I’m in a women’s doubles match when Colt loses his first-round game. Milo’s visibly upset.
‘He looked sick when I saw him earlier. Is he ill, Milo? Please tell me because I’m worrying now.’
‘He’s overdoing it. He’s run out of money for food, and he’s not getting enough sleep – the hostel.’ Milo taps at his forehead with a thumb knuckle. ‘I tried to persuade him to share my hotel room. I sent him a takeaway and he lost his temper. Stuff’s going down at home that he won’t even tell me about. But you must remain strong.’ Milo looks at me, taking stock. ‘Don’t let Colt distract you. We need you to keep your ranking up – get you into that Aussie Open.’
For the next few days, Colt goes AWOL but gets as far as the men’s doubles final. I reach the singles final, pointing out to Aria when Milo lets me call her that it’s a Futures tournament, which is less competitive than the pro WTA events. Still, it’s my first ever final on the professional circuit and my heart alternates between freezing with shock and pounding with excitement.
On the day of the final I plonk my gear on the seats next to the umpire and stoop to line up my drink bottles. Something purple catches my eye inside the tennis bag. It’s a sweat towel. I search for Milo and there, next to him, is Colt. Milo said he was sick and sleeping, but he’s here, a baseball cap hiding his face in shadows. A purple towel? It must be from Colt – I doubt he told Milo about Purple Time. I’m tempted to wave the towel, but instead I use it to wipe my neck even though I’m not sweaty.
Each time we switch sides I use the towel. I conjure up Purple Time and stay relaxed and confident, and with the winning point I abandon my racquet and run toward the gate where Milo and Colt wait. They swallow me in their arms and Colt, who appears not to have shaved today, rubs a stubbled chin on my forehead to make me squeal.
Then I’m surrounded by little girls requesting photos and autographs – and there’s no feeling in the world better than winning, than knowing that others look up to me, that I’m someone’s hero.
‘That five-ball bounce before you serve is becoming a bad habit,’ says Milo. He’s riding shotgun as I drive back to Sydney. Colt sprawls in the back, tired and economical with words, but he can’t avoid me any longer.
‘Superstition, not bad habit,’ I reply.
Milo turns the radio down. ‘Dangerous things, because when you don’t or can’t do them, mentally you can collapse.’
‘Tennis players live on superstition,’ says Colt, sounding gritty with exhaustion.
‘Only the ones who need a crutch,’ says Milo.
Colt doesn’t reply. He’s having a text conversation with someone and his phone vibrates annoyingly often. Lara Croft?
I keep glancing in the rear-view mirror, hoping to find Colt watching me. He never does. He rests his head back, eyes closed, but mostly he stares out the window, eyes dead. That kiss has ruined our friendship.
After I drop Milo home, Colt gets in beside me. Even in the dim evening light I can tell he’s shut the shop on chat. But I have a crack anyway. ‘Thanks for the towel.’
Colt switches his jaw from side to side.
‘It was – thoughtful.’
‘It was nothing.’ He draws out a sigh. ‘It was purple. Made sense at the time.’
A pulse of annoyance makes me push on. I’m in the mood for answers. ‘Why’d you stay in a hostel where it’s impossible to rest? You’re winning good prize money now.’
‘I wasn’t avoiding you, if that’s what you’re thinking,’ he replies, surly.
‘Now you bring it up, I think you were avoiding me. After you kissed –’
‘I don’t do girlfriends. They mess – I made a mistake. I’m sorry.’ He rubs flat palms up and down his thighs. ‘And where I stay and how I conduct myself at tournaments is my business. I got emancipated from my dad for good reason so I don’t need you to parent me.’
It’s like he’s slammed a door in my face. But at least I have another clue about his family. Is this what Milo meant when he said Colt had been through a lot?
Shrouded in fury, Colt flicks his head sideways. I want to pat down the ripples of irritation spiking off him, but I get the impression if I touched him he’d open the door and jump out, 50 kph or not.
