by Fox Brison
And don’t get me started on fairy stories.
The view outside of concrete pillars and frustrated drivers was as boring as the car inside, and even playing several rounds of Candy Crush was not enough to distract me from my thoughts. Julia abandoned me for the toilets, three Bloody Mary’s deciding they couldn’t wait until we made it home, and after twenty minutes of immobility it was getting to the stage where I was willing to take a risk and turn Kermit into a convertible.
A security guard knocked on the window and I nearly hit my head on the roof. “It’ll be another half hour, miss,” he said with a smile, offering Kermit a reprieve.
“Thanks. Not what you need on a Saturday?” I sympathised. I’d already seen him get an earful from the two cars in front.
“Not what I need any day,” he agreed and moved on and I sighed in relief. I couldn’t stand getting stuck in traffic or on the train. I found it torturous not being able to move until someone else allowed me to.
I hated relinquishing control.
Julia refused point blank to travel any real distance with me because she knew, as sure as the rain would fall at some point during Wimbledon fortnight, that I’d drive fifty miles out of my way simply to keep moving. To never sit still. She put it down to me having ADHD when in fact it was a manoeuvre to avoid down time when my thoughts would overtake the focus I needed for driving.
Right now I needed to address my growing attraction to Emma if I had any hope of working effectively with her.
I did a bit of detective work after our last session, which I justified with the fact that as my psychologist Emma was demanding entry into my soul. Quid pro quo Ms Myers, sprang to mind. That made me wince. I sounded like Dr Lecter on helium. So, the facts, as I gleaned them via the internet, were brief and concise. Emma Myers was a thirty-six year old Cambridge graduate who rowed for Great Britain at the Sydney Summer Olympics (and won gold, she kept that quiet) when she was still a teenager, just, one of the youngest women ever to do so. Her stature was perfect for it. Tall, broad shouldered and legs that stretched for a mile towards the heavens. I smiled at the thought of Emma’s legs imagining them wrapped tightly around my waist as she begged for release. Holy moly, just the facts Georgy, I chastised my wandering mind.
There wasn’t any reference to her rowing career after Sydney, only that she graduated with honours and went on to do a doctorate in psychology and sports science before starting her own private practice in 2012. Her website was elegant and understated, rather like the woman herself, a short bio, contact details, along with a sample of her methodology and an eloquent mission statement.
I couldn’t find any personal details - though not through the want of trying.
I started on Facebook using Julia’s account, not because I was some sort of virtual Peeping Tom (although in hindsight I guess it wasn’t that dissimilar) but because I didn’t have a Facebook page of my own. The truth of the matter was that the only people I was interested in ‘keeping up’ with were all on my whatsapp list.
I certainly had little interest in knowing that Mike Collins from Chepstow, an acquaintance of my friend’s second cousin’s manicurist, was just about to board a plane to Malaga.
I didn’t find any mention of Emma having a husband or partner. Perhaps like me she was a very private person, but it gave me pause for thought, especially because what Julia said earlier was playing on an infinite loop in my mind.
What if I did only want what I couldn’t have?
And so, sitting in my camper van surrounded by angry motorists, I began to compartmentalise Emma Myers, my reaction to her and vitally, how it all fit into the future of my game. It didn’t take me long to conclude the only logical thing I could do was to stop with the silly fantasies and concentrate on getting my career back on track. I had no relationship with Emma Myers apart from a professional one, and that’s the way it would stay. My life had already been blighted by controversy I couldn’t suffer another one by becoming lost in an adolescent lustful haze.
“Do you fancy having a movie night when we get home?” Julia asked when she returned from the toilet.
“Huh?” I replied my mind still preoccupied.
“Do you want to watch a film when we get home?” she reiterated.
“Sounds good, so long as it’s nothing depressing.”
“That narrows down our choice a bit.” Julia laughed. “Most lesbian films make Sophie’s Choice seem like Bridesmaids!”
Chapter 20
Georgia
BEEP, BEEP, BEEP.
“Noooo!” I howled, burying my head under the pillow. The movie night had turned into a bit of a marathon, so Julia and I didn’t make it to bed until well past two am. “It can’t be six-thirty already!” Barely opening my gritty eyes, I fumbled around on top of my bedside locker for the offending object that had interrupted not only one of the most pleasurable dreams I’d ever experienced, but possibly the most inappropriate as well. After first finding the bristles of my hairbrush, and then the cold cup of tea Julia had sent me to bed with, I eventually found my phone and frantically pressed every inch of screen to stop the incessant beeping.
Finally, after silencing the pre-set alarm, I stretched and lazily ran my right hand down the full length of my body, appreciating the effects my new exercise regime was having on my physique. My hand came to a stop at the top of my Calvin Klein tight white boxer briefs where it loitered.
I bit my bottom lip.
Slowly tracing my fingertips along the embossed elastic, they snaked their way inside. A low moan escaped my lips as my fingers hungrily slipped into slick folds and arching my back I began gently feathering my clitoris. The dream had been so vivid most of the work was already done, I was merely adding the finishing touches.
