‘What do you mean, compartmentalise?’ I ask.
‘Box up your life into separate compartments. Each box needs your attention, but they shouldn’t overlap. There’s your tournament box and your training box, your home life box, school box – whatever. And if you’re at home you nurture and pay attention to that box, then when you’re on the court, home doesn’t exist – only the box you’re standing in exists. It’s the way to stay mentally tough when other parts of your life get you down.’
‘Milo has me going to a happy place – when the pressure builds.’
‘Winning requires lots of strategies.’ She tosses a jelly bean and catches it on her tongue. ‘Just as you don’t train one part of your body or do one sort of workout, you need lots of mental exercises to succeed. I wish I’d known that when I was younger. Instead I became consumed with the idea that if I was a Rottweiler on the court, what sort of person did it make me?’ She twists an invisible bracelet on her wrist. ‘The battle was within me, not on the court. I learnt too late that who you are on court doesn’t have to be who you are off the court.’
The day before I leave for Melbourne and the Australian Open I go for a walk in the woods. They’re exposed and empty – the summer storms have decimated what blossoms remained, drumming them into the earth.
When I reach the Mother Tree, I climb onto the lowest branch and map the river toward the Purple Cave. Aria’s final angry words slap at my heart.
She’d given up the Con for nothing in the end. And I realise I’m about to make a similar choice. Just as Jagger’s decision to give up on himself and start drinking didn’t bring back his wife, giving up on my singles career won’t repair the rift in my family. I’ll have to figure out another way to solve that problem, but what I do know is I’m no Jamie Jagger. And Colt said tennis brats are ungrateful types who squander their talent. I’m about to do just that. But I’m not a brat either.
With a blast of adrenaline, I’m bursting with the need to prove it. I made some bad choices, but I’m not giving up on myself. That would be too easy.
This is my crossroads. I’m determined to prove Kominsky wrong.
My future is tennis, being the best I can be, written about in every sports section, living for the thrill of winning. I think of the children who collect autographs at the big events, how they look up to the players as if they’re heroes who slay dragons, or gods who hurl fireballs. I want to be a hero to someone. That has always been the dream.
I decide I’m going to grab it with both hands.
I am Harper Hunter. I may be a daughter, a sister, a friend and even a girlfriend, but none of that determines my future. Only I can do that. Tennis is the one part of my life that’s down to me. Tennis is what makes me count in this world. And a Grand Slam is the biggest tennis event there is. Good thing Milo told me to think on it before he pulled me from the singles event.
It begins to drizzle, but I can’t leave yet. Maybe it’s because I feel closer to Colt here, or maybe it’s because the ghosts of the Ragamuffins live in these trees and always will and I don’t feel quite so alone. But as I take in the soggy ground, the gurgling river, the flowerless branches of the jacarandas, I realise it’s over – the days we spent playing and laughing and loving each other in these woods are over and I am alone. We all are. I need to grow up and become me, stop gripping the past by the throat and instead, reach for the stars.
A falling twig startles me.
‘Up here.’ Jacob is high in the tree. He climbs down, straddles the branch opposite. ‘Been wandering these woods for days now. Even slept here.’ He studies me with the eyes of a lonely child. ‘It’s the only place I feel close to you guys.’
I know he lost everything – his adopted family, his girlfriend, his second home, his chance at the Con. But even I can see that getting lost in the woods isn’t going to lead him out of this mess. After Aria’s skipped audition he’d said, ‘Don’t ever change’, but what he meant was, don’t ever leave; don’t ever grow up. And suddenly I don’t want to stay here with him, this aimless, ghostly version of Jacob left behind in the woods. Right now, he’s as wrecked as these blossoms, never to bloom again, and if he doesn’t choose to move on, he’ll stay that way forever.
‘Jacob. You have to move forward. We all do.’ I blink at the trees around us. ‘We can’t be children in the woods forever. There’s no future here.’ I jump down, reach for his hand and squeeze it. ‘Bye, Jacob,’ I whisper, tasting my tears on my lips.
As I’m winding my way back to the house, Jacob’s voice ghosts through the trees. ‘But there’s a future for us. I’ll find a way.’