But I’m angry now. ‘It does concern others – me and Milo. If it’s affecting your game it affects our plan – the agent, the wild cards, sponsors, getting into the Open – it’s not just about you. What is it about you guys and your egos? Share rooms with Milo. Share with me, for Christ’s sake. I think I’ll manage to keep my hands off you, god that you are. And you’re overtraining. You shouldn’t complete Milo’s training and then do more afterwards – do I tell Milo or what?’
He doesn’t reply. We simmer side by side, the silence between us thickening until it has its own form.
When I pull up at his house he jumps out before I’ve fully stopped, snatching his bag. ‘Thanks for the lift and the lecture.’
He enters a darkened house. It’s impossible to imagine coming home from a tournament and finding there’s not a soul to greet me. I ache for him.
After dropping off Colt, I arrive home as Milo calls to announce we have an agent. Dad cracks open a bottle of champagne and Mum cooks a celebratory dinner, but I can’t stop imagining Colt, alone in that dark house, with no-one to share the big news with. I itch to go to him. When Jacob slides his bare feet onto mine under the dinner table, it feels intrusive and I cross my ankles beneath my chair.
The next morning I unravel myself from twisted bedsheets, fib to Aria, who’s already practising scales on the flute, that I’m going training, and drive to Colt’s house in time for breakfast. But half an hour after I’ve parked, I’m still stuck inside the Jeep building up the courage to climb the few steps onto his porch.
Hesitating at a front door that was once sky blue but is now more of a chalky white with light blue streaks, my knuckles pause in mid-air. I don’t need to do this.
The curtains are drawn on the window to the side of the door, but there’s a note, more of a letter, tacked to the inside of one of the glass panes. I squint and make out the words, My Darling Madeline, just as the front door lurches open. Colt fills the doorframe, dark hair tousled, wearing nothing but black boxer shorts. Behind him is the woman from the tennis courts, fully dressed – thank God.
Straightening, Colt glances over his shoulder at her – I was right, she’s a woman, not a girl – then back at me. ‘This stalking is getting out of control.’ But he doesn’t look mad and I’m awash with relief. He gestures to the woman.
‘You’ll recognise Natalie Barbie – aka Natalie Barbinsky. Natalie, this is Harper.’
The Natalie Barbie! I knew she was familiar. She retired from professional tennis four years ago, ranked top 25 in the world. She’s from England and at least thirty years old.
‘Hi, Harper. Nice to meet you.’ Her English accent is tinged with a hint of American. Black hair cascades around her shoulders and despite the strong jaw and regal nose, there’s warmth in her caramel eyes that reminds me of Mum. ‘I’m on my way out. Don’t mind me.’
She’s wearing a short black sundress that swishes around her long legs as she steps onto the porch and offers her hand. I take it, thinking, cradle snatcher – she isn’t exactly dressed for tennis – even though she’s someone I’m in awe of.
‘Congrats on your win yesterday,’ she adds.
‘Thanks.’
‘Bye, Colt. Don’t forget what we talked about.’ She tosses us both a jelly bean. I catch mine, studying it like it’s some sort of secret message.
I sense Colt behind me and let my hair fall forward. I want to hide in my own shadow.
‘Did you come to admire the outside of the house or are you coming in?’ asks Colt.
Scuffing at the deck, I face him. He steps aside. It’s the last thing I want to do, but I can’t leave now.
I brush past into a sitting room containing a sofa, an armchair, a coffee table and a TV on a cardboard box. The room smells fusty and sour, similar to Jacob’s music studio. Dented beer cans, dirty plates and sticky glasses litter the coffee table and rug.
‘I see you don’t like tidying up after yourself,’ I say, defensive.
‘Correction. My dad doesn’t. I just haven’t had a chance to clear up. My bedroom is the one tidy room in the house.’ He steps into baggy grey sweats and points with his chin to a door on the other side of the room.
Through the doorway the image of his unmade bed, sheets coiled and rumpled, reminds me of what probably just took place in there. My cheeks tingle. The only other furniture in Colt’s bedroom is a fan and a set of wire-basket drawers, and he’s right, there’s neither a dirty dish nor a single piece of clothing on the floor.
Sucking on the jelly bean, I almost step into a bowl of them. ‘What’s with the jelly beans?’
Colt shrugs. ‘Long story.’
