The Harper Effect

by Taryn Bashford

  A powerful sense of purpose stirs.

  Milo’s words slide into my mind. Do it for yourself.

  Not for Dad or Colt or Kominsky or even Milo. For myself.

  I guess that’s what I told Colt when I said he should concentrate on the love of winning, not needing to win for the sake of his dad. Playing tennis has to be for me because win or lose, Aria’s, Jacob’s and Colt’s lives continue along their chosen path, and mine continues on mine.

  The puddle of nerves in my stomach firms up, becomes steely. The umpire calls time.

  Chin high, I visualise winning. I know I can do this. I want that moment. I want that win. I want the world to remember Harper Hunter. I want to achieve something big – to be number one. I won’t waste this. I want to inspire others to chase their dreams. And I won’t let my opponent take that away from me.

  And I see on her face the moment she knows I’m going to win. The moment she chooses to lose.

  I make it into the quarter-finals where I lose to Aletta Haas, ranked 5 in the world. It’s seen as a great result. We head to a women’s tournament in Brazil where I survive until the quarters again. Then it’s America for a series of hard-court events. Milo has scheduled the year in advance and it’s a long six-week haul around America, only returning home after Charleston. We’ll then take a week’s break in Sydney before going to Europe for the clay-court season in the build-up to the French Open. I have no idea what he’s scheduled for Colt, and I don’t ask.

  I don’t text Colt because he said he needed to be by himself. Each day I hope he’ll text me something simple, like congratulations. But I remember how he watched me drive away that last day with goodbye in his eyes.

  He does text Milo, though. We’re on a court in Los Angeles trying to break my five-bounce superstition before the Indian Wells tournament when Milo stops feeding me balls to squint at his phone. ‘Colt’s in Florida. With his aunt and uncle.’ My insides compress. ‘The coach he worked with before is helping him out.’

  It’s like someone kicked me in the throat. ‘You got dumped, too.’ My voice squeaks.

  ‘You two didn’t manage to work it out then? Sorry, Harper. But all you can do is keep moving forward.’

  ‘And you? Will you keep moving forward or are you staying with me?’

  He throws a ball at the net and advances on me. ‘Let’s get this straight. I didn’t take you on to facilitate the arrangement with Colt. That was a cherry on top. I took you on because you have what it takes – a little issue with your brain game, but not a big one. And I saw a mixed doubles partnership made in heaven. I was right, wasn’t I?’ He points at me. ‘You’re destined for top 10 in the women’s tour and I’m going to cheer from your player’s box when you do it.’

  Sick with realisation, I turn a full circle. ‘Colt dumped you because of me.’

  ‘Nope.’ Milo cracks his knuckles. ‘It was time for honesty. I told him the truth – how I didn’t try to stop Jagger walking onto that court.’

  I suck in air. ‘Was Colt mad at you?’

  Milo rubs his lips with a curled finger. ‘I don’t think he was angry with me. He said there was probably nothing I could’ve said or done to stop Jagger anyway. But Colt needed – some distance.’

  Indian Wells is a tough slog. I lose in the third round after twisting my knee. We arrive in Miami early and I celebrate my seventeenth birthday with Milo. He presents a cupcake with overly large 1 and 7 candles that tip it over.

  There’s nothing from Colt. I don’t know why I thought there would be.

  When I spot Kim at the Miami tournament, I decide to give her the cold shoulder.

  ‘You can quit playing the blame game,’ she sneers, stopping me by thrusting an arm out. ‘I was only trying to help Colt.’

  ‘Help yourself, more like.’ I shove her arm and walk away. After that she ignores me, too.

  I hadn’t realised how much I was hoping Colt would show up in Miami – he only lives a couple of hours away – until Milo gets another text: Colt has tendonitis in his wrist. ‘He’s had to rest it – his ranking’s slipped to 48 but he says he’s training hard and is in the best shape of his life for when he hits Houston.’

  Houston is a men’s-only tournament.

  My heart flaps unhappily.

