The Harper Effect

by Taryn Bashford

  When the umpire calls time, I snap up a racquet. ‘Come on,’ I yell. The crowd shouts their encouragement. Above the ripple of support comes one voice I can’t mistake: ‘Choose to win.’ Colt.

  He’s still on my side. A sense of determination sparks through me. I won’t be another Jamie Jagger in his life. My first serve kicks out an ace.

  ‘You got this.’ Colt again.

  I win each point just to hear him, even running for a drop shot so fast I can’t stop in time and jump over the net. The spectators roar with delight and I give them a quick curtsey, even though I lost the point. Colt’s smile is a performance-enhancing drug. I don’t lose another point, and I win the match.

  Colt wins his game, too, and we’re both in the final qualifying round. Sitting beside each other on an outside court, we wait for the mixed doubles hitting partners Milo has set up.

  To break the ice, I untie my shoelaces, then his. ‘We need some mirroring practice.’

  He glances toward my lips. My pulse quickens as I realise we’re both remembering our exchange about wishing that mirroring included lips. I push through the moment and plonk a shoe on his knee. He beckons for the other one.

  ‘How about your net jump,’ he says, tying my laces. ‘I reckon you’ll make the highlight reel on TV tonight.’ He pats my shoes and I get up to do his. When I stumble forward, he steadies me, his laughter blasting into my ear – he’d tied my shoes together.

  ‘Milo would be proud,’ I say. ‘You’re such a child.’

  When our hitting partners arrive, Colt puts on his game face but can’t help chuckling when they tease us for our calls, smelly Milo and purple child. I remember the bond rope, and we read each other’s movement and energy, firing up when the other needs it, like on the tandem rides. We fist-bump between points, smiling into each other’s faces, somehow slipping back into our easy friendship.

  As we leave the court Colt gives me an approving back-slap. I smile so hard my insides stretch into a smile too. He’s no longer the intimidating stranger I once chucked green smoothie at. And he’s become more than a friend.

  He’s my Purple Time.

  We win our next matches and celebrate entering round one of the main event as wildly as two tennis players at the Australian Open can celebrate: with another training session. Afterwards, Milo goes to meet someone for dinner, leaving us to return to the hotel without him. Hunting for something to say to Colt, I remember Milo’s skeleton in the cupboard about Jagger. Yet another secret. I can’t imagine how Colt would feel if he knew Milo could’ve stopped his dad going on court all those years ago. But it’s not my secret to tell.

  ‘What can you serve but not eat?’ I ask Colt, falling back on joke-telling.

  ‘There’s nothing anyone could serve that I wouldn’t eat,’ he answers.

  ‘Maybe not a tennis ball?’

  ‘Terrible joke.’

  I prod him. ‘Okay, let’s hear your effort then.’

  ‘Why should you never fall in love with a tennis player?’

  Cheeks rushing with colour, I bend to pick up my bag. ‘There are a thousand reasons.’

  ‘Because to them, “love” means nothing.’

  I groan and we walk toward the players’ lounge, needing more cold water. We bat words between us until we find ourselves walking up to Kim at the bar.

  ‘Congratulations. We’re all in the main event,’ she says, raising a wineglass. Her boobs almost pop out of a skimpy minidress with spaghetti straps. ‘Wonder if we’ll end up playing each other, Harper.’ Kim drains her wine and refills it from a half-full bottle. ‘Who would win, Colt?’

  He pours water from a jug on the bar, passes it to me. ‘My doubles partner, of course, but I’m sure it’d be a close game.’

  She sidles up to him, too close. ‘I doubt that. I’d crush her like an empty Coke can.’ I hope she’s joking and laugh into my glass.

  Someone jostles Colt. He straightens and sweeps the room over his shoulder. Dozens of whispering eyes retreat. The players’ lounge is infamous for its gossip-spreading.

  Colt sculls the water, checks his phone, then me. ‘I gotta get out of here. You coming?’

  ‘He keeping you on the straight and narrow?’ asks Kim, already looking over my shoulder for someone else to talk to. She’s a cheetah on the prowl. ‘Don’t you have tomorrow off?’

  ‘Training tomorrow and Colt’s always up at the crack of dawn.’

