Team Player 2: A Sports Anthology

by Paige, Rochelle

  “Who cares?” Daisy cried. “Did you really just say that to me?”

  I sucked in a breath, striving to remain calm. “I’m sorry. That’s not what I meant. But I’m working to be a better man. For you. But you’re not even going to try?”

  “I am trying—”

  “Not hard enough.”

  “Because it’s just that simple?” Daisy said tearfully. “All I needed was the love of a good man to cure me? You think you just fixed all my problems with your magical dick? Sorry to break it to you, but trauma isn’t cured that way.”

  “Magical dick? We haven’t even slept together,” I retorted. “And I don’t expect that you’d be cured. But I did expect that you would make an effort.”

  “I’m trying,” she said. “But just thinking of being without Keanu at my side during the day is bad enough. I can’t sleep alone. And if I sleep with you and a night terror comes? What then?”

  Her incredible eyes were alit with genuine fear. The night of the break-in was right there, on the surface, and my anger melted away, leaving only how much I cared about her. Above all else, I wanted her to be okay. Happy. She deserved that.

  “I’ll help you through it.” I moved closer to her, my voice softer. “Daisy, I’ll help you through it. I want to help you…”

  She shook her head, tears filling her eyes. “I don’t want to chance it, for your sake. They’re bad, Kai. Really bad. You need sleep. Rest. You need to play your best. You don’t need to be dealing with my crap in the middle of the night during the most important tournament of your life.”

  “It’s not important—”

  “It is. It’s where you show the world what you can do without all the pain and anger getting in the way. You don’t need me for that either. I didn’t cure you. I’m not your good luck charm. Play because it’s already in you. It has nothing to do with me.”

  “It has everything to do with you.” I slipped my hand over her cheek. “Let me help you. Let me try.”

  She shook her head, dislodging the tears in her eyes so they spilled over, down to my hand. “I don’t want to mess this up for you,” she whispered. “Not when you’re so close.”

  She stepped away, and I let my hand drop.

  “So that’s it.”

  “I’m doing my best,” she said. “It’s all I can do. It’s all anyone can do. I’m sorry.”

  I stood, my hands empty, watching as she walked out the door and shut it behind her.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Rod Laver Arena

  Melbourne, Australia

  Kai

  “You still ready?” Jason asked as I prepared for my walk down the hall that would lead from the locker room to the main court at the Australian Open. A player had to make the walk alone, carrying their own gear, no one there to help.

  My thoughts went, as they had a hundred times since I landed in Melbourne, to Daisy.

  She should be here.

  But nope. I was on my own. Mum and Jason would be in my box as usual, watching, but the seat reserved for Daisy would remain just as empty as the one where my dad would’ve sat.

  Fuck it. Who cares? Same old story.

  Except the thought wouldn’t catch fire. I missed Daisy like I hadn’t missed any woman in my life. Her gentle hands on my arm, her compassion, her sweetness… They’d left their mark. She’d left her mark on me, and the anger that fueled me for so long felt distant.

  But for how long?

  As usual, the players were randomly divided into two draws. You had to make your way through opponents in your own pool, and if you made it to the final, you’d play the guy who’d defeated everyone in his pool.

  Naturally, Brad-fucking-Finn was in the other draw, meaning I could conceivably play him for the trophy. With no Daisy there to support me, my chances of keeping my cool with that racist arsehole weren’t great. With any luck, he’d be knocked out and I wouldn’t have to worry about it.

  My first-round draw was pretty easy. My opponent was an unranked player who was about to get his first taste of a Major.

  That’s how to get through this. One player at a time.

  “Hey,” Jason said, his hand on my shoulder, jolting me from my thoughts. “She’d be here if she could.”

  “I know,” I said and scoffed. As if I couldn’t give a shit one way or the other. And then my phone, secure in Jason’s pocket, chimed a text.

  He handed it to me, and I read the message there. From Daisy.

  Greetings from the past. (It’s 5pm yesterday here) I hope things are looking good in the future. More than anything, have fun today. I’ll be rooting for you. <3

  Jason caught my smile before I could hide it. Before the ache of missing her swooped in.

  “My advice to you,” he said, taking my phone back, “is to do whatever she said.”

