Monica is red-faced and panting as she lunges for a net shot. Before I can stop myself, I don’t smash her return but lob it back, giving her a chance. She wins the point. I check in with Milo but unlike Kominsky, who’d pace and throw up his hands and shake his head, he remains still and expressionless behind his aviators. I head to the baseline, fiddling with my strings and scolding myself. It’s like I’d rather play fair than win. For the remainder of the game I’m stiff with nerves, knowing there’s something in me that would rather be liked, rather be ‘nice’, than smash my opponent.
After I lose the game I lock myself in the toilet. Kominsky was right.
When I emerge, Milo says, ‘Fail once, try again twice. Besides, you went to a tie breaker three times. It was close. And that’s because your ball toss has improved, making your first serve more consistent. Failure makes you smart, Dampfnudel.’
‘No matter how good my ball toss gets, I’ll never win because I don’t have a killer instinct. Even thinking those two words makes me cringe.’
Milo cocks his head, his eyebrows raised. ‘Did no-one explain that this is a game, not a war? It tests three things: your skills, your fitness and your mental toughness, not your kill rating. Improve these three things and you never have to think those words again.’
‘There’s a difference between a killer instinct and mental toughness?’
‘Of course. One means smashing your opponent into the ground until you beat the game out of them, the other means staying strong and believing in yourself even when your opponent is trying to smash you into the ground. Remember that two-inch version of yourself on your shoulder?’
The one shouting I’m not good enough. As I follow Milo to the court where Colt’s playing his second-round match I realise Kominsky was right about winning being about the mind game. But he never explained that there are different ways of playing the mind game.
Colt’s match has started. He’s buried inside himself, barely changes expression, and never checks in with Milo. Powerful strokes make him a threat, but the number 9 seeded German applies enough relentless pressure that Colt cracks and loses his match.
It’s October. Neither of us can reach the quarter-finals in our singles tournaments. How can we hope to win the mixed doubles Grand Slam in three months?
When my cab arrives home the Welcoming Committee, including Jacob, waits in an excited line. I hug Mum first, the familiar smell of dog and disinfectant making my nose twitch. Aria jams me into a hug next. Her oversized hooped earrings dig into my cheek.
Jacob pulls me into his usual rough hug. I poke him in the belly so he lets go, but he wrestles me into a headlock. As he rubs his knuckles against my head, he whispers, ‘I missed you,’ his lips on my skin. My body quivers. He’d sent me a billion texts, but between matches, training and schoolwork, there was little time to reply to all but a few.
We gather for a family meal – Jacob is family. As usual Aria reclaims Dad by having him play a duet on the piano with her, her arm slung around his neck as she shows off. She and Jacob talk excitedly about the Con audition next month, but under the table, Jacob’s bare feet cover mine.
‘Who’s for Cluedo?’ asks Mum.
‘Only if you use your French accent,’ I reply.
Mum twirls an imaginary moustache with her fingertips. ‘Mais oui, mon petit chou-fleur.’
‘Gotta go,’ says Jacob, laying down his cutlery and scraping back his chair in one movement.
‘You sure?’ says Mum. ‘Aria’s been baking something special.’
‘Meeting up with the band at Mad Dog’s house, but I’ve always wanted to ride a motorbike while eating biscuits.’ One hand collects three biscuits from the wire tray on the kitchen counter. ‘Thanks, ladies.’
‘What motorbike?’ I slap my hands on the table, but Jacob scarpers out the door. I look at Dad, inspecting his reaction.
‘Parents bought it for him,’ jumps in Aria. ‘To make up for missing his band’s gigs.’
‘But didn’t they only just buy him a Jeep? You know, the one he bought to match ours? The one he barely uses?’
Aria shrugs. ‘And don’t forget the music studio.’
‘The same rules apply as before – no riding motorbikes,’ says Dad, through a sigh. ‘I wish they’d restrict bike licences to the over twenty-fives.’
‘Why are you so against them again, Dad?’ asks Aria.
‘You kids seem to think you’re invincible on them – they’re not pushbikes. It takes maturity to ride one safely and responsibly.’ I think of Colt and his motorbike.