  Kim kisses us both on the cheek, her breath thick with red wine.

  Colt shoulder-bumps me when we get outside. ‘I’m always up at the crack of dawn? You should be careful how that sounds.’

  ‘Well you were, in Bangkok and Cambodia.’

  He jabs me playfully in the ribs. ‘Yes, but you’re not supposed to know that.’ He’s being light-hearted Colt – the Colt I wish would stay.

  ‘And am I not meant to know how you sleep with your arm across your eyes?’ I mimic him, raising my arm the way he does, and walk straight into someone. I gawp into the face of the men’s number one, Dominic Sanchez. He’s a good-looking Spaniard, cocky, twenty-one years old, and he’s gripping my shoulders.

  ‘Ah, this is the jumping one. She nearly make love to the tennis net,’ says Sanchez. He looks over his shoulder at the six people who make up his entourage. They snigger as he gives me the once over. ‘And the pretty one.’

  ‘Sorry about that.’ I step back, forcing him to let go of me.

  ‘I hope you keep your eyes open during matches, yes? I’d love for you to win and I see more of those lovely legs.’ He ogles my legs, but I’m not sure if I’m more surprised by him or by Colt, who snatches my elbow and pulls me toward the exit.

  ‘Why don’t you chill out and have a beer, Colt Jagger,’ shouts Sanchez. And I’m suddenly pulling on Colt’s arm as he rounds on Sanchez.

  ‘Colt, no. Don’t.’ But he’s strong and drags me with him. ‘The media will say you take after your dad.’

  Colt stops and glares at Sanchez, who’s holding up two palms as though he doesn’t understand what the problem is. His entourage circles him. Arms rigid at his sides, fists bunched, Colt gradually turns away, still eyeballing Sanchez, then strides toward the transportation area.

  ‘He’s an idiot who needs a brain transplant. Not worth it,’ I say as we wait for a car on the pavement. Colt’s eyes crackle; they’re a dark sky full of thunder and lightning.

  ‘He’s lucky I didn’t punch his face for him. How dare he say that stuff when I’m right there.’

  ‘That’s guys for you. They’re slimeballs. And it’s not as if you and I are together.’

  Colt does a double-take at me, then paces up and down like there’s a tornado trapped in his head. Is he jealous?

  ‘Someone left a bag of plums outside my room this morning. Know anything about that?’ I ask.

  ‘Some slimeball, I expect,’ he says, his expression grim. A car pulls up and he yanks open the door, waits for me to climb in, and says, ‘See you tomorrow.’

  He slams the door and stalks away.

  Milo’s a no-show for breakfast. When Colt and I spot each other across the restaurant my heart stands to attention as a shadow passes over his features. He joins me and a waitress refills my coffee cup in an uncomfortable silence. What’s his problem?

  Colt orders ‘the works’ and Kim slopes in, kisses us both on each cheek before dragging herself toward the juice bar for a Virgin Mary hangover cure.

  ‘I think she’s into you,’ I say.

  ‘Too much of a party girl. And spoilt. She’s going to throw it all away – like my dad did.’

  ‘A tennis brat?’ I ask. Colt thumbs his nose and silence spikes between us.

  I fall back on something he’ll always discuss and ask about the Brisbane tournament. He slips into the trap.

  ‘I needed to win,’ he says after he’s told m
e every mistake he made. He taps a spoon on the edge of the table while I devour grape after grape.

  ‘Maybe you should focus less on needing to win and more on the love of winning.’ I cut a grape and half of it jumps off my plate. Ignoring it, he leans on crossed arms on the table, considering the words, and is about to say something when Milo appears next to us. We lurch apart.

  Milo slaps a rolled-up newspaper on the table. ‘Okay. You guys screwed up yesterday. I’ve been doing damage control.’ He unrolls the newspaper, spreading it flat. There’s a photo of Colt launching toward Sanchez with me pulling him back.

  ‘But the press weren’t there,’ objects Colt.

  Milo waves his mobile phone. ‘Nearly every person in the world has a camera in their hip pocket.’

  ‘Shit.’ Colt bangs the table with a balled fist. Our plates rattle.