It didn’t take long.
My whole body tensed and I came - hard. Not normally so primed and ready I felt like I was walking a turned on tightrope. Running my left hand through my shortened hair, I waited until I’d relaxed enough to reclaim my right one, the tremors continuing long after they generally did. I closed my eyes and quickly snapped them open again.
Shit. After everything I said yesterday… one wet dream later and it’s forgotten.
***
I had a busy day planned and it started with a long run, just the thing when the endorphins were already pumping from my early morning wake-up call. I knew I could have taken the morning for myself, after all it wasn’t as if David was monitoring my every move, but I felt guilty even thinking about it. He was putting a lot of faith into me getting out of this slump and I wouldn’t repay it by being a lazy cow.
My footsteps thumped along the quiet country lanes. The hedgerows were just starting to turn green and the fresh smell of spring was in the air, the March rain washing the grime of winter away and bringing everything to life. In the distance the village church bells rang out their morning welcome, and the sparrows and thrushes warbled out in joy as they tweeted and twittered. There weren’t many cars about, not yet anyways, but give it another half hour or so and the usual assortment of faithful worshippers (of both the credit card and the church) would be making their way to the nearest house of worship.
The rhythmic pounding helped to clear my thoughts and prepare me for the coming day. It was my alone time, the time when serenity overpowered the usual anxiety I held in abundance: about my game; about my parents; about my life in general.
Today, however, there was a subtle shift and I felt lonely rather than alone.
“I shouldn’t have… this mor… ning…. should… have kept… my hand away…” I gasped. Normally orgasms felt good, even if they were self-induced. This morning’s had simply left an empty ache, one which couldn’t be filled by bird song and the waking sun.
Another wave of loneliness enveloped me, this one so acute it hurt.
I ran up the short drive to my house as if I were being chased by a psychopathic serial killer rather than my own shortcomings. I didn’t stop to see if Julia was awake, or e
ven alive, I just grabbed my kit bag and headed for the tennis club. Surely an hour smashing tennis balls at Adam, the smug prick who arrogantly called himself a pro, would make me feel better?
Apparently not.
***
To my utter surprise, David was there. “What are you doing here?” Aren’t you supposed to be concentrating on the next generation of superstars?” I said without the usual bitterness that normally accompanied such a statement.
“I just thought I’d pop down and check how you were getting on. Maybe watch you hit a few balls with Adam. Or rather, watch you hit a few balls at Adam.” He raised his eyebrows knowingly at me.
Yeah, Adam was an idiot, so a few balls in the head wouldn’t make any difference.
He knew very little about tennis, but a whole lot about sweet talking middle aged women who not only had more money than sense, but delusions that their little Jack or Jessica was going to be a future Wimbledon champion.
So the boss wanted to watch me hit a few balls with Adam? Yeah that made me happy. “It might be waste of time, David, I don’t know how many balls Adam is going to actually hit.” I called, watching yet another ball whizz past his outstretched racket and bounce off the back wall. I smiled sweetly then hit a few tame drop shots. I couldn’t have telegraphed them any better, I even told Adam exactly where I was going to play the last one, but he still failed to reach it.
“You could have been a bit easier on him,” David chided after we’d finished.
“And how is that supposed to help my game?” I asked, flinging the towel I was wiping myself down with onto the bench, and David raised his eyebrows in warning. The sports centre was busy, so I kept my tone low and even. “Coach, I wasn’t going hard on him. Maybe he’s too used to working with kids.” I stretched my left leg out in front of me preparing to cool down, but I hadn’t actually built up much of a sweat. This was proving a frustrating day in more ways than one.
“You need to concentrate on the mental, not the physical aspects of your game. I designed the work you do with Adam merely to keep your timing in gear.” He held up a hand as I started to protest. “I know, George, I know. So? Do I have to ask or are you going to tell?”
“Not much to tell.” I knew we were no longer talking about my tennis, but about Emma and my head shrinking.
“But do you think-”
“David?” I said a touch incredulously. “I told you when I spoke to you on Monday it was going okay. Not much has changed.” I spun the tennis racket in my hands. “I’m being positive at the moment, trying not to run whenever things get intense. That’s a start, isn’t it?” I was seeking confirmation from my coach, affirmation that he could see I was at least making an effort. Feeling a chill in the air, I pulled on a soft and well-worn sweatshirt. Peterborough may not have had air conditioning, but Cambridge had no such qualms about the cost.
“It is,” David agreed. I stood up and stretched, a pose he’d seen me strike a million times before, ever since I was a five year old and played my first ever match in Ipswich. “You’ve always had a confidence and a natural swagger, even at an early age, George. It’s the attitude of a winner, of someone who not only knows they are good, but who loves the game. And your talent. God if some of the girls I coach now had half of your ability I’d have a stable full of slam champions and could retire a happy man.”
I think David wanted to say more, but his tongue was held firmly in place by the pain he saw in my eyes. It wasn’t like me, I was usually incredibly guarded with my emotions, pundits and commentators likened me to a robot on the court. I rarely got angry, nor did I give the ubiquitous ‘come on’ and fist pump when I won a particularly tough point. And my fitness was off the charts - I could run for longer than an atomic clock.
