Milo presses his lips together. ‘Colt takes after Madeline – his mama.’
I study the patchwork of steel and glass and colour that forms the streets of Bangkok, and put together the facts. Colt told me his dad is in rehab and is an alcoholic. Jamie Jagger, nicknamed ‘Spitfire’ because of a short fuse on court, is famous for blowing apart his own tennis career. World number 5, he was banned for taking performance-enhancing drugs, and then once the ban was lifted he turned up on court at the Australian Open drunk. The media crucified him. His coach, his sponsors, his agent, all ditched him. That was his last ever appearance on a tennis court, maybe ten years ago.
‘Are you getting it now?’ says Milo. ‘Why Colt is the way he is? He has so much to prove. He’s been Colt Quinn – his mother’s name – since he started in the junior circuit. Would you want to be known as Jamie Jagger’s son? The son of a cheat?’ He pinches the bridge of his nose. ‘Now they’re going to dig out Jagger himself. This is not good.’
I lean forward to search for Colt out the window, wishing I could see through buildings. ‘We need to find Colt.’
‘He’s better left alone. He’ll come back when he’s ready.’
But by dinnertime there’s still no sign of him. Milo’s face is etched with worry. ‘You get to bed, Harper. Big game in the morning. Don’t let this affect your state of mind. Colt is strong. He’ll survive.’ He doesn’t mention that Colt’s semi-final is tomorrow afternoon.
I lie alone in the dark, unable to sleep. Colt inherited his talent and his temper from Jagger of all people. But Colt will never be free of his father’s reputation – every press interview, every match appearance, every drug test. It’ll be hard to get sponsors or wild cards or keep his agent.
There’s a beep and the door cranks open on its spring. A shaft of light from the hallway gushes into the room. Lying on my side, pretending to sleep, I squint at the outline of Colt, then the clock. 11.23 pm. A rush of relief makes me grin. Light slinks away when the door closes and there’s the sound of static as Colt undresses. The squeak of bare feet on tile tells me when he’s in the bathroom. He brushes his teeth in the dark. When the bed tilts with his weight he exhales, a frail kind of sigh.
His back to me, he lies on the very edge of the mattress. I shift closer, place a hand on his shoulder. He tenses. Then his cool palm covers mine, startling me. I want to ask if he’s okay, but obviously he isn’t. I quietly sniff for alcohol to see if he’s drowned his sorrows in some bar, but he smells of chlorine. Had he gone for a swim?
‘Tough day,’ I whisper.
He breathes in a hunk of air, compelling my hand to rise and fall on his arm. His hand presses harder on mine. I listen to our breathing, to the sounds of people in the hallway, talking, joking, slamming doors. He doesn’t move, doesn’t speak. I move closer. I have no clue how to comfort him or be the friend he needs now.
‘You played a brilliant game,’ I say. ‘You should be proud of yourself. I’ve never seen you play better – your groundstrokes, your serve placement, your returns, your footwork. Milo couldn’t fault anything.’ He removes his hand and I shift mine to rest on his waist. ‘You’ve got everything it takes –’
He rolls over and holds both sides of my face, presses his mouth, close-lipped, onto mine. I don’t object, thinking this is a moment of out-of-character emotion, an impulsive sort of thank you for saying what I said. But eyes shut, his lips stay against mine for a long ten seconds.
My wide eyes relax, then slip closed.
As if he’s in a rush he moves over me, muscles taut and unyielding, to kiss my nose, then across my brow, shoulders hunched around me. My breath quickens to match his. One hand slips to my shoulder and his lips travel along my jaw, teeth nip my ear, my neck. Sparks ricochet through me and a small sound, like a mewling kitten, shivers into the back of my throat. My mouth pops open, inhaling, needing his hard tongue.
But he pulls away and off the bed in one movement, striding toward the window.
‘Fuck. Sorry. Shit.’ Arms rigid, fists balled, he whips back to me, his expression muddled. ‘That shouldn’t have happened.’ He curses again.
