Miles hastily trying to organise his own cheap accommodation, as amusing as it was. I failed, and when the phone vibrated again, I immediately looked up.
i’m just going to pretend i have a katie
I didn’t answer. For all his questions, the chances he was serious were vanishingly slim and I couldn’t afford to waste time thinking about it.
A whole hour passed without another message, then when I was leaving the tournament grounds for the day, he said:outside the pickup range? seriously?
I shoved the phone into my bag and didn’t take it out again until I was back in my room, had showered and heated up food.
mat?
mat how tf you get in from there?
mat!
Fucking chill! I manage, all right?I wrote back, shoving dried-out microwave dinner into my mouth.There’s a court and a gym nearby. And taxis. I’m sure you’ve heard of those.
yeah i figured that out
Then stop bugging me and piss off
too late
I stared at the screen, but no further message came. Not then, not after I’d finished eating, not even while I scrolled through his social media for some hint of where he was. His last post was from Paris, but a quick search found he’d pulled out of the Stuttgart Open. Next on his calendar was the Queen’s Club Championships—the precursor to Wimbledon—which meant he was probably on his way to London.
London, where he absolutely wouldn’t be staying anywhere but in a very fine hotel close to the tournament.
THE MACHINE LAUNCHED another ball with athwumpand I ripped it back, sending it slamming into the wire fence around the edge of the court. I’d been drilling for an hour and my mood wasn’t improving. With each ball, I tried to imagine I was smashing my doubts one by one, but the chant of them only grew louder.
You were never cut out to be pro. You should never have come out. Hard work isn’t enough. You’re wasting your time. Even if you get somewhere, you’ll just have another accident.
Losing was getting harder. It was just part of tennis, even for the world number one, but a loss on the back of many wins was easier to swallow. After four years, my losses were stacking up like straws on the proverbial camel’s back and I wasn’t sure how long I had until I broke.
I had fucked up my second match in Nottingham. Had choked, every shot sailing long and pulling wide like in that final set againstMiles, leaving my whole career flashing before my eyes. I seemed destined to keep making the same mistakes and couldn’t let it go. Now, I had ten days until the start of Wimbledon’s qualifying rounds, and I needed to be ready.
By the time I called it quits, I was sweating a river. Thankfully, it wasn’t far back to the apartment, and while I walked, I sent my coach the videos I’d taken so he could tell me what I was doing wrong.
The apartment Katie and I had taken in London was tiny – two cramped bedrooms with faded wallpaper, a bathroom the size of a cupboard, and a central lounge with a brown laminate kitchenette. For now, I had the space to myself, and so dropped my bag in the middle of the lounge room’s worn carpet. As I pulled off my shoes, my phone buzzed.
Scrunchie
guess i have a katie after all
He’d attached a picture of a scruffy grey cat curled up in a bolt of sunshine.
Cute, but I bet mine is a better hitting partner, I wrote back, before dropping my phone on the bench and heading for the shower.
When I eventually dragged myself back out, my phone was vibrating. It stopped as I snatched it up, the screen registering a missed call from Miles and several messages.