Our agent secures sponsored rooms for Colt and me at the official players’ hotel, but I arrive in Melbourne alone. Colt and Milo fly in late so I order room service and watch the sport news. Everyone’s speculating about whether Colt has what it takes, if he’ll pass the drug test, and if he has his father’s temper. Mum and Dad plan to arrive next week – they’re with Mum’s sister in Canberra, visiting Aria before she leaves for Europe. Aria still refuses to talk to me.
The next morning I wait by the water feature in the lobby, bouncing the heel of my tennis shoe on the gold-flecked floor tiles. I battle to pack some steel into my backbone – I’m sharing a car to the courts with Milo and Colt. I need to remain neutral – just Colt’s doubles partner, his friend, because he won’t want to hear any of my excuses. I’d lied to his face, I’d hurt him, and that’s the bottom line. And right now, he’ll want to focus on his game, on winning so he can help his dad, not on why I lied. I’m just some stupid girl who could wreck his chances again. I have to put my own feelings aside and focus on my tennis, for his sake, for my sake – and for Jamie Jagger’s.
When they step out of the lift I’m awash with nerves. Colt doesn’t look up until he’s two steps away. His gaze skids into mine, a detached, unsmiling mask in place.
I fold my feelings into the Colt box.
While Milo hugs me Colt’s attention flits around the reception area – maybe he’s in the midst of his match prep and has moved on from visualising the win to making himself angry.
‘Who’ve you got?’ I say to Colt in the back of the people carrier, even though I’ve read the drawsheet. He’d stood aside to let me climb in first and I figured he’d sit in the row behind me. He hadn’t. And now my heart is trampolining around my ribcage. Milo, as usual, stays up front with the driver.
‘I’m not in the mood for a chat.’ Colt stares out the window.
He’s a fortress without an access road. I wish myself anywhere but here.
Our arms bump when the car turns right. ‘Busy making yourself angry? Perhaps I can help with that.’ I expect another retort, but something briefly alters in his eyes, like a crystal that sparks rainbows in the sunlight, only to become flat and dull when it swings back into the dark.
‘You can put last week’s tournament behind you, Colt,’ says Milo, twisting to peer at him. Colt lost in the second round at Brisbane, dropping his ranking back to 101. ‘It’s done. Keep moving forward. Victories are the goal, defeats are the lesson.’ He braces himself as we take another mini-roundabout at high speed.
‘If Brisbane was because of me, I’m sorry.’ If it’s not the right time to explain everything, I can at least try to apologise.
Colt’s mask slips right off. I can see how much I hurt him, squashed inside his face, before he forces the mask back in place. ‘I had a cold,’ he says, voice pre-set.
‘That’s from staying out all night at Christmas,’ I say. Milo swivels around and Colt’s glare says, I can’t believe you said that. ‘Joking, Milo,’ I add. ‘He didn’t put a foot wrong – unlike me.’
‘We all suffer family issues from time to time. You’re here now,’ says Milo. ‘Colt respects that, don’t you, Colt?’ Colt broods out the window. ‘You’re both on at eleven,’ adds Milo. ‘I’ll tear myself in half.’
&
nbsp; When we’re dropped off at Melbourne Park, Colt passes me my bag. ‘Good luck,’ he says and walks away, leaving me with Milo. I don’t expect him to check back over his shoulder, but he does.
The true-blue Plexicushion of the Melbourne courts are akin to the red carpet at the Oscars. Although I’ve played here as a junior and again last year when I failed to qualify for the main event, I pinch myself. But then the two-inch negative version of myself that Milo sees on my shoulder shouts, ‘What if you repeat history?’ I rub my shoulder as if to smother the voice.
I’m up against the American, Crazy Maisy – named for her off-court behaviour and once ranked 48 in the world, but now 105 due to injury. I’ve fallen several places to 99. On paper, I should win. But no-one knows I’ve lost my sister and my best friend, or that it’s my fault my parents lost their children – that one plans to vanish in Europe, and Jacob is adrift in the woods. The spectators can’t grasp how difficult it is to sever the bond between sisters and then play a game of tennis that could alter my future.
