Page 49 of Painted Return
He wasn’t just beating them; he was destroying them. He was hitting the ball harder, flatter, and closer to the lines than he ever had before.
“Play,” the umpire finally called, issuing a code violation to the Russian.
Blake tossed the ball.
He didn’t aim for the corners. He aimed straight for the Russian’s body. The serve was a blistering 135 miles per hour, a flat, heavy missile that jammed the Russian, forcing him to hit a weak, defensive block.
Blake was already moving forward. He took the ball out of the air, driving a forehand volley deep into the open court.
Winner.
The crowd in Dubai, usually polite and reserved, roared in appreciation. Blake didn’t acknowledge them. He walked back to the baseline, his face a mask of absolute, decisive focus.
In the player box, Doug watched him, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. Doug had seen Blake play angry before. He had seen him play frustrated, exhausted, and injured.
But he had never seen him play like this.
It was like watching a machine. There was no joy in it, no passion, no art. It was pure, unadulterated execution.
The match lasted exactly one hour and twelve minutes. Blake won 6-2, 6-1.
When he hit the final winner — a backhand down the line that the Russian didn’t even try to chase — Blake didn’t celebrate. He didn’t pump his fist or look up at the box. He simply walked to the net, shook the Russian’s hand, and packed his bag.
He walked off the court, ignoring the cameras, ignoring the fans leaning over the railing with oversized tennis balls and sharpies.
He pushed through the doors of the locker room, the sudden blast of air conditioning hitting his sweat-soaked skin. He dropped his bag by his locker, sat down on the bench, and buried his face in his hands.
The adrenaline of the match began to fade, and the cold, empty void in his mind began to fill with the images he had been fighting to suppress for five days.
Andre’s face, pale and terrified. The smell of the flat. The sound of the door clicking shut behind him.
His phone buzzed in his bag.
Blake didn’t move. He knew who it was. His phone had been buzzing constantly since he landed in Dubai. Texts from Andre, pleading, urgent, broken. Texts from Liam, apologizing, begging for a chance to explain. Texts from Talia, long, rambling messages filled with tears and regret.
He hadn’t read a single one. He had deleted them all without opening them, the act of swiping left on the screen a small, petty assertion of control in a world that had suddenly spun violently off its axis.
Doug walked into the locker room, carrying two bottles of water. He tossed one to Blake, who caught it without looking up.
“That was a clinic,” Doug said, sitting down on the bench next to him.
“You hit thirty-two winners and four unforced errors. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you play a cleaner match.”
“He was slow,” Blake said, his voice flat. “He didn’t move his feet on the backhand side.”
Doug looked at him, his expression serious.
“Blake, you can’t keep doing this.”
“Doing what?”
“Playing like you’re trying to punish the ball for existing,” Doug said. “You’re hitting everything at a hundred percent. You’re going to blow out your shoulder, or your knee, or your mind. You need to pace yourself.”
“I’m fine,” Blake said, opening the water bottle and taking a long drink.
“You’re not fine,” Doug countered, his voice rising slightly. “You haven’t slept more than three hours a night since we got here. You’re barely eating. You’re running on pure adrenaline and rage, and it’s not sustainable.”
Blake turned to look at him, his blue eyes cold and hard. “I’m in the semifinals, Doug. I’m doing my job. Let me do my job.”
