Eighteen
Miles C
Goddamn that was so close
what can i say? i’m skilled at losing semifinals
I’m sorry
don’t be. although i was hoping for a more us message than that
Alright, how about commisefuckingrations?
there you go. i feel better already
Miles C
saying goodbye to my roommate. even if she did abandon me
might actually miss this place
Even the shower?
definitely not the shower
Miles C
The worst thing about coming home at this time of year is how fucking freezing it is
isn’t australia warm like all the time? it’s always baking for the open
That’s in summer. Currently it’s 12 degrees and cloudy
don’t make me look up what that is in fahrenheit like a pleb
Omg how many countries do you visit where they use Celsius? Isn’t it like . . . everywhere but the US? That’s a lot of tournaments
no idea what you’re talking about. you must be stuck in a snowstorm
You’re so full of shit
“I think even with the most pessimistic outlook, it’s going to be fine, Matty,” Mum said, bumping my shoulder.
I stared at the spreadsheet open on the screen. I’d spent all morning filling it in, checking, double-checking and second-guessing every estimate. Itlookedlike even if I failed to get past the first round at my next handful of tournaments, I could still afford to take a coach with me to the US. Itlookedlike that wouldn’t evenbe too painful a stretch, especially if I continued to win matches. Still, I gnawed my lower lip.
“Hey.” Mum gripped my shoulder. Somewhere in the distant recesses of the house, the twins were laughing at something, and I envied so carefree a sound. “What are you worried about specifically?”
“Everything?” I said, leaning back in the chair and running a hand down my face.
“Specifically,” she repeated.
I gestured at the screen. “All right, how about going over there and not winning a single match.”
“Okay, let’s see.” She adjusted her glasses, slipping into Serious Business Mode. “Your current ranking can’t drop fast enough to stop you automatically qualifying for Canada, Cincinnati and the US Open, right? Which means as a bare minimum, you’re earning this—” she pointed to one of the columns—“just from the next eight weeks. That means you’re not even going to touch your Wimbledon earnings, even if you take a coach. So, tell me again what you’re worried about.”
“Fucking up and not having enough for next season if I crash and burn.”
She pointed to the entry I’d labelled,Next Season Basics. “You mean the amount you budgeted for right here?”