  The Miami crowd is boisterous and they cheer me all the way to my quarter-final loss. I make the semi-finals in Charleston, losing because of my lingering knee injury, but still pushing my ranking to 58. Colt blows through the men’s tournament in Houston in the same week and wins his first professional ATP title after a four-hour, five-set game against Dominic Sanchez. Viewing the highlights on repeat, the clips show Colt making impossible returns while Sanchez self-destructs.

  I watch Colt’s athletic, powerful body – the one that had touched me gently and held me close.

  At the post-match interview Colt’s face swarms with happiness – until they ask where I am. ‘You just beat the world number one. Are you going to celebrate with Harper?’

  Colt shifts from one foot to the other. He snaps his neck. ‘She’s going back to Australia. Taking a break before the European rounds.’

  How does he know?

  The interview sets off the media. Why isn’t Colt returning to Australia for his break? Why don’t our schedules ever coincide? They keep speculating. It gives me the courage to call Colt – to say hello, to joke about the crazy media frenzy, to congratulate him – but he’s changed his number.

  By the time we return to Sydney, I’ve given up hope of ever seeing him again.

  ‘Who’d have thought a broken romance would be bigger news than the bombing in the Middle East,’ says Jacob, flicking off CNN. We loll on the sofa in the kitchen, one on either end, facing each other.

  Earlier this week I arrived home to find a more relaxed Jacob. He’d cut his hair short because the hospital shaved it. He looks older. His face loaded with remorse, he’d led me into the dining room to apologise for slapping me.

  ‘I hit rock bottom, Harps. It’s no excuse, but when I saw you two kissing on national TV for all the world to see –’ He’d been unable to look me in the eyes or finish his sentence, dropping his chin and shaking his head. I watched him steel himself to raise his gaze and when he finally did, his eyes told me how much he wished he could take back that slap. ‘I felt betrayed. Angry. But what I did was unforgivable.’

  ‘It was the alcohol that made your decisions that night,’ I said. ‘You have to stop drinking so much.’

  Not wishing to revisit those moments, I brushed off any further apologies. But after we re-joined everyone in the kitchen, Jacob’s regret was far more meaningful when he declined the champagne Milo passed around.

  Now we’ve slipped into an easy camaraderie that’s simple and supportive. Perhaps he senses that I’m broken too.

  ‘Colt’s doing well,’ adds Jacob.

  Even after seven weeks, thinking about Colt hurts. I only let myself remember for short moments – like gasps for air.

  I think of the text Natalie sent me after Colt’s interview – Give him time – and change the subject. ‘Mum says you’re re-applying to the Con?’ My parents have taken Jacob under their wing, realising he needs support, rather than outlawing him. Plus Aria isn’t here any longer.

  ‘Yeah, she encouraged me. But as I went through the forms, I realised I don’t want to go anymore.’ He lobs some popcorn at me. It hits my nose and he busts out laughing.

  ‘What do you mean you don’t want to go to the Con?’

  ‘I think I applied because Aria did. But it was her dream – maybe I didn’t want to disappoint her. It’s always been the band for me. Why should I go to the Con when what I really want is to go on the road with my band? Now we’re writing a lot of new stuff together.’

  So Jacob won’t live next door anymore, waiting for me to come home. I should be wrecked, but I
’m pleased for him. ‘Wow. What do your parents think?’

  ‘They’re good. Weirdly, defending their son from a drink-driving charge has made them remember I exist. They’re trying – we even do family movie nights.’

  ‘Jeez. What do you watch? French-subtitled arty stuff?’

  He purses his face and sticks out his tongue, then says, ‘They’ve helped me get my music lessons gig off the ground. I’m teaching in the studio – these kids are great. They’re keen, and if they’re not, I tell them to go play tennis or something equally dull.’

  I kick out, playful. ‘I’m glad you’re on track and smiling again.’

  ‘Almost dying can do that to a person.’ He traces the foot-long scar on his calf. There’s one on his scalp, too, but the hair has grown back over it. ‘Makes you a bit more grateful, you know? And I want to hang on to what I haven’t managed to blow apart.’

  We gaze through a shaft of dust mote–filled sunshine at the woods. A silence that is snug and healing settles over the room.

