Bryce Coulter shifted his weight from foot to foot, twirling the racket in his hand while his opponent methodically bounced the fresh tennis ball four times against the green hard court just outside the white baseline. C'mon, c'mon. Let's do this.
The roar of the crowd was one large blur of noise. He couldn't pick out voices individually, but he could tell that they were on his side. Each time he'd forced the set to a tiebreak they'd gone crazy, only to calm as his opponent had slowly gotten to him and pulled the break his way.
Now, Bryce was the one up in the tiebreak 5—1, and if he could just get those last points it would force a fourth set. No one had come this close to forcing a fourth set from Jason Cartwright all tournament. Hopefully, that would be enough for this US Open appearance. He'd made it to the semi—finals, and no one expected him to win. Even his family, who were normally hardest on him, had admitted that he had accomplished something to be proud of, and that there was no shame in losing to Cartwright as long as he played his hardest along the way, of course.
But Bryce wanted this. He wanted that fourth set, to be the one to take a set away from Cartwright.
The ball hit the ground for the sixth time and Cartwright held on to it, his eyes locked on Bryce. Bryce narrowed his gaze and stood in his hunched position, shifting his weight in anticipation.
Cartwright tossed it up and swung, looking for an ace. Bryce reacted immediately, moving to his right, his arm drawn back, ready to swing and return the serve. But then his foot hit the hard top and something went…wrong.
Pain. In his knee, in his arm from where he hit the ground. Fuck. No. No. Please, no. Bryce clutched his leg as he curled up into a ball on the court, his dropped racket still vibrating on the hard court surface inches from his face. The brilliant sun still beaming down on him.
The noise in the stadium changed completely in a split second. But all Bryce could hear was his own pulse throbbing in his ears, matching the throbbing in his knee. In the next second, his trainer's callused hands were on him, trying to ease his grip on his knee so they could inspect it properly. But Bryce already knew the truth. He wouldn't be getting up any time soon—not without help, at least.
He blocked out the roar of the crowd, and his coach's panicked shouts. As his senses returned, and he mechanically answered the medical personnel's questions, his mind raced. Was his family watching and listening? His parents were in the box, but his brothers and sister were all at school. If they were watching, they were listening to the commentators' speculations about what he'd just done to his knee, and whether or not it would end his career. The Coulter family's rising star snuffed out in a moment. Poetic and painful.