While the three of us play Cluedo, Aria keeps interrupting by calling for Dad’s feedback as she plays her audition pieces on the violin – the same piece over and over twenty-five times before the next one, again twenty-five times. Never any fewer, never any more. That’s when she’s most contented, lost in her world – creating music as if she’s knitting her own happiness.
Later, the roar of a motorbike’s engine brings me back from the brink of sleep. Dad’s warning fully wakes me. I sit up, suddenly anxious. I’m fooling around with my sister’s ex-boyfriend, he’s riding a death machine, Colt’s become scarily moody, and Kominsky was right about me being too soft. Can Milo really fix me?
Something’s shifting again, the kaleidoscope turning, but the pattern it’s creating is darker, more complicated than before. I’m suddenly cold with anticipation, but not the good kind; more like being inside a thriller movie and suspecting the villain is around the next corner.
Following our performances at the China Open, Milo puts us through rigorous strength and fitness sessions. He believes in weight training and sprint work. We race 100 metres in under fifteen seconds with the remainder of the minute to rest, and then we do it again. Twenty times. Another day, it’s 400 metres repeated ten times.
At the end of each session I can barely press the accelerator pedal on the Jeep I share with Aria – Dad insists I drive myself to training now. Exhausted, I drop into bed by eight each night, leaving Jacob smiling wistfully goodnight.
Whatever was happening at home must have improved for Colt because he’s much happier again. We play the mirroring game every day until Colt is retying my shoelaces and I’m massaging his aching right shoulder without thinking about it. We complete five-kilometre runs through the park – our legs tied together in a three-legged race. We play tennis, one of us blindfolded to force us to use our senses, the other giving directions. We swim in the local fifty-metre pool, not merely forty laps, a self-imposed limit with Kominsky, but a hundred. Running five kilometres is no longer enough and the runs evolve into half marathons.
As doubles partners we’re more relaxed – not surprising when we spend half the time tied together. I’m no longer embarrassed when we trip over in a pile of limbs during a three-legged run, or lie next to each other, panting and groaning with the effort of pulling air into our lungs. Colt’s also stopped scouring me as if I’m something to judge or decode. Instead it’s Colt and me against Milo, straining to survive his tests.
Two weeks after we return from China, Milo invites Colt and me for dinner at his house. We arrive at the same time, Colt on foot, and me in the Jeep. It’s weird seeing Colt wearing something other than tennis clothes and he’s hot, hot, hot in jeans and a black V-neck tee that stretches across his chest and accentuates his shape. I’d ignored Aria’s suggestion of a dress and gone with jeans and a white T-shirt, but I tonged my hair straight and left it down.
Colt waits for me to park and we climb the steps to Milo’s front door together. Milo answers the doorbell, waving a blindfold.
I lean against the doorframe and groan. ‘Do you ever let up?’
‘I’m good,’ Colt says, taking it. ‘I can eat blindfolded.’
Milo chuckles. ‘But can you cook blindfolded?’
‘Sure,’ Colt answers. ‘Just don’t gag me as well.’
&nbs
p; Milo’s house is an original timber cottage on the outside, but inside he’s let someone who knows what they’re doing renovate and decorate. The back of the house is made entirely of glass windows and it’s furnished with plush rugs and wall-sized modern art. It’s not as messy as I expected of a rock star tennis coach, even if it smells of old cheese and garlic. Milo pours juice at the white granite-topped island bench and takes a seat on a black leather bar stool.
‘What am I cooking?’ asks Colt as I tie the blindfold.
I assess the mincemeat, pasta, tomatoes, onions, fresh basil, garlic and oregano. ‘Spaghetti, I think.’
‘Great. That I can do with my eyes closed.’
Milo and I make surprised faces at each other. ‘Is this something you haven’t told us about yourself, Colt? You can cook?’ asks Milo.
‘I’ll answer after you’ve eaten.’
‘Juice.’ I nudge Colt with the glass. ‘When you’re ready, take two steps forward and reach to pick up the knife on a chopping board.’ He sips the juice and stretches to put it down. I take it before it misses the benchtop. ‘Is this honestly helping us work as one on the court?’ I ask Milo.