Although I win the coin toss and elect to serve first, my ball toss is all over the place and Crazy Maisy breaks my serve. Thinking about Purple Time makes things worse. Images of us in the Purple Woods charge into my head like savage ghouls – saying goodbye to Jacob, Aria snarling at me, Colt kissing me under the stars . . .
I can’t do this. I ask for a bathroom break.
It’s a timed break. I rush to the basin to splash water on my skin and glare in the mirror. Maybe I need to get mad. The problem is, the only person I’m mad at is myself.
Back on court I play as if I’m twelve – unforced errors, heavy on my feet, lacking consistency. And then the biggest stroke of bad luck for Crazy Maisy saves me: she trips and lands hard. She hugs a knee and a linesman calls for ice, but she can’t play on and retires from the match.
Colt’s up in his qualifying game, but back to resembling a riled panther about to pounce. He doesn’t even react to the cheering spectators when he stumbles and returns an impossibly long lob while on his knees. He pulverises a higher-ranked player.
I smell trouble the moment Colt stalks across an interview room bristling with waiting questions. He plunks into a chair in front of the blue sponsors’ board and the official invites the first question. Voices explode at Colt. He pulls the player’s tag over his head and fiddles with it on the table.
‘One at a time,’ says the official, pointing to a man in a baseball cap.
‘How’d that game go for you, Colt?’ asks baseball cap man.
Colt toys with a button on his shirt. ‘I executed my game plan. I won. That’s it.’
‘Did you expect to win?’ asks another.
‘I won. What more do you want from me? That’s what I came to do.’ I recognise the Colt I met six months ago in Cincinnati, the one who thinks he’s alone, a targeted tower on a solitary island, vulnerable to attack from all directions. It makes him edgy, defensive and closed off.
Another reporter calls, ‘We possess information confirming Jamie Jagger is currently in rehab for drug and alcohol abuse. Have you ever failed a drug test?’
And the bomb detonates. Colt stands and addresses the packed room. ‘If it weren’t for the fact I’d get fined $20,000 for not attending this farce of an interview, I wouldn’t –’
‘Please take a seat, Mr Quinn,’ says the press official.
‘Or is it Mr Jagger?’ shouts someone.
Colt almost bites through his own jaw as he drops into a seat, then shoves at the chair next to him, sending it skating across the room.
Milo pushes through the crowd and leans into the microphone on the desk. ‘Come now, ladies and gentlemen. Colt’s won a tough match. Let’s talk about that and let the lad get off to prepare for his next game.’
When they’re done with him Colt charges out of the room without looking back.
The hotel’s low-lit restaurant is packed with famous tennis players – I’d caught sight of the world’s new number one–ranked player, Dominic Sanchez, on the way in.
‘It was as if I’d been set adrift in space to play tennis, and I couldn’t find my footing or my serves or my groundstrokes,’ I tell Milo, glimpsing another Hall of Fame player.
Before Milo answers he beams over my shoulder. I check to see which legendary player he’s spotted. But it’s Colt, looking fit in a white long-sleeved T-shirt and jeans. He slumps into the chair between us and dry-washes his face.
‘One day down, seventeen to go. What’s to eat?’ He glances from Milo to me and back again.
‘Steak?’ Milo waves to get the waiter’s attention.
‘Double of everything,’ says Colt. He scopes the room, talent-spotting no doubt, then his gaze settles on me. He may as well have struck a match and set me alight. ‘Saw your game online. Not sure whether to lecture you or congratulate you.’
I turn ketchup-red. ‘I’ll take the lecture right now.’ I fiddle with a spoon, flattered he’d reviewed my game.
He swigs from a water glass. ‘What happened?’
‘Is that honestly what you want to talk about? I mean – your interview –’
‘I’m good. Talked to Natalie for about four hours. She set me straight. About a lot of things.’ Jealousy claws through me. ‘What happened?’ he repeats. I rub sweaty palms on my jeans, thrown by his light mood.
‘Harper says she felt like she was playing tennis in space,’ says Milo.
Colt smirks. ‘Looked like it too.’
