"You played appallingly," my coach said, never one to sugarcoat his words, "and you reacted even worse. Couldn't even look the girl in the eye. You know, you owe it to these kids to show good sportsmanship. It sets a precedent. And all you scowling like that does is make the newspapers go feral. You're lucky it's your brother in that newsroom, but the international papers aren't so kind."

"I know," I said, just like I knew the scowl on my face matched the one from yesterday that had been broadcast to thousands. The one I turned on that girl Spats, the rookie who made a complete fool out of me.

"You see, you say you know and yet you never change. Your emotions are too clear on your face." Coach Olaf sighs. It's possibly the thirteenth time in the last five minutes. "I'm not being funny when I say you're not getting any younger. You're meant to be in your prime right now and instead, you just played one of the worst matches of your career. You have to expect that new players are going to come out all the time, fresh faced and ready to go- that shouldn't shake you up like it did yesterday. They've got better stamina- there's nothing you can do about that. But you've got the time, the experience. You just have to hone your technique." He paused before adding, "And your face."

"No more emotions, got it," I replied in a deadpan tone. Honestly, I just wanted this little talk to be over. I knew I screwed up. I knew I let that girl walk all over me. But there was no nice way to be told that and I felt myself forced to bite my tongue before I retorted something I didn't actually believe, just to defend whatever reputation I had left. Anything I could've argued about wasn't worth it. Coach had seen my game for himself, had spent the entire evening analysing exactly where I had made crucial mistakes. To say he was wrong would be a lie.

The age thing hurt the most though. I was only twenty for Christ's sake but already it felt like there was a timer above my head, ticking away until I wasn't useful as a player anymore. And after my display yesterday, I couldn't help but feel as though my timer had been cut in half. If a fresh seventeen year old was already taking me down, how much longer did I really have on the court?

Olaf sighed for the fourteenth time. "I'm not saying no emotions. Just act happy, no matter the match's outcome. The less the papers can pick at the better. The match was a one off, okay? We'll just train harder ready for Australia and you'll be back on form."

I nodded along, forcing a small smile to my face. Yes, it was a one off. If I repeated it enough times I might begin to believe it.

A glance at my wristwatch told me my ticket out of this conversation had arrived. "Don't you need to get to Quigley?"

Olaf startled, looking at his own watch. "Of course, I need to chat to him before he goes on. You coming?"

I shook my head. "I'll come to his next match. I'm going to train. Work on my serve."

"And your forehand," Olaf added.

"Yes, and my forehand," I repeated, adding it to my mental list of shortcomings.

Coach turned and began to walk off. After a couple of steps he threw over his shoulder, "And no scowling!"

I took the opportunity to give him an incredulous look behind his back. Christ, if I couldn't frown during my practising, when the cameras weren't even on, then when could I? Still, I grabbed the bucket of tennis balls I had brought down to the court and set myself up on the baseline. Any tennis fan was either watching the Open on TV or attending the event itself, so even the surrounding courts were empty. It was the perfect opportunity to practise- to fail in peace, without judgement for once.

I picked the first ball out. Breathed. Bounced it four times.

When I hit the ball the sound cleaved the silence in half. And when it bounced into the service box, hitting the corner where the service and centre lines converged, I breathed a sigh of relief. Then I did it ten more times.

By the time the bucket was empty, my mind had calmed, my faith in my abilities restored. Maybe not all was lost after all.

*

I trained until the sun went down and the court was covered in tennis balls. The outside flood lights had kicked in and it was tempting to stay and practise more, but my body cried out for rest. There was always tomorrow, and now I'd beaten down some of the insecurities that had arisen from yesterday's crippling defeat, I knew it would be easier going forward.

I was out of the American Open but that didn't mean I was off the tour. Right now, I had to prioritise my training- work harder and longer hours, plus study my opponents in their matches- as well as supporting Quigley.

Grabbing my phone from my gym bag, I immediately saw the mass of notifications proclaiming my brother's win. He was an incredible doubles player and today's match showed it. I quickly found a clip of the winning shot- a stunning backhand from his partner to close the match out. My other brother, Duncan, had already written a report on it, celebrating Quigley's success in a way that was still professional. It was a credit to his skill that he could care about us so much but still write columns that were unbiased and informative. Both of my brothers were incredibly talented whereas I... Well, I was still working on it.

While I was in the taxi back to the Airbnb I was sharing with Quigley, I sent him a quick text to congratulate him and then scrolled through Twitter. Before I could stop myself, I had typed my own name into the search bar. It was a terrible thing to do. So terrible that I had convinced everyone in my life that I had stopped doing it. But the truth was, I always had to know what people were saying.