‘I thought you weren’t into girlfriends.’
‘Natalie’s my hitting partner.’
I bite the inside of my cheek to kill the relieved smile that pounces to my lips. ‘A new girl every night then?’
He rubs his stubbled chin, grinning. He’s way too smouldering-romantic-hero today. ‘Now you’re fishing.’
My palm shoots into the air. ‘Whatever. Change the subject.’
‘I’d put on a shirt, but after two weeks away they’re all dirty and they stink. Breakfast?’
I look past ripped abs and a naked chest dark with curls into the kitchen. Eggs, plums, bread and juice spill from two shopping bags onto the cracked plastic counter.
‘If it’s okay with you – and your dad.’
‘He’s not here. Juice?’ Colt walks into the kitchen, chucks his jelly bean in the sink, and pours two glasses of orange juice. On the fridge is a note written in black pen: You win or lose the match before you even go out there.
‘Nice quote,’ I say. ‘Venus Williams.’
‘Why are you here, stalker?’
I twist my hair, but stop myself from nibbling the end, shoving my hands into my pockets instead.
He puts my juice on the kitchen counter and points to the one bar stool in the room. ‘Sit. I need to explain something to you.’ He leans against the far benchtop, arms crossed.
I comply, ogling my glass to avoid scrutinising his six pack as it curves into his sweats.
‘When I said I don’t do girlfriends, I wasn’t joking. I shouldn’t have kissed you. I’m sorry. So if you’re here because you’ve got some notion that you and me –’
I shove to my feet, cheeks redder than the Wilson sports logo. The bar stool thuds to the tiled floor. ‘That is not why I’m here. You kissed me, remember. I – I’m not interested in you in that way.’ Maybe I should tell him about Jacob.
I open my mouth to continue but only silence comes out.
Colt turns away, unpacks a shopping bag, then swivels back to me. ‘Why are you here then? On a Sunday morning. A no-training morning. At the crack of dawn?’ He lifts an eyebrow.
I examine the wonky fence out the window, the green council bins on the grey, flowerless street. There’s another ‘Darling Madeline’ letter tacked to the inside of the glass pane. ‘Because –’
Colt watches me over the juice glass and I forget what I’m about to say. He quits the staring match, picks up the eggs and asks, ‘Scrambled or fried?’
‘I’m worried about you. That’s why I’m here. You once said I was an unexpected but good friend. That’s what friends do. When we see a friend isn’t – coping, friends try to help.’
‘Scrambled then. Saves me the extra washing up. You’re very helpful.’
‘Are you laughing at me?’ He keeps smiling while he cracks eggs into a bowl, one-handed, and whisks them with a fork. I pick up the bar stool. ‘He can play tennis and he can cook. Quite the talented seventeen-year-old going on eighty-eight.’
He puts another pan on the stove. ‘Last year, in the States, I was into a girl.’ He grabs a tomato and slices it at a rate of one slice per second. ‘I hadn’t realised how much I came to rely on her – being there when I got home or coming to matches. We broke up and it was as if her ghost haunted me night and day. My game fell apart. I fell apart. Love weakens people. I’ve got enough to deal with. Tennis isn’t a hobby, it’s my entire future. I won’t let that happen again.’
The whole time he’s talking he’s chucking bacon into a sizzling pan and slicing mushrooms. He may sound like he’s merely reciting a recipe, but he’s finally opening up.
I moisten my lips. ‘Like I said. I’m here as a friend.’ But if that’s true, why does the word ‘friend’ in relation to Colt suddenly seem bittersweet?
With a crooked grin, he passes me a bread knife. ‘Put the toast on then, mate.’
Put the toast on. Ridiculous words. Neutral, friendly words. But I’m beaming like I just won Wimbledon while my heart trips over itself. And when I’m next to him, buttering toast, it seems like he’s standing too close.
‘Natalie brought over breakfast. She’s into mothering me,’ he says while we eat from our laps in the sitting room. ‘She’s also a good friend.’
‘How’d you meet?’