  ‘How’s Aria?’ he asks softly.

  ‘Dad says she’s happy. She was meant to move on to Paris, but she loves Rome.’

  After a quiet beat, he says, ‘I’m glad she’s happy.’

  ‘Harper, the TV – Colt’s interview.’ Dad strides into the kitchen followed by Milo. He may as well have announced that Colt’s at the front door. My heart shreds.

  ‘It’s official,’ says Milo, on the brink of exploding with excitement. ‘Colt’s ranked number one in Australia.’

  Dad flicks through the channels. ‘And he’s earned himself a nickname – “Bolt from the Blue” – because of his speedy run up the rankings and the power of his serve.’

  Milo adds, ‘And his true-blue Aussie roots.’

  And then Colt’s on the screen, smartly dressed and standing on a street packed with honking cars. It’s night-time where he is. He tells the reporter that becoming Australia’s men’s number one is the first of many goals and he’s going out to celebrate. I wonder who he’ll celebrate with. My heart is an apple and Colt just took a bite.

  As always they bring the subject around to me. ‘What’s happened to the Australian Invasion, Colt? Harper’s in Australia and you’re here. Not much of an invasion happening.’

  Colt beams cheekily. ‘We’re working on a pincer movement.’ Even I can’t help but blurt out a laugh, swiping at the instant tears.

  ‘What a transformation.’ Milo nudges me from behind. ‘You did that, Harper.’

  In the top corner of the screen, there’s an image of Colt kissing me at the Aussie Open. Jacob squints out the window.

  ‘You sure did get Harper in a pincer movement at the Australian Open,’ jokes the reporter. ‘The score was love-all that day.’

  Colt grabs the back of his neck, chuckling. ‘Don’t you know “love” means nothing to a tennis player?’

  Even though I remember it was a joke we once shared, his words are spikes in my heart.

  Life becomes a blur of tennis courts and interviews, the inside of cars, planes, trains and hotels, the days set on repeat from Stuttgart to Portugal to Madrid. I lose myself in tennis, but a part of me still mourns Colt. Something precious has been lost forever, ruined and spilled, never to return.

  Colt rises to number 21 in the world. He’s focused, strong, and when the going gets tough, he doesn’t let anger engulf his game, but seems to go somewhere serene. He sticks to men’s tournaments, wins trophies, shakes hands with movie stars, waves at spectators, signs balls and throws them into the crowd. And he uses the star sweat towel.

  Milo receives a fat cheque. The note reads, The first of many. Colt.

  During one of Colt’s games, he’s heading to the baseline and pulls up his shirt to wipe away sweat. I see the vision of his six pack – as does everyone else. In the hush before he serves, a woman calls out, ‘Colt, will you marry me?’ Several thousand spectators react in a wall of sound that rumbles around the arena.

  Colt straightens and smiles. ‘Speak to my coach. He has my schedule.’

  The media set the sound bite on repeat.

  He’s close yet far, familiar yet changed. The weeks roll by, pulling us further apart. I can’t believe he once wanted me – loved me.

  With the Rome Masters looming I text Aria, hoping to repair some of the damage. Her response is, I can’t see you yet. But I’m forced to pull out of Rome. The knee I twisted in Indian Wells hasn’t healed properly. I’m devastated for more than one reason – Rome is a combined event and Colt will compete. A week later, during a women’s event in Strasbourg, I re-injure the knee. Strapped up, I study my competition and witness Kim’s improved footwork. She wins the tournament. A bigger shock is her new coach, Kominsky. The press photograph Kim’s dad carrying her on his shoulders, while Kominsky carries her trophy.

  Milo pulls me out of the French Open so I don’t get to break into the 30s rankings. We head home to visit a physio genius and prepare for Eastbourne, the lead-up tournament to Wimbledon, which starts in a matter of weeks. The French Open broadcasts in our kitchen 24/7. Kim has the best tournament of her life, charging into the quarter-finals, except that when she loses the match she smashes her racquet against a chair until it breaks.