And sure enough, there were plenty of tweets to get my teeth into since my match yesterday. I saw myself clearly agitated in stills and clips, whacking the ball too hard in frustration, cursing under my breath. And my opponent, one of the newest additions to team USA, Carmelita Spats, looking calm, sweet, vaguely innocent. Tweet after tweet praised her on her technique- something that was completely well deserved. But then came the ones talking about our characters, how different we were, how I was entitled and full of myself and how I expected to win simply because I had more time on tour. How I was a bad loser and a mess of a player and I was sloppy on my forehand and too slow on my returns. How I'd fallen from grace and lost my touch and thrown a tantrum as soon as I wasn't winning. How my hair was a mess and my outfit was wrong and how my entire tennis career had gone down the pan because someone, somewhere had uncovered a picture of me eating a cheeseburger six years ago.

Getting out of the taxi was the only thing that stopped my doom scrolling, and I lugged my tennis gear into the Airbnb with a sick feeling in my throat and the beginning of a headache starting behind my eyes. Luckily, it was easy to push that all aside when I saw who was in the kitchen.

"Quigley!" I exclaimed, immediately going in for a hug. "Well done on your match today."

He hugged me back. "It would've been nice to see you."

I stepped back, my smile gone. "I'm sorry." Suddenly, I felt my eyes sting, emotion welling up from nowhere. I blinked it back. "I couldn't bear it today, I'm sorry," I repeated.

"I'm sorry you lost yesterday," he said gently. "I watched your game back afterwards and..." He trailed off, his expression grim.

"I know, it was awful," I said. "I don't know what happened to me. Maybe I got into my head too much, I don't know. I really should've been there today to see you win. Everyone's saying it was a great match."

"And I got the winning shot, which makes it even better," a familiar voice said from behind me.

I turned around to see Violet, Quigley's doubles partner and girlfriend. Her presence was instantly felt, bringing a smile to my face as I hugged her as well. Violet was just a ray of sunshine and I couldn't wish for a better partner for my brother, both on the court and off.

"Well done today," I told her.

"Sorry to barge in like this," Violet said, giving me a sympathetic look. "Our accommodation still isn't ready, if you can believe it. And the hotel we were in last night really wasn't it."

I shrugged. I hadn't realised she would be staying with us but it wasn't a problem. "Honestly, it makes sense for you and Quigley to stay together anyway."

Violet leaned on the kitchen island and sighed dramatically. "I know, I've been saying that. It's just my coach. He gets all weird about it and says we should stay apart. He tries to frame it as he wants everyone he's coaching under one roof but it's definitely not that. Never mind we're both grown adults."

"Well, he is rather... traditional," I agreed. Violet and her brother had had the same bumbling coach for as long as I could remember. All he seemed to do was sit on the sidelines of the court and cough into a handkerchief, missing points and crucible parts of every match. But he must be doing something right considering how good Violet was. As for her brother... Well, I tried not to think of him at all.

It was late so we decided to order food in. That, and we were too lazy to cook. Back home, there were meal plans and personal trainers and a chef that lived on site to make us pre approved meals. But while we were out on tour, delivered food came in clutch.

We moved into the living room to wait and Quigley, never one to sit still, began opening drawers and cupboards until he found a collection of board games.

"Oh no," I complained. "We're all too competitive for this."

"It'll be fun," he argued.

"It'll end in none of us speaking."

Violet laughed. "That might not be such a bad thing." Then she turned to me. "Doesn't he talk so much?"

"Hey!" Quigley exclaimed.

I nodded furiously. "He never stops."

Just then, the doorbell rang, signalling our food had arrived.

"Isadora, get it!" Quigley said instantly. And when I opened my mouth to retort he added, "I'm the older triplet."

He wasn't, but I let him get away with it simply because I was hungry and I didn't want to leave the delivery driver waiting. I hurried to the door and pulled it open. However, it wasn't the delivery man at all. Instead, someone else stood on our doorstep. Someone I hadn't seen in person for years.

I frowned. "Klaus? What're you doing here?"

He blinked back at me, clearly not expecting to see me either. Then I spied the luggage at his feet and things started making a twisted sort of sense.

"Klaus, you're here!" Violet said from behind me.

I stepped out of the doorway so she could hug her brother and help bring his bags in. All the while I felt frozen. I hadn't seen Klaus face to face like this since we were kids. Since our coaches had us train together. Since he made my life hell on the court. Now, we'd both grown up and were (supposedly) playing the best tennis we'd ever played in our lives. So why did I suddenly feel nine years old again, a splintered fragment of the person I was now?