“I guess it’s not a total loss practising with Adam,” a smile spread across my face, “at least I don’t have to fetch the balls myself!”
“Us men do have some uses,” he nudged my shoulder and I laughed.
“David, thanks. I don’t say it nearly enough, but thank you. I know you took a huge risk on me and I promise I’ll do everything I can to pay you back.”
“I know we had a deal, Georgy, but I’m being serious now. I want you to realise your potential, for you. Not for me. Not for my academy. For you. If you turned around now and said ‘David, I want to quit and walk away’ I would support you one hundred percent. The whole teaching proposition thing was the stick rather than the carrot. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have painted you into this corner.”
“Don’t be sorry. Emma Myers might be the best thing to happen to me in ten years. Fate is generally a bastard, but this time, I don’t know, I have a good feeling about it.”
***
Driving over to Emma’s, I had a slight smile on my lips. I liked David, despite our acrimonious fallout at my father’s fiftieth birthday party. In some ways he reminded me of my childhood Labrador Charlie. Charlie had this expression on his face whenever I was eating any type of chocolate bar - or eating anything in general.
Hope.
Now if only I could stop fantasising about Emma, that hope might not be forlorn
***
I made it to the clinic right on time, yeah just call me Goldilocks, and was ringing the bell dead on noon. “Come right through, George.” I heard Emma’s tinny voice through the intercom. There was a click and I was allowed entrance a damned sight easier than the last time I’d tried to get in. I went for smart casual again today and wore a pair of khaki chinos with gladiator sandals and a fitted white t-shirt. “You’ll be sick of the sight of me by the time we finish. Even when you have the day off you can’t get away from me!” Emma said with a chuckle.
“Not at all. I like seeing you.” I heard what I said and cringed. No matter how hard I tried or how many times I told myself it was ridiculous, whenever I was around Emma Myers I sounded like a love sick puppy! “It was quite the coincidence though. Thousands of people shopping in Cambridge and we bump into each other. I hope you didn’t mind me saying hello?” I managed a little less gooey eyed.
“Of course not, don’t be silly,” she said brusquely. “Now did you get time to complete the homework I gave you?”
“Yeah.”
“How did you find it”?
“Oh I enjoyed watching the first half, God I’d forgotten how easy it all was back then. The last few matches, ehh,” I waggled my hand, “not so much.”
“Okay so I want you to try and use a bit of disassociation, tell me about the player you watched. We’ll call her Anne Other.”
“Anne Other? Can’t we call her Annette Curtain” I smiled and Emma quickly took up the baton.
“Or indeed Rose Bush if you’d prefer?” We both laughed, but our shared ridiculous sense of humour didn’t deflect Emma for long. “Right so I’ll put the highlights on and this time we can analyse them together.” She picked up her laptop and moved it onto the coffee table. I don’t know if it was because she was wearing trousers rather than a skirt, or it was simply because I was paying more attention to such things, but her legs looked even longer than they usually did. We began watching and I think I was doing a fair job of keeping my cool and looking at myself with an unbiased eye. We were still at the part where I was winning, so that made it easier. In fact, it was going extremely well until Emma started prodding about coaching techniques.
I swallowed.
It was going to be a long hour if I had to start talking about my mother.
“Don’t you think Anne’s a bit on the safe side? She’s not going for her shots, she never finds the line.”
“No.”
“I wonder why her coach has her so controlled?”
“To get the best out of her.”
“So you think Anne’s coach is getting the best out of her?”
“She’s winning, so I guess she must.”
“George, is there a reason your mother didn’t resume her role as your coach when you returned to the game?” I immediately tensed at the qu
estion. Emma flipped a couple of pages whilst I wrestled with myself; she pretended to read something, even though she was totally focussed on my reaction, or rather the lack of one. She remained silent, but watched a million different emotions playing tag in my eyes. This was another crossroads. If I was serious about getting back on track, I needed to be honest.
Well relatively.
“She’d moved on and so had I.” About two weeks after my life had fallen apart, my mother landed another role as the coach of Laura Hargreaves my nemesis. Julia, Laura and I journeyed through the junior ranks together. Once Julia had even thrown a water bottle at Laura and blackened both eyes. That was possibly the beginning of the end for Julia’s tennis career. Could I be honest? If not with Emma, but with myself?
Yes it fucking hurt when my mother barely let the next nine day wonder blanket the internet before signing on with Laura. It hurt even more when my father joined ‘Team Maskel, the Hargreaves Years.’
“Did you talk to her about your comeback, did she offer you any advice? She may not be your coach but she’s still your mother.” Emma was still pushing for the answer I’d only just admitted to myself.
“Emma, I’m not ready.”
“Try, Georgy, please, you’ll have to open up about it sometime, and I’m not sure how far we’ll get if we don’t get past this. You don’t want to let it fester because then it will just explode out of you, leaving you with no control.”
“Like it did in Dubai?”
“Dubai? What happened in Dubai?”