  ‘It’s bad but it’s not terrible. At least you didn’t hit the guy. Shame you chose the number one player in the world to pick a fight with, though.’

  ‘It wasn’t Colt’s fault. Sanchez goaded him,’ I say.

  ‘Doesn’t matter. Colt, you of all people cannot get caught on camera about to slam your fist into someone’s face.’

  ‘I know, I know, Milo. Okay?’ Colt says, popping his neck. ‘What now? Do I speak to the press?’

  ‘Be prepared for their questions at the next media conference. They won’t care about your match result. You’ll need to stay in control. Don’t do an impression of the Spitfire.’

  Training always cheers Colt up. We go for a run then have some fun dunking baskets. I miss more often than not, but, in spite of everything, I crave the close physical contact with him.

  ‘Let’s hope your aim’s better on court.’ Colt hauls me up after knocking me over. I play the fool, impersonating Kim and Milo playing basketball; to know I’m responsible for making Colt smile is better than holding the key to a treasure chest.

  After another doubles knock-up, Milo rushes us into a cab. ‘Your parents arrive in one hour, Harper.’

  Colt needs a pit stop at a pharmacy and while we wait, Milo turns to me. ‘You’ve had a good effect on him. He’s more relaxed when you’re around. You’re a breath of fresh air – the kind of friend he needs.’

  I peck Milo on the cheek. ‘I need a friend like him too. And you.’

  We tell tennis jokes all the way back to the hotel until Colt announces, ‘Natalie Barbie’s coming into town.’ The cab rolls to a stop. ‘So I won’t make dinner tonight. Promise I’ll have an early night, though.’

  A wrecking ball rams into my chest. Is this how Colt felt when he caught Jacob leaving my room? Colt holds open the cab door for me, smiling. But it’s Natalie who’s putting the smile on his face, not me. I dread to think what he bought at that pharmacy.

  At dinner I choose a seat facing the lobby and watch for Colt over Dad’s shoulder. When I spot him, my heart warps. Colt’s dressed in black jeans and a black cotton shirt, his hand at the base of Natalie’s spine, guiding her outside. He never even turns our way.

  And he’s smiling.

  Unable to stop imagining what Colt might be doing with Natalie, I don’t sleep well – he’s seventeen, girlfriendless, parentless, and doesn’t play his first-round match until the day after mine – he can do what he likes. But when I open my door the next morning I’m surprised to find another bag of plums in the corridor. And my belly does a loop-the-loop when Colt’s waiting downstairs with Mum, Dad and Milo.

  I’m playing Bisera Balakov, world number 41, in the Hisense Arena. Every nerve is taut and twitching. Before I walk into the famous changing rooms, Colt says, ‘When I fractured your cheek and you made the choice to keep playing – that’s when you proved you have the mettle inside you to succeed. Believe it, okay?’

  Colt hugs me and I take the belief with me until I bump into Balakov in the toilets. How is it tennis opponents share changing rooms? That doesn’t happen in any other sport, as far as I know. It’s inhumane. Balakov resembles a bulldog. She’s five years older than me and twice as wide. She eyes me like I’m a blister on her toe.

  The arena is spaceship-like, with sloped rows of spectators reaching to the sky. Giant screens reflect me back to myself as I approach the chairs next to the umpire. Both legs jellify. I take deep breaths to calm the clump of jumping beans inside my stomach. With thousands of eyes on me I feel like the new student who sat down in the wrong classroom.

  Milo and Colt watch me from the player’s box. Next to them Mum shrinks back into the seat and Dad pats her knee. Colt’s stare hooks into mine. He knows I’m feeling swept away by a surging river, about to go over the edge of the falls. I need a rock to hold on to. He blows me a kiss. I lift my racquet to catch it.

  I win each point so that I get to hear Colt’s voice. I kiss the tip of my racquet between each game. And each time Balakov eyes me like she wants to crush me, I return the look. This is a mind game, and this is my game face, which is different from the face I wear off court. If I start to wobble in my self-belief I dig for that mettle Colt mentioned. I compartmentalise Aria and stay inside my tournament box, and when Balakov falls on her butt after I’ve lobbed a ball high and long, I don’t feel sorry for her. When she starts to argue line calls, I know I’ve got this. I send Miss Serbia home in two quick sets and don’t even make it to the media room before a TV crew ambushes me. The interviewer asks if I’m Australia’s new hope.