  I put on my headphones and gave Jason the thumbs up as I hauled my bag onto my shoulder. It held all the crap I’d need for the match—extra laces, head and wrist bands, my rackets.

  With every step down the hall, alone but for a cameraman walking backwards, broadcasting me to the stadium, I felt lighter and lighter. Daisy was doing her best. So would I.

  I played against my first opponent like a real tennis player. No fun stuff. No “antics.” I aced him twenty-seven times, hardly cracking a smile as the hometown crowd cheered. I didn’t complain when the ball boy was slow-as-fuck bringing me a towel between shots or when that slowness got me a time violation warning.

  I beat the unranked kid handily, but instead of savoring it or gloating, I kept my head down and mentally readied for the next guy.

  Mum kissed my cheek after that first-round win. “So proud of you, baby,” she said. “But where is your smile? You look like you’re having as much fun out there as you would at the dentist.”

  I shrugged. “Just trying to get through it.”

  “You’re doing great,” Jason said. “Four more just like that, and you’ll wind up with your first Major.”

  Another first, I thought.

  I hoped wherever Daisy was, she was watching and proud.

  * * *

  Over the next week, I defeated two more opponents in my draw. Only Daniil Medvedev, the high-ranking Russian bastard, gave me a real game, but I beat him in a tiebreak that took me to the semi-finals where I faced Gael Monfils.

  The tall Frenchmen was known for his “antics” too—spinning on his heel before slamming home easy lobs. Unlike me, though, Monfils was universally beloved by the crowd, likely for the winning smile that shown white and bright from his dark skin and his friendly, easy-going demeanor.

  He gave me a tough fight, but I prevailed in four sets. We were both dripping with sweat after five hours of battling each other in the Australian heat. When I’d hit the last winner, I’d been too tired to even celebrate.

  “Well done,” Gael said to me at the net in a thickly accented voice while shaking my hand. “Quarterfinals. You got this.”

  “Thanks,” I managed.

  Jason was practically jumping out of his skin. “You’re doing amazing.”

  “I’m bloody fucking tired,” I said.

  “That’s what happens when you play like the prodigy you are instead of tanking after one round.”

  “Hilarious, mate,” I said, rolling my eyes.

  In the Quarterfinal match, I played with the same serious (boring) style against the American, John Isner. Isner was nearly two meters tall, one of three giants in tennis, making him slow but with a killer reach. My usual ploy of acing my way through my service games fell apart; the bastard returned nearly everything. I was down two sets, and in danger of getting bounced if I lost one more. Frustration started to knock on the door—an old friend that always seemed to show up when shit got tough.

  During the changeover, I flopped onto my bench. I started to take a long pull from my water bottle and instead hurled it sideways. It smashed into the side of the ump’s chair making a rainbow arc of water.

  “Hey!” The u
mp bent over the side from up high and waved his arm at me, startled. The crowd made an ooh sound and I felt their energy—that had been solidly with me for the last few rounds—tense up.

  Don’t let it fall apart now, I thought and remembered the peace I’d had on the lanai, in Daisy’s chair, her hands warm on my skin, her soft mouth on mine…

  “That’s a warning, Mr. Solomon,” the ump said. “A generous one at that.”

  “What?” I said, smiling and feigning surprise. “It slipped. I went to take a drink and the bottle slipped.”

  The ump pursed his lips. “It did not slip sideways.”

  “It was an accident,” I insisted, miming taking a drink. “It’s hot out and my hand slipped.”

  He grudgingly laughed, and I did too, and the anger loosened its grip on me and slunk away. For now.

  Meanwhile, I had to change my strategy.

  I didn’t stop trying to slam aces at Isner, but on every shot, I served and volleyed—rushing the net to force angles or drop shots lightly over to his side, making the big man run for his life. It took another four-hour marathon, but I eked out a win.

  I had one day to rest before the semis and thought for sure my elbow would be screaming. It wasn’t.

  Daisy and her voodoo magic.

  I hadn’t had a chance to talk to her in days. Between matches, I slept or worked out, trying to keep my energy up, and not paying any attention to what was happening on the other draw. I did interviews in the booth after my wins, and they all asked me the same thing:

  “You’re playing like a real pro. What’s changed?”