‘Doubt it. Entertaining, though.’
‘Seriously?’ I pass Colt the tomatoes, but he requests the onion first. He slices each end off then peels it.
‘Is all the skin off?’ he asks, before expertly slicing it.
‘I’d have fingertips as a tasty addition to the meal by now. How’d you do that?’ Jacob can barely use the toaster, never mind slice onions blindfolded.
Colt’s biggest challenge is stirring – he keeps missing the pot. I hold the spoon with him to guide it into the sauce. And I help him pour boiling water into the pot for the pasta before he dumps it over our feet. Each time I get close there’s the clean scent of laundry powder and a hint of woody aftershave rather than hot sweat and arnica.
Over dinner, which is divine, we talk about the upcoming Moscow tournament Milo and I leave for tomorrow, followed by another week at a Singapore event. Milo delivers a list of instructions for Colt. He’s found Colt a hitting partner, merely number 60 in the world, to help Colt prepare for a series of Futures and Challenger events in Australia – lower level tournaments compared to the World Tour. They pay less and award fewer ranking points, so it’s weird he’s targeting them.
‘Why aren’t you entering the men’s event in Moscow, Colt?’ I ask.
Milo lays a knife and fork on his scraped-clean plate and answers for him. ‘Not this time.’
Colt gets up for a second helping as big as the first.
‘Now, Harper.’ Milo sips from a glass of red wine. ‘I want you to think about someone or something – maybe a memory, a dream, or a place – that immediately calms you. It has to be something so potent it cuts through your nerves on court. Take some time to get it right because this will become a powerful weapon in your mind game.’
I don’t hesitate. Purple Time. It’s the Purple Woods when they blossom in springtime. It’s everything the woods make me feel because of the memories they house.
‘I’ve got it,’ I say, triumphant.
‘Already?’ says Milo. ‘But when you think about it, what does it feel like?’
‘A warm blanket wrapping around me while I snuggle on the deck on a winter’s morning. Or banter at the breakfast table on a lazy Sunday when I know, deep down, how fortunate I am to be totally loved and it makes my heart explode. It’s being with my dogs, Venus and Adagio – always ready to play, to live in the moment and love life.’
Colt stops eating. He lowers his fork and regards me in a ‘light bulb moment’ way.
‘What?’ I ask.
A smile tilts his lips, but he starts twirling more spaghetti.
‘Does it feel like slipping into a warm bath after a hard training session?’ asks Milo.
‘Yes, that too.’
‘Perfect. It has the “warm bath” effect. It’s the right memory.’
I insist on washing up and Colt stays near, discussing the current Shanghai Masters. When I’m done he points out the dishwasher he’s leaning against. ‘Even blindfolded I knew it was there.’
I flick water at him and he tickles me until I’m a ball on the floor begging for mercy. He picks me up, still balled up, and dumps me on the chocolate-brown leather sofa where Milo has switched on the coverage of the Masters.
‘Now you can appreciate the reason for making you cook blind,’ says Milo.
I frown. ‘We can?’
‘My pig whistles, Colt. You’ve upsized the child in you.’
Colt rolls his eyes and sprawls next to me, brushing his knee against my leg. It’s the first time we’ve spent together not on a training session since the paddleboarding afternoon, and compared to then, we’re more relaxed – friends even. We study the tennis, commenting on defects, strengths and styles, and Milo passes out ice-cream. Colt declines.
‘A little bit of naughtiness now and again is okay,’ says Milo. But Colt’s fixed to the screen, elbows on knees, as Ramesse serves for the match. Ramesse somersaults his racquet when he beats Dominic Sanchez. Colt relaxes back into the sofa, satisfied that the lower-ranked player won.
Milo gets up from his armchair to use the toilet.
‘Sure you don’t want some?’ I say, wafting my cone near Colt’s mouth. I’m not sure why I do it, perhaps to get his attention; I touch the ice-cream to his nose, leaving a blob behind. Colt smirks, wipes the splodge away, licks his thumb clean, but otherwise ignores me. So I dab the ice-cream against his lips. Before I can pull away he grabs my wrist and rubs an ice-cream-covered mouth over my cheek and neck. I shriek, taking in the rough prickle of his five o’clock shadow and how powerful his body feels as I fail to push him away. Holy muscles.