‘Seems Mr Funny came to dinner,’ I say, playfully threatening to gouge Colt’s arm with a fork. He snatches it away, placing it on the other side of the table. The waitress takes his order, batting her eyelashes, and I want to stab her with the confiscated fork.
Milo leaves to find the toilet.
Colt taps on his water glass, inspecting me. ‘What’s really going on in that head of yours? You’re going to bomb out of this tournament if you don’t compartmentalise.’
Suddenly the whole of me feels bruised. ‘Yes, I know,’ I say, defensive. ‘I talked to practically-perfect-in-every-way Natalie as well.’
‘Don’t knock her – she puts me straight all the time – including where you’re concerned.’
He’d been talking to her about me?
It occurs to me that Colt knows nothing about the casualties at home because he doesn’t know about Aria and Jacob’s past – I’m pretty sure Milo would’ve been discreet and given him the ‘family stuff’ response to explain why I pulled out of Brisbane. Colt probably doesn’t even believe that excuse. Therefore, Colt’s referring to compartmentalising what went on between us.
His knee bounces under the table. ‘What happened to thinking about Purple Time?’
‘Gone.’ I make a ‘poof’ gesture and spin a glass round and round. ‘Where’s Mr Grumpy from this morning?’ The comment earns me a sexily raised eyebrow. I sit on my hands. ‘Not that you don’t have a right to be grumpy with me.’
His jaw clutches as he scrutinises me. ‘I don’t know a word to describe –’ He suddenly hangs his head as if it hurts to look at me. ‘I’m grateful you’re here for our doubles event. I’m in so much debt I can’t afford any more rehab for my dad – I’m playing to save his life now. So I’m choosing to remember our friendship from here on in. You’re a better friend than – anything else.’
Milo approaches the table and pulls out a chair. Colt straightens. ‘You played great, Colt, but you’ve got to loosen up, relax, or you’re going to crack.’
‘Worked for me today.’ Colt tugs at the back of his collar.
‘Up to a point it will. But when the real pressure comes –’
‘You may not have noticed, but the world’s press is on my back in case I so much as take a drink of water that might contain drugs or alcohol. And if I don’t win some big money this whole dream will be over for me and Dad’ll end up –’ C
olt breathes in deeply. The prickles he’d sprouted vanish. His voice low, he adds, ‘The interview. They goaded me to lose my temper –’
‘Which you did, and gave them exactly what they wanted. People throw rocks at things that shine, Colt,’ says Milo.
The waitress dishes out plates of food but my stomach churns at the idea that this could be Colt’s last tournament. Colt inhales dinner, passing me the confiscated fork. ‘Avoid the hands and eyes, I need them tomorrow,’ he jokes.
‘And please don’t disappear after your game, Colt,’ says Milo. ‘Ten days to your first mixed doubles match. We need to get you on court together.’
When we return to our rooms, having further dissected our games and opponents, Milo hugs me goodnight, and Colt chucks me a plum from the bag of food he’d bought earlier.
‘Something purple,’ he says. He’s trying to be a good friend.
I spend half the night attempting to conjure up Purple Time.
But it’s gone.
‘You can do this,’ Milo says, fiddling with the zipper on a bag. Colt’s game is later today and it’s just me and Milo walking through the gates of Melbourne Park. ‘You’ve come this far without Aria and you’ll keep going without Aria. You love her and one day you’ll patch things up, but right now you don’t need her support or your parents’ cheers to win this. You need to do this by yourself. For yourself.’
My Argentinean opponent, ranked 88, wins the toss and the first set. Purple Time has gone and with it my self-belief. I feel alone and exposed on that court and something – the loss of everything I once had – is sapping my energy. My knuckles seem to drag on the court as I haul over to the chair for a changeover break. The umpire stares, unsmiling, from his raised seat, making me feel small. I pour water over my head, use the purple towel. Seeking out Milo, my heart bucks when I spot Colt beside him. He smiles – the one that could light up New York. I’m swamped with a warm thrill and overwhelmed with the conviction that while I blew it and we can’t be together-together, I want to be that friend – the one he turns to like Natalie. Does that smile mean he wants that too?
The Harper Effect Page 21