  I ignored the insult imbedded in the question, flashed a smile through the camera, to Daisy, and always said, “Don’t know. Magic, maybe.”

  For the semis, I was running on fumes and I had to face Roger Federer, the #3 ranked player on the planet and the #1 most loved tennis player of all time.

  “Fuck me sideways,” I said in the locker room before the match. “This is going to suck.”

  “Do your best,” Jason said, unable to hide the nervousness in his voice. “Roger is—”

  “A legend? Beloved by all? A GOAT?”

  “All of the above,” Jason said.

  “This is why I never let myself win so many rounds,” I said, forcing a smile. “So I don’t have to play Roger Effin Federer.”

  Jason burst out laughing. “You know what, Kai? Given the way you’ve been playing this Open, if you lose to Roger, you’ll still have won in my eyes.”

  “Jesus, mate, don’t cry on me,” I said and shocked my agent even more by hugging him. “Thanks, Jase. For everything. Now if you’ll excuse me, a legend of tennis is going to hand me my arse on a silver platter. Be right back.”

  But Roger was having an off day. It happened to everyone eventually, even the greats. He hit ten unforced errors in the first two sets alone, helping to put me up 6-4, 6-2. He rallied in the third, and most of that set was just he and I exchanging aces. Roger had one of the best serves in tennis (next to me) and his greatest strength was his unshakeable consistency. He got into a rhythm in the fourth and we were tied two sets apiece.

  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

  Her smile was brilliant then, like the sun coming out from behind a dark cloud. I raced to the rear of the court, toward my box, and jumped up to brace my hands on the ledge in front of Daisy, my legs hanging down.

  Daisy laughed as the crowd around us oohed when I kissed her.

  “You came,” I said, still hanging half off the box. “Did the paperwork for the dog come through?”

  “No.” She touched her fingertips to my lips, her eyes cast down, and then rising to meet mine where I saw in their bronze depths what I meant to her. She took a breath and said, “I realized I was falling in love with you.”

  My arms trembled, and I practically fell back down onto the court.

  “Go,” Daisy said, smiling at my dumbfounded reaction. “You’re going to get in trouble.”

  “Time delay and second violation, Mr. Solomon,” the ump intoned into the mic. “Point penalty. The score is now love-15.”

  “Too late,” I said and kissed her again before jumping back down onto the court to thunderous applause from the crowd.

  She loves me…

  I slowly turned my head in Brad Finn’s direction, a slow smile spreading ove
r my lips.

  The break was over, and we passed each other.

  “Looking over-confident, Solomon, for someone who’s already losing,” he said.

  “Aye, mate,” I said. “This brown boy is going to end you.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Daisy

  “So,” I said, settling back into my chair, a huge grin on my face and Kai’s kiss lingering on my lips. “What’d I miss?”

  Jason laughed and introduced me to Kai’s mom. Antonia Solomon, looked to be in her fifties with graying blonde hair tucked into a neat bun. She told me in her charming Australian accent that she had been a nurse until she had to retire early due to arthritis in her knees.

  “And are you the young lady responsible for the smile on my son’s face?” Antonia asked as the game was set to start.

  I felt warm all over. “I’d like to think so. I can’t stop smiling myself…”

  Antonia laughed and reached across Jason to pat my hand. I noticed she still wore her wedding ring, though Kai’s father was ten years gone.

  I gestured at the scoreboard. “What do all those numbers mean? It looks like Kai is losing.”

  “He is,” Jason said. “He’s down two sets to none. If Brad wins one more set—a set is six games—then Kai is out, and Brad is the champion.”

  I shivered at the words. “But Kai isn’t going to let that happen, right?”

  “He looked about ready to blow it.” Jason fixed a grateful smile at me. “But now I think he’s got a chance.”

  “If he wins, it won’t be because of me,” I said.

  “If he wins it’ll be because he decided to get his shit together and show the world what he can do. And that is entirely because of you.”

  The match was about to start; Kai had the serve. Because of his time violation he was already down a point. Jason explained to me that one more violation and he would lose an entire game. One more after that and he’d lose the entire match.

  “But he seems looser now,” Jason said. “More relaxed. That scowl is gone from his face.”