  Colt is a force of nature. With a 242 kph serve he causes a major upset, serving thirty aces to beat Sanchez and reach the French Open final. Not sharing that with Colt – I’m no more than a stranger to him now – is the most bittersweet moment of my life.

  Home feels different without Aria. Dad’s barbecue smells replace her biscuits and cakes, and the lack of blaring music makes it feel like the house is hibernating. Also, Jacob isn’t a permanent piece of furniture in the kitchen – he’s always busy with the band. I’ve never seen him so focused.

  ‘Did I tell you the band’s now called Purple Daze?’ Jacob asks, the day before he goes on tour around Australia. We’re lounging by the river, the rock cold from the autumn air. ‘Aria doesn’t like it, but she’ll have to lump it. We’ve emailed each other – a little.’

  I feel no jealousy that she’s communicating with him. Mine was the biggest betrayal. Maybe we’ll all find a way back to each other, in time.

  ‘It’s a perfect name.’ My voice threads through the bare branches.

  He shoves me, playful. ‘I still miss you, Harps.’ His grin shuffles into something more reflective. ‘But it’s time to stand on my own two feet. Guess I’ve always relied on you guys too much. And I’ve always felt a bit worthless. I was never going to be a hotshot lawyer like my parents, or a world-class tennis player – and Aria always outplayed me. But this is my second chance.’ The dogs bound across the river toward us. ‘And I’m not going to waste it.’ Jacob hugs their wet bodies to stop them knocking me over.

  The morning Jacob leaves with his band, he stands happily next to the tour van his parents have bought him. I can barely speak, barely breathe. It’s as if Jacob planted a tree inside my ribcage that’s grown overnight and there’s no room for my organs. He hugs me last, eyes glistening. My head on his shoulder, I can’t keep the sob in.

  ‘I’m sorry, Harps. For taking you down with me. I was a shit who needed you and didn’t think about the fallout.’

  As he climbs into the van, I wrap my arms around myself and for a moment I’m coming unfastened right there on the grass. I search for Mum and Dad among Jacob’s friends and they reach out for me, as they always have, ready to hold me together. But I shake my head. ‘It’s okay,’ I say.

  I run after the van, smacking the driver’s door in one final touch before it picks up speed.

  When we leave for our flights to London, Milo slides into the back of the cab alongside me. He does that these days. But he doesn’t belong there; I can’t help thinking he’s sitting in the seat of a ghost. He rips open an envelope and whistles through his teeth at the cheque inside. ‘This is too much, Colt.’ He tucks i
t away in his wallet, next to a photo of a young woman with blonde hair. The lost fiancée?

  ‘I hear Colt made it into the top 10,’ I say.

  ‘Persistence is an art. Want to see the men’s entry list for Wimbledon?’ Milo unfolds a sheet of paper, points to Colt’s name. ‘I like that he’s honouring his father and putting the past behind him.’

  Colt Jagger.

  So he’s forgiven his dad. But he can’t forgive me.

  The world warps.

  It’ll be the first time I’ve seen him in the flesh since we stood on his street almost four months ago. Feelings fidget inside me, and although I’m nowhere near the dining room, I can hear the grandfather clock. Tick. Tick.

  On the grass courts of Eastbourne, the injured knee feeling strong, my body and mind know what they’re doing and I smash through games, visualising victory. I take the pressure by the throat and pin it down. With each win I grow in certainty – I will have my dreams. I don’t need to find a plan B.

  But making it into the final of Eastbourne is the easy part. I’m to play Kim Wright, who’s having another great tournament, probably thanks to Kominsky. Bet he loves Kim – she never turns to putty.

  The night before the match, I panic.

  ‘Eat your steak,’ says Milo, shovelling peas onto a spoon.

  I push a piece of steak around the plate. ‘Kim made it into the quarters at the French Open.’ I let my cutlery clatter onto the plate and almost knock over the water glass.

  ‘That’s it? You’ve decided she’s the winner tomorrow?’ demands Milo. Sagging in the chair, I contemplate the inky damp night through the bay windows. He adds, ‘You weren’t at the French Open to prove yourself and here’s your chance.’