Ryder
How do I feel right now? Like I want to hunt that piece-of-shit Tony down and kill him. I can’t believe I gave that wanker two hundred grand. He should be in jail.
I’m still in shock after hearing the full story. I barely slept. All I could think about was poor Scar, and how she’d blamed herself all these years. I sigh. I feel useless, like there’s nothing I can do to help her, and it’s driving me crazy. I handled that so fucking badly. She needed support and I’d made it all about me.
It’s Sunday afternoon, and I’m about to go meet Cally and her father at the club. Scar is at the hospital with Jake all day today to prepare for the trial that begins tomorrow. It’s going to be a big week, between Wimbledon and Jake’s treatment. As badly as I want to sort this shit out—and pummel the fuck out of Matt—I know now is not the time.
I meet Cally and Jim in one of the training rooms of the club. Cally actually looks happy to see me, and she runs over and gives me a hug. I reciprocate, surprised by her display of affection.
“How are you feeling?” I ask.
She shrugs. “Nervous. Terrified. Like, going to shit my pants.”
“Cally,” Jim chastises.
“What?” she protests. “He asked.”
I laugh and turn to Jim. “It's great to finally meet you.”
“Likewise. I've heard great things about you from my daughter, and trust me, that's rare. She normally hates everyone and everything.” He gives my shoulder a nudge. “But you? She doesn't stop talking about you.”
“Dad!”
Cally turns a bright shade of red, and I laugh. I'm getting a sense of satisfaction from hearing what an impact I’ve had on her.
“I told you if you're going to embarrass me I’d rather you go back to the States,” she mutters.
I laugh again. And there's the Cally I remember.
“So, your first major tournament as a professional. I thought we’d just chat today and do a few hits, and then maybe do some light training tomorrow and just soak up the atmosphere. How does that sound?”
“Okay, I guess.” She somehow manages to raise her eyebrows and roll her eyes simultaneously.
“Did you have something else in mind?”
“I want to win,” she says, matter-of-factly.
I chuckle. “Everyone wants to win, honey. But you need to be realistic. You need to treat this as a learning experience. You're not going to win Wimbledon.”
“Gee, thanks for your vote of confidence,” she mutters sourly.
“Cally, I’m not telling you not to dream.” I laugh. “I just don't want you going into this with high hopes. Learn what you can. And the other players—learn from them. Do you think I just went in and won a major championship from the get-go? No. It took a lot of work, and a lot of patience.”
“I think that’s bullshit,” she challenges. “You think I haven't done my homework on you? Your first pro tournament was the US Open, and you made it through to the quarter finals.”
“But I didn't win. And I learned a lot,” I ret
ort. “In fact, I lost the quarter final match six-love, six-one, six-one. But do you know what I took from that? I won two games against the number one player in the world.”
She’s still pouting, but I can see that my words are beginning to sink in.
“Okay,” she sighs dramatically. “I'll do it your way.”
I laugh, loving the way she makes everything sound like she’s doing you a huge favour. Jim flashes me a smile and raises his eyebrows, and I know what he's saying. She listens to me. God knows why, but she does.
“Good. Let's go and have some lunch, and then I have a surprise for you.”
After a quick lunch at one of my favourite pubs, we pile into my car en route to the surprise I have planned for her. I thought back to when I first started my professional career, to what I found most daunting. It was stepping onto that court. It's hard to get your head around thousands of people sitting there, watching you. Every shot, every mistake is magnified by a thousand. It’s handling the pressure that will make or break you as a player.