Match Point (Chp.1)

When thirteen year old Murph snuck into a country club to play on real tennis courts, she never expected she'd be discovered by ex-tennis legend, Billy Burke. Now, three years later, Billy has Murph's whole life mapped out so she’ll land among the stars. But while she shines in practice, Murph just can’t seem to win a real match. Fed up, Billy gives her an ultimatum: climb from a domestic junior ranking of one-eighty to the top twenty-five by the end of the year, or pack her bags and leave the courts, the gear, and the dream. Her only shot just might be in the form of unorthodox fellow player Kat Fabian: short, fiery, and out for the year with an injury. But there’s one small caveat, Kat also happens to be Murph’s sworn arch-rival.

Just a silly little coming-of-age sapphic YA tennis romcom I work on when I need something light

Chapter 1

The first time I met Kat Fabian, she nearly took my head off with her tennis racket. We were thirteen and I like to think she was playing the long game, because now, every time she throws her ball up for a serve, I flinch. 

She’s smirking, because she’s beating me. Badly. 

I haven’t won a single game, we’re on the second set of three and by some miracle, I’ve managed to bring us to deuces. Will I be winning this match? Absolutely not, Kat has five games to my zero. But if I win this one game, Billy might buy me a hot dog after. 

Tragically, it’s her serve. 

Up goes the soft green ball, there goes the pop as it collides with her racket, and crack go my frayed nerves as she hits a rocket right between my feet. I have to jump to avoid getting pelted. 

She did that on purpose. Sure it’s a fault, but Kat still has her second serve and she knows how stupid it looks for the purported five foot nine monster to be jumping at every move the five foot three elf makes. More importantly, she knows that I know. Now I feel like, I don’t know, a delicate giraffe. 

I shouldn’t be jumpy. It’s not as if Kat has ever been able to summon much power with her serves. They’re usually borderline lobs you can absolutely whale on, which is good for me since power is the foundation of everything they’ve trained into me. But it would be better if I were serving. Serves are the only thing I seem to do right. 

And why is it hot in January?

I hate Orlando. 

A hush falls over our little court as Kat bounces the ball. Precisely three bounces right on the baseline, pausing to stare across the net, then another three bounces and a serve. 

Somewhere, somebody on one of the other courts must’ve won a big point because there’s a distant eruption of cheers which, much to my pleasure, interrupts Kat’s process. She pauses to scowl over her shoulder. I take that opportunity to wipe at the sweat trickling past my visor. 

Someone, Luc presumably since it comes from the chainlink fence on my side of the court, claps and calls softly. “Come on, Murph.”

Like that’ll spark my comeback. ‘Ope, Luc gave me some encouragement, that’s all I need to go and save thirty-three freaking points against the ranked thirtieth best player in the USTA Women’s Juniors!’. 

I don’t look over at my coach. I know who’s standing next to him. I can feel the glower. 

Kat tosses the ball up and hits a slow, safe serve. 

It bounces up, practically vertical right at the perfect forehand height. I could even backhand it cross court, or drop shot it though after my last few public attempts at a drop shot, I’m not about to step into that territory. So what do I do with this beautifully presented gift Kat Fabian has given me?

Well of course I smash it down the line. The stupid thing doesn’t even hit the ground, just bounces off the black chain-link fence behind her with an unsavory jingle. The big canvas ‘USTA Winter Nationals’ sign flaps listlessly, like a giant reminder that I’m not actually supposed to be here. You got in because you look like a tennis player, but you really aren’t. 

Luc stifles his groan in a flurry of anxious clapping. “Come on, Murph! Precision! Remember precision!”

I couldn’t even tell you what precision is right now. I couldn’t tell you what anything is right now. My head buzzes in a way that I don’t think is normal, it’s blazing hot in freaking January, I’m at a tournament I have no right being at, about to get knocked out by the worst person in the world in the second round, and I’m in Orlando yet I don’t even get to go to Disneyworld. So no, I don’t know what freaking precision is, Luc. 

“Advantage, Fabian,” the umpire drawls in her sleepy voice. 

I’m gonna implode. 

Kat bounces her ball, except when she glances up, she winks at me, then goes back to bouncing. I’m gonna implode and I’m taking her with me. 