‘She used to train in Florida when she was a teenager. Her dad worked with my uncle, and my aunt helped her out with some personal stuff. I was in awe of her when I was a kid. She moved to Sydney when she retired, though. Now she visits my dad while I’m away.’
‘Your dad? Where is he?’
Sadness sprawls headlong over him. His Adam’s apple bobs. ‘The night before the first Wollongong final I was forced to admit him to rehab – well, Natalie did it for me because I was away. He’s an alcoholic. That’s about as much as I want to say about it.’
My gaze sticks itself to my plate. This explains the state Colt got himself into at Wollongong, the lack of money maybe, losing in the first round, the moods. It had nothing to do with that kiss. And it explains why Milo lets him keep his phone.
I change the subject. ‘Who’s Madeline?’
‘My mom. And I don’t want to go there either.’
I gawp at the note in the window, but keep eating. ‘Did you speak to Milo last night? About the agent?’
‘No, what did he say?’ Colt’s shoulders pull back. ‘I was visiting the rehab clinic.’
‘We’re in. They want us.’
Eyes widening, Colt coughs and swallows his mouthful, slides his almost empty plate onto the sofa. The fork clatters to the floor as he bolts to his feet. ‘I can’t believe it. Right when I’ve run out of money.’
I giggle and lace my fingers together. ‘Apparently two Aussie hopefuls racing up the rankings and playing doubles together is a PR dream – as Milo predicted. There’s a press conference on Tuesday.’
Colt paces around the sofa, hands clamped to the sides of his head, face going haywire with happiness. His excitement is contagious and I bounce on my toes. He bounds over and squeezes the air out of me as he lifts me clear off the floor.
‘This means – everything,’ he says.
All I know is I want to make him smile like that all the time.
The auditions for the Con are tomorrow, and when I get home Aria and Jacob are practising in our kitchen. Exhausted from the tournament, I languish on the sofa. With his long hair falling around his cheeks, the flute at his lips, Jacob resembles the Pied Piper.
We look up when there’s a knock on the window pane. Jacob’s dad points at Jacob and beckons him, then waves at us. I wave back, knowing he rarely comes inside. I think he’s worried his Armani suit will get sticky or covered in dog hair.
‘Gotta go, gorgeouses. Parents remembered they gave birth to a son. They’re taking me out to celebrate tomorrow’s audition.’
Aria snorts. ‘Th
ey’re sure you’ll get in then?’
‘Nope,’ he says, packing away his flute. ‘They’re out tomorrow night with more important people than me.’ He hurricanes out of the kitchen, weaving through the dogs when they give chase.
Aria’s gaze follows Jacob. Then she perches on the arm of the sofa and pulls at the Indian princess scarf around her head. ‘Make pancakes with me?’ Her shoulders slump and she exhales loudly. ‘I need cheering up and chocolate pancakes are the perfect cure.’
Even though I’m not allowed pancakes, this is the first time she’s wanted to spend time alone together in a while. ‘Your audition pieces are sounding perfect, don’t worry. You’ll do great tomorrow.’
‘It’s not the audition.’ She nods at the door Jacob left through. ‘How is it we can have everything in common, spend all this time together, and yet . . . ? Why can’t he love me back? I feel safe when I’m with him. It just feels right. Letting him go feels like letting go of everything I’ve ever known.’ Aria’s pinched expression tightens, making my mind babble. ‘What if I never get over him?’
‘Pancakes it is.’ Leaping off the sofa I lead the way into the kitchen and reset the scales. I stifle a yawn.
‘Tired?’ asks Aria. I give a noncommittal grunt and search for the eggs. ‘Perhaps you shouldn’t spend half the night talking to Jacob in your bedroom.’
My heart blips as if I dropped all the eggs. ‘What?’ I fight to control how fast my head spins round.
Her eyes dart to the floor. ‘I heard you a while back. All this time, I wouldn’t let myself believe you and Jacob – I mean you would never –’ She struggles to keep her face from crumpling. ‘I only ask for the truth.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘He was in your room after midnight –’
‘But that was ages ago. Neither of us could sleep. He saw my light on. You know Jacob – never thinks, just does.’
She crosses her arms over her chest. ‘What did you talk about?’
The Harper Effect Page 12