  No more first-round graveyard for me.

  Colt and I do a light training session after lunch and travel back to the hotel in the people carrier. In the grey afternoon light the car ride is calming after the turmoil of the day.

  ‘Good to see your parents last night?’ Colt asks, sprawling next to me. My mouth dries and without tennis as a barricade I’m aware of how close he’s sitting and can only nod in reply.

  ‘I’m beat,’ says Colt, plugging the silence.

  The two words reboot me. ‘Says the guy who didn’t even play a match today. Late night?’

  Colt beams. ‘Back by ten, Mom. Promise.’

  ‘But were you alone?’ And there’s my stubborn streak.

  Colt whips off his smile and twists to read my face. ‘Yes. I was alone. It’s not like that with Natalie and me.’

  Isn’t that what I said about Jacob and me?

  I should leave it. It’s none of my beeswax, but an enormous part of me is confused. ‘Didn’t look like it when you left for dinner last night. And you talk for hours on the phone. She’s at your house at dawn on Sundays –’

  ‘And she’s a retired tennis professional who has helped me out and, I must add, helped you out, too.’ Colt bangs his head twice on the headrest. ‘She’s a good person. A good friend.’

  ‘What did you buy at that pharmacy?’

  He slaps his thigh. ‘Arnica.’

  Even though I’m poking the tiger with a stick, I can’t stop. Jealousy knots my brain. And there are definitely mixed signals. ‘She’s visiting you at the Australian Open. Seems she wants more than friendship.’

  ‘Maybe you need to learn more about friendship. You have your family here. I have no-one and she volunteered.’ He rubs his palms up and down his thighs. ‘It’s not as if my dad’s going to stop by –’

  My stomach writhes. He’s right.

  The car drops us at the hotel and we enter the lobby in silence. I kick myself. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t think.’ I stride to keep up. ‘I guess I’m a bit jealous.’ The words stick like a pinecone in my throat.

  After a couple of beats Colt stops. His mouth softens when he looks down at me. ‘You can never have enough supporters in that player’s box, can you? And by the way, Natalie’s given you her stamp of approval – that’s not a test many people pass. She thinks you’re good for me. She’s sorry she missed your game, by the way, but she had an appointment.’

  Angry with myself, I dip my chin.

/>   He slings an arm around me, cajoling me toward the elevators. ‘Jealous, huh?’ he says. ‘Friends aren’t meant to be jealous of each other’s friends.’

  ‘I kind of liked being a bit more than friends. But then I’m a walking, talking wrecking ball and I messed it up.’ He removes his arm, presses the up button. ‘Am I allowed to ask why Natalie helps you with your dad if you’re not – into each other? I mean – she’s a saint.’

  Colt chuckles. ‘Saint Natalie. She’ll love that.’ He props up the wall next to the lift. ‘Maybe she can’t let the tennis world go. Maybe she feels she owes my family for helping her out in Florida. Possibly it’s because she understands where I am now – her mom died when she was young, too.’

  The lift doors open and Colt unhitches himself from the wall and follows me inside.

  ‘About that friendship thing,’ I say. Friends don’t look at each other like he looks at me. They don’t blow you kisses. Colt leans against the mirrors opposite, lips pressing together. ‘You know Jacob and I –’

  He pushes off the wall and for a moment I think he’s going to abandon me in there. The doors shut. Ramrod straight, hands balled in his pockets, he mutters, ‘I don’t want to know. I don’t want to talk about it.’ He glares at the ceiling grid.

  ‘Then how will you ever know the truth?’

  ‘I know enough and that stinks.’ He remains in the centre of the rising lift, a rock that won’t be moved.

  ‘But you don’t know anything,’ I shout, fists jammed on hips. ‘And if I wait for you to be ready then the right moment to explain will never come. Did you know Jacob and Aria were involved with each other for two years? Jacob and I – we had to stay just friends because Aria is still in love with Jacob and she gave up her chance to audition for the Conservatorium because of him. She gave up her dreams. Nothing really happened between us because we couldn’t let it happen. A few kisses –’