At least she doesn’t spend any more time with her campaign of psychological warfare. It’s just a simple serve, once more a perfect presentation for me to smash back at her. She sits right on the baseline instead of dropping back, since she’s primed to sprint all over the court (like I said, Kat can’t summon power to save her life so she just plays retriever). I could nail it right at her feet and she’d be utterly useless for a return. 

The net ripples as it swallows my ball’s momentum. 

There’s a pause. Then an awkward few claps as the, like, four people watching our match realize it’s ended in the most pathetic way possible. Luc claps. I know Billy isn’t. No hot dog for me. 

Kat whistles and does a poor job of hiding the elated grin she always gets when I’ve done a fine job of humiliating myself. She casually tosses her racket up, catching it again after it flips in the air as she walks towards the net. “Better luck next time, Killer.”

“How many times have I told you not to call me that?” I grasp her hand, squeezing as hard as I possibly can. 

Kat is unfazed. “Well you did give a girl a heart atta––”

“She had a congenital heart defect and that was one time.” 

Kat thinks she’s clever, getting half the Academy to start calling me ‘Killer’. The girl didn’t even die. One second I’m about to serve, the next she’s writhing on the ground. Kat couldn’t sit up, she was laughing so hard at the idea of some poor opponent taking one look at me and deciding to die rather than play me. ‘It was like one of those fainting goats!’

“Don’t feel too down,” Kat manages to weasel her hand out of mine and gives me a slightly too hard slap on the back as we make our way towards the umpire. “I’ll see you back in Virginia, huh?” Because the implication is she’ll be here well into the final rounds of the tournament and I get to fly back to Alexandria tonight. 

I can only manage a sarcastic smile before we part ways towards our bags. 

Luc waits for me as I exit the court. He gives Kat a quick high five as she passes ahead of me—he coaches her too on occasion, though naturally I got the brand new inexperienced coach and Kat gets the best coach at the Academy—before sobering himself accordingly. 

“Hey,” he gives me a somewhat less enthused high five, “that was a good game, you fought hard.”

“Do you think I should’ve hit it harder?” That’s sarcasm. Luc doesn’t pick up on it.

“I think you did great with exactly what you were doing…” and he launches into this whole spiel that I tune out because Luc is terrible at giving criticism. I mean, he’s a good coach (even if he is french, I thought he was Italian for the longest time), but it’s hard to critique Billy Burke’s ward after she bombed Billy Burke’s game plan while Billy Burke is standing right behind you. 

Even with the sunny Orlando sky overhead, there’s a dark cloud hanging over my guardian. Square jaw clenched, arms crossed firmly over his chest, feet planted. It reminds me of those dads in the cartoons, when their kids come home after curfew. 

I press my lips together, waiting for the hissing lecture. Billy just stands and glares. I guess he’s too furious to speak. 

Luc, ever caught between trying to please the old tennis legend and get results out of the charity project, seems to bounce between us with a nervous smile. He chatters about the positives in my game, talking about how I won so many points with an ace, and how my backhand is improving massively, and how I was hitting it harder than practically anyone else at the tournament since Billy only ever preaches power. Power power power. Powerful strokes, powerful game, powerful player. 

I watch a seagull fly past, squawking as it lands by the concession stand and starts pecking at a lone french fry on the ground. Lucky duck. 

“What was that?” Billy finally asks, voice dangerously calm. 

“Kat Fabian was a very unlucky draw,” Luc tries. He might as well be nonexistent, though. 

Billy reaches out and motions for me to follow. “Let’s…take a walk.”

Unfortunately, we don’t walk towards the concession stand. 

Rather, Billy leads me to the far side of the parking lot. Nice and deserted, except for a family struggling with their screaming toddler who doesn’t want to get out of the car to watch his sister play. 

“What was that?” Billy demands again. He walks slightly ahead of me, too angry to meet my gaze. 

Luc was right, Kat Fabian was an abominably unlucky draw for me. She’s thirtieth in the US and she’s Ludger Fabian’s daughter. She’s had access to her legendary coach dad’s legendary tennis academy facilities since the womb, basically. And she knows it. If she were any taller, she’d already be a pro. 

I’ve only been playing tennis properly for three years. Before that I had a cracked concrete basketball court that I painted with a ten year old’s idea of tennis court lines and an ancient volleyball net I lowered. 