I slip off the bed and step closer, wanting to say it’s okay, I kind of liked it. But he snatches his trainers and the keycard and he’s gone before the door cranks shut on its spring. My insides churning with not altogether unpleasant sensations, I fall back onto the bed, arms crossed over my face. What the hell?
For the next couple of hours I re-live those heavenly seconds – how his body felt super powerful, how he ignited a flash fire in me. The desire to kiss him properly had stung me in a way that has never happened before. Kissing Jacob is beautiful and safe and fills me with a familiar warm curling smokiness, and although he makes my pulse race – it was never like it was tonight. My heart has never verged on exploding, my skin has never prickled with anticipation so alarmingly, my mouth has never felt so starved of a kiss.
But why had Colt kissed me when he’s made it clear he doesn’t do girlfriends? He needed comfort and took it? Maybe he craved my words of reassurance and got carried away – similar to before in the car park. And I guess a half-naked girl in bed is a temptation for any guy.
It’s daylight when the door clunks and wakes me. I perch on my elbows. Colt stares across the crackling space between us, looking as if his soul just crawled out of a hurricane. I search for the words that will make it right again, but come up with nothing.
‘That’ll never happen again,’ he says, detached, clinical. He runs an agitated hand over mussed-up hair. The statement hurts more than it should.
‘Where’ve you been? Have you been drinking?’ I slap a palm over my mouth, remembering in that instant who his father is, and realising that I’ve never seen Colt drink alcohol. Guess it’s obvious why now.
His eyes whirl with hurt. He strides into the bathroom and slams the door.
I don’t get to brush my teeth because over an hour later, when it’s time to go, he’s still under the shower. ‘Don’t drown,’ I yell, trying and failing to slam the spring-door as I leave the room.
When my game begins I’m still hopping mad. But whenever we change sides I use the purple towel and realise Colt had been dealing with his dad’s rehab at Wollongong, yet he was thinking of me when he bought that towel. My anger cuts itself in half. But I have to blank out my changing feelings for Colt, and everything else that’s bugging me, especially what I must say to Jacob when I next see him. I have to suppress the thought that maybe Aria knows about me and Jacob but can’t quite nail us – or bring herself to face the truth. I know the pressure I’m feeling is a whisper compared to the pressure Colt must deal with and that helps me remain strong.
My opponent gives me several quizzical looks and it dawns on me that she’s expecting the old Harper. I focus on only the next shot, the next ball toss, the next smash, and let her self-destruct on her own. At one point I go in for a smash and she actually winces and steps aside rather than attempt a return. It makes me feel powerful – like I’m hurling fireballs. Soon I’m trailing into the media room, Milo’s congratulatory arm around me. About twenty reporters swamp us. Despite my win, I know they’re not here for me.
‘Mr Stein. Where is Colt Jagger? Where is Jamie Jagger today?’
‘Has Colt ever failed a drug test?’
Milo does a U-turn, leaving the room without a word. Someone shoves a microphone in my face. ‘Are you Colt’s girlfriend? Where’s Colt?’
Milo returns and tugs me with him. He marches into the administration office and rants at someone, complaining about the press hijacking my interview and demanding a dispensation for Colt after the game this afternoon to avoid a fine for missing interviews.
Will Colt even turn up for his game?
He does. And he’s a machine, the racquet an extension of his arm. He never lifts his focus from the ball or the racquet or the court itself, as though nothing o
utside the edge of the arena exists. He loses some easy points, makes a few unforced errors, but his serve saves him and he plays himself into the final.
Colt exchanges a few words with the umpire and darts from the court.
Milo sighs. ‘And he’s off.’
‘He was on fire today.’
‘Let’s hope he doesn’t implode.’
We leave the arena and head for the players’ lounge. Milo orders a beer and instructs me to go for a run around the complex to dispel any remaining lactic acid from my earlier game.
The complex is huge, with lakes, a gym, swimming pool – vastly different from many of the Futures tournaments, where the changing room can be a caravan in the middle of a field. I spot Colt’s tennis shirt and dark hair from a distance, his hunched figure rock-shaped on the wooden bridge that curves over the resort pool. His back rests against the panelling of the bridge, knees bent, forearms propped. People walk by, swim beneath the bridge, and sunbathe in lounges around him. He’s the image of the loneliest guy on earth.