He settles back on the sofa, smug, and I stop myself from doing it again.
I clean up with a napkin and lick the lopsided ice-cream into shape, liking this playful Colt.
He ponders me for a moment. ‘I’ve not seen you with your hair down,’ he says. There’s a message in his voice, but I’m not sure what it is.
Later Milo talks tactics and strategies – how we must know our opponents, when they’ve won and lost, why they’ve won and lost, how we adapt to them. ‘Winning is not only about how well you play, it’s about how well you make your opponent play badly,’ he says.
I offer to drive Colt home. He refuses, but Milo pushes and Colt agrees, begrudgingly.
We drive in silence. He seems overly large for the space. I fidget. It’s awkward, like strangers sharing a too-small elevator. He directs me to a dimly lit retail car park next to a railway station with trains screaming through it.
‘You live in a car park?’ I tease, pulling into a space.
‘Yeah. See those wheelie bins over there – the blue one’s my bedroom.’ But he isn’t smiling.
Two leather-jacketed guys cross in front of us. Colt’s tense and alert, and draped in shadows as we touch on part of a hidden truth. Milo says to wait until he’s ready to share. I scour the shabby neighbourhood to find clues into his world and remember how Colt said he envied me.
His stare ambushes me.
I straighten. ‘You’re a great cook, even blindfolded. I’ve never seen basil chopped that small.’ Colt’s belly laugh rolls around the car.
‘You admire my basil-chopping skills,’ he says, between chuckles. His eyes brim with laughter and it makes my heart strut. ‘You’re a good friend, Harper. An unexpected friend, but a good one.’
The idea thrills me. To make friends with Colt, someone who doesn’t appear keen on many human beings is – big, important. Special.
‘You’re a good friend, too,’ I say.
‘You enjoy covering me in your food, though.’
‘I do?’
‘Green gunk in Cincinnati. Ice-cream tonight.’ He leans in and k
isses me, chastely, on the cheek. ‘G’night. Thanks for the lift.’ I clutch the steering wheel while he unfolds long legs to exit the car.
‘See you in two weeks,’ he says, ducking back in. ‘Good luck. You can beat this first-round jinx. I’ll be watching you online.’
He slams the car door. Something inside me crumples a little – I’m going to miss him. He stays on the spot, waiting for me to drive on, and I pull away, tracking his shape as it recedes in the rear-view mirror.
On the drive home I wonder what Milo means when he says Colt has a lot to deal with. I want to know more. I want to help – if I can. I want to be the best friend he’s ever had.
I slam down the plane’s window shade harder than intended, blocking out the sunlight that streams in. ‘You and Colt were close-lipped last night. Why isn’t he coming to Moscow?’
When Milo pretends not to hear, I splay my fingers over the open Jean-Paul Sartre book in his lap. He studies the movie menu screen on the back of the seat instead.
‘Don’t tell me to ask Colt. He never tells me anything. I don’t even know if he lives with his parents, if he works, if he has any brothers or sisters. The stuff on Google is limited to his stats and it still says he lives in Florida. Why the big black hole with him?’
Milo shuts the book. ‘But it’s not for me to tell, is it?’
‘We’re supposed to win the Australian Open mixed doubles together and I don’t know if he suffers from youngest sibling syndrome or if a hereditary family disease causes his mood swings. Yet he’s pretty much familiar with everything about me.’
Milo presses his fingertips together, bending and stretching them so they resemble a pulsing heart. ‘He won’t appreciate me talking out of turn. But I’ll say this: his mother died when he was six. He’s an only child and lives with his dad. And he’s home-schooled, so like you he’ll be late at graduating high school. By the way, he’s catching you up – ranked 172 now.’
‘I’m guessing he’s not coming to Moscow for – financial reasons?’
‘Yes and no. Bit more complicated than that.’ Eyebrows wiggling, Milo re-opens his book. ‘Give it a little longer, and I’m sure he’ll let you behind his game face.’
The Harper Effect Page 8