But I don’t say that. As far as Billy’s concerned, there’s no excuse or reason in existence that will satisfy him. He just wants to be mad. I don’t blame him. I want to be mad too, it was a bad performance. I should’ve played better.

“Do you want to go back to that tin can in West Virginia?” he snaps, his pace quickening. “Do you want to go back and rot like the rest of your family? Get fat and drugged out and whine about welfare while your thirty kids run around you in your double-wide? Because I’ll dump you back in Appalachia, Campbell, I will.” 

My face burns. I stare down at my feet. 

Billy’s the only one who ever calls me by my first name. Campbell. I hate that name. It’s always been Murph. My own siblings call me Murph and their last name is Murphy too. 

Billy stops abruptly, so abruptly I nearly stumble as he shoves a sharp finger into my chest. “Life isn’t kind, Campbell. The only reason you’re not a hillbilly right now is because you have a valuable skill to offer. But you aren’t delivering on it, which makes you a bad investment. Are you a bad investment?”

I shake my head quickly. My life depends on it. 

He sighs, the darkness in his face seeming to go out with his breath. “Listen, I understand, alright? I was this farmkid from Nowhere, Missouri. It was pure luck that my dad enjoyed the Borg McEnroe rivalry, and pure luck that he made me go and play tennis and pure luck that I was any good at it. But I had a skill and I used it to become what I am, otherwise I’d be some loser in Missouri watching tennis on tv. Not everyone’s that lucky. My brother’s still there, pushing three hundred pounds, now. You want to be like your family? Or do you want to get out?”

There’s a painful knot in my throat. 

I want to fall on my knees and claw at his feet, begging for his forgiveness and promising I’ll do better. I don’t want to be my family, I don’t want to live in a double-wide on welfare with my thirty kids running around. I don’t want to be a waste! I’ll do better, I will! I’m not ungrateful, I’m not a bad investment! 

But I can’t put it into words. That stupid knot in my throat. If I open my mouth, it’ll just be sobs that come out. 

Billy believes in me and I keep letting him down. He bothered to see something in that gangly kid who snuck onto the country club court, bothered to actually help me out of the dead end situation I was in. I mean, he had to pull quite a few strings with his old coach, Ludger Fabian—yes, that Ludger Fabian—to get me into his academy for free. 

And I can’t get Kat’s stupid smirking face out of my head. Like she knows how much of a fake I am. She knew I was gonna smash that last ball into the net. 

“I want to see you be great, Campbell,” Billy continues, placing a fatherly hand on my shoulder. I swallow back the new wave of incessant tears. Somebody cares about me and I keep ruining things for both of us. 

He continues, “I’ve never seen a more beautiful serve, such raw power from someone as green as you. You could be up there in the stars, alongside Ulla Kemmer and Marta Navratilova. I want to put you there.”

I nod, daring to look up into his gaze. Billy has one of those faces that seems ten years younger than he is. And an added girth to his previously skinny frame that really just makes him look more sturdy with age. 

The cameras eat him up, commentating and and presenting awards and popping up to play the charismatic, lovable Billy Burke whenever ESPN needs him too. Eight Grand Slams, in the legendary Ludger Fabian’s menagerie of prodigies, a shoe-in for the hall of fame. 

It’s probably horrible for him, coming here and getting swarmed with fans, just for everyone to watch his own prodigy lose to that jumping gnome Kat Fabian in the second round. ‘He was a great player, but I guess he’s not much of a coach. One of those has-been’s trying to get the glory days back’, they probably mutter to each other. 

He’s not a has-been, he’s just trying to help me. He sees me in himself. 

Billy heaves another sigh, looking past me with a grim expression, like he’s seeing an even grimmer future. “But, Campbell, how many prospects didn’t pan out? How many failed? You’re not a sure thing and investors get jumpy when there aren’t any results for all the time and effort they’ve poured in. I’m your investor, soothe my worries.”

I open my mouth, though I don’t know what to say. It’s better that Billy cuts me off. “There’s nothing you can say, Campbell. I can only be soothed with action. That’s why you have until the end of this year.”

I blink. “What?”

“By the end of the year, you have to be within the top twenty-five players in the US.”

But I’m—I’m ranked one-eightieth. 

“Otherwise,” Billy continues, his tone solemn, “I’m gonna have to send you back to your brother.”