He doesn’t stir until I slide down next to him.
‘Stalking me again?’ His eyes remain fixed on the waterfall across the pool.
‘Just a friend watching out for a friend.’ And starting to want to be more than a friend.
His head lolls against the bridge. ‘You haven’t given up on me yet?’
‘I’ll never do that,’ I say, without pausing. He jerks his chin down. I hunt for the right words, but can’t think of anything not related to tennis, dads, kissing, or the press.
‘It’s peaceful here,’ he adds. His mood seems pliable. Guess he has just made it into the final.
I reach over and untie his shoelaces, then pull off each tennis shoe.
‘What are you doing?’ he asks.
‘Being your eyes and hands.’ When I strip off his sweaty socks he chuckles and I want to absorb that smile.
He pegs my nose for me. ‘You got a death wish?’
‘Quite possibly.’ I pull off my own tennis shoes and carry them all to the other side of the bridge, placing them under a palm tree.
‘Milo’s taught you well – the Distraction Technique. What are you up to?’ he asks.
‘Do something for me? Don’t question, don’t think, just do – live in the moment.’
Gripping his wrist, I pull until he stands and follows me to the edge of the pool. We sit and dangle our feet in the water. His superior glance says, See – I can live in the moment. Giggling, I shove him and he topples into the pool. When he surfaces, I’m relieved to see he’s not mad. Instead, he tugs my legs until I fall in.
The water is clear and refreshing and I don’t care if we’re in our tennis kit and shouldn’t be here. I surface near the waterfall. Colt swims through the cascade of water, mounts the rocks behind, and beckons me. It’s intimate, as if I’m on one side of a shower and he’s on the other.
I duck under and join him on the rocks. The noise is deafening and I barely hear him say, ‘You’ve officially hippied me up.’
Colt’s eyes rake over me. One corner of his mouth ticks up. I splash my reddening cheeks and then, in case he thinks I have any ideas about getting kissed again, I dive deep and swim where the world is muffled. I admit there’s a part of me that wants to kiss Colt badly, but for a start, every time he kisses me he regrets it and gets angry. Second, he doesn’t do girlfriends. Third: Milo’s warning. Fourth: Jacob. Poor Jacob, who’ll be upset after Dad’s reprimand.
I think about the story Colt shared about his old girlfriend ruining his game, yet here we both are at a tennis tournament . . .
Then there’s Dad’s concern about my tennis, although he was referring to Jacob affecting my game. I consider how a relationship could’ve wrecked Colt’s dreams and love did wreck Aria’s. Even now I shouldn’t be thinking about this – I should be analysing my next opponent and making game plans.
Boyfriends can’t happen right now.
When I get out of the pool I find a shirtless Colt back on the bridge, but this time when I approach he pats the spot next to him. My belly wobbles.
‘I needed that,’ he says, leaning forward to wring out his shirt. ‘I’ll go back to the hostel tonight.’
‘No you won’t,’ I snap. ‘Winning our finals is the priority. And don’t flatter yourself. I’m not interested in you except as a friend and doubles partner. Go cuddle a pillow instead of lunging at me. If you’re upset, stick to talking. I’ll be there for you, but keep your lips to yourself.’
Colt skims the horizon, a slow grin building. ‘Game, set and match to Harper Hunter.’
But something’s changed.
That night, when Colt and I sleep side by side, I glow from the inside out as if I have something precious cupped in my chest.
In the early morning light I devour him while he sleeps, his arm covering his closed eyes to keep the world out. I’m no longer confused. The friendship I’d nursed between us had changed to something hazy and exciting and just out of sight, but now it’s changed again. It’s loud and real and currently making my heart bounce around my ribcage like a tennis ball. But for so many reasons he’s off limits, and I can’t make the same mistake with him as I made with Jacob.
Milo has whipped me into the best shape of my life and taught me a lot about self-belief and mental toughness, and maybe that’s why I don’t feel as tired or anxious as I otherwise might when every set goes to a tie breaker the next day. Maybe that’s why the court seems smaller. Maybe that’s why Hosek drops her racquet after one of my serves hurts her wrist, and maybe that’s why I don’t turn to putty; when Hosek loses a point I don’t feel like I’ve taken something from her – she chose to give it to me. But my match play also improves because I have Colt openly supporting me, cheering for me, advising me, and somehow that motivates me more than anything ever has. His enthusiasm also makes me wonder if something’s changed for him too – like that kiss meant more than he’s admitting.
After I beat Hosek in the final, Colt hugs me and spins me around and happiness busts out of me as though he unzipped a bag of it inside me. And when it’s clear Colt’s going to win his final, too, I anticipate the hug we’ll share, my body thrumming with expectancy. But how can I feel like this when I’m filled with all this love for Jacob? Is it simply that there’s a hot guy sharing my bed and my hormones are out of control?
Hormones, and whatever’s going on between us, don’t appear to affect our games adversely so we continue as secret roomies in Cambodia. We train and strategise together, win games, share breakfast, lunch and dinner; Team Milo is inseparable.
One morning I wake to find Colt lying on his side, studying me.
The earth pauses for a soft moment.
My heart wafts inside my chest, a falling petal in the breeze. I return his gaze. And when he says, ‘Morning,’ rolling away to take a shower, I touch the sheet to absorb the warmth he leaves behind.
On the evening Milo announces the latest rankings – I’ve reached number 89 and Colt is 103 in the world – we lie on our bed and talk into the night, blitzed on excitement. Colt’s face slips wide open. He’s as relaxed as a lion stretched out in the sun and words spill out of him.
Hours later we agree it’s time for sleep. Colt switches the lamp off. A shaft of light dips into the room from under the door and I make out the outline of Colt lying on his back. He stares at the ceiling, hands behind his head. After a while I roll over to face him. He looks toward me.
‘Why did you come back to Sydney?’ I expect him to tense or tell me to sleep, but he goes back to examining the ceiling, licks his lips.
‘We moved to Florida because my dad got a job. Then he lost the job.’
‘Didn’t you say your mum’s family offered him the job?’ That conversation at the run-down tennis courts seems a billion years ago.
‘I’m sure you’re curious and I’m gratefu
l you haven’t pumped me for details.’ He pauses for such a long time I assume it’s all the answer I’m going to get. But then he adds, ‘Mom’s cancer pushed Dad over the edge – with the drugs and drinking and stuff.’ Colt stares right through me and into the past. ‘By the time she died, he was a mess. Loving my mom reduced him to this weak, broken man.’
Colt untangles the sheet covering our legs, moves onto his side. ‘My aunt tried to help by offering him a job a few months after Mom died. They own a sports equipment manufacturing company. You already know what Dad did at the Open that year. He’d lost everything.’
‘And you were six when she died?’
‘She died a month before my sixth birthday.’ He says the words as if he’s telling me today’s date. ‘Dad was drinking heavily after the Open incident. For my birthday I received the gift of cleaning up his vomit.’ His laugh is more of a snort. ‘If we hadn’t moved to Florida a few months later, the state would’ve got involved. I got lucky. My aunt and uncle eventually saw my passion and found me a coach – they even funded everything. And they put Dad in rehab. And when he got out the second time, when I turned ten, things tracked along fine except Dad looked at me funny – he thought I’d betrayed him. He hates the tennis world. Said they’d turned on him and he wanted nothing to do with “the vermin”.’
‘Jeez. When I was ten I was playing in the woods and running around in swimmers all day.’
‘I’ll bet you were training.’
I roll onto my stomach, cheek resting on my hands as I answer. ‘But I lived in a controlled bubble compared to you. I had all the support I needed.’
Colt smiles, wistful. ‘I took Mom’s name. That made everything worse with Dad. But I trusted my uncle’s advice that it would hold me back if the world knew who my father was. Then last year they helped me get emancipated so I had all the legal rights of an adult. My dad hated that.’
‘But why did you leave Florida?’
‘The last time Dad came out of rehab my uncle gave him an ultimatum – Dad wasn’t to fall off the wagon or they would refuse to support us.’
The Harper Effect Page 15