Page 147 of The Incredible Ordinary

My heart picks up speed.

Will I? Really?

Is this what I want?

I don’t know.

I…

Maybe?

I might.

I could.

Maybe I do want that.

It’s not a resounding yes.

But it’s not a resounding no either.

“But,” Jordan says pointedly, “then I remember I’m a high school dropout, and I’m not qualified to give advice to anybody.”

I welcome the distraction from my own spiraling thoughts.

“It’s not strictly about having qualifications, though. It’s also about having experience. You can go to school. Don’t argue, and don’t dismiss the idea right away either. Just think about it. That’s all you have to do for now.”

He’s very still for a little while, but then he slides his fingers between mine, lifts our linked hands, and kisses the back of mine.

My heart skips a beat.

He looks up and smiles at me. “What about you? Did you always want to play tennis?”

I resist making a face. “No.”

There’s no hope he’s going to drop it, and if I’m being honest with myself, I really don’t want him to. I want him to know me. All of me.

“My father started teaching me when I was four. He was at home because he was injured, so he was both bored and frustrated.”

“Doesn’t sound like an ideal combination for teaching something to a child,” Jordan says.

I laugh. “You wouldn’t think so. But then it turned out I was really fucking good.”

“And back then you enjoyed the game?” he says.

“It was okay. Mostly, it was a way to get Gerard’s attention. I got better and…” I shake my head. “For the first time, it felt like he was interested in me.”

He squeezes my hand instead of saying anything.

“But then he lost interest, because Gerard always did. And I tried for years to get back into his sphere of interest with not much luck. After that I got pissed off. Bitter, too. And I’m petty enough to have my revenge. So from around the time I was aboutten, I played tennis to be better than him. And not just better as in, ‘oh I can enjoy the knowledge that I’m a better player.’ No, my goal was to be publicly, loudly better than him, so that when somebody mentioned our family and tennis, they’d be talking about me. My wins. My records.”

He nods. “And?”

“I have more Grand Slam titles than him. I’ve spent more weeks as number one in ATP rankings. I have more ATP Finals titles and more Wimbledon titles. I have more Masters 1000 titles. I have the Olympic gold he never got. I’ve won majors on all three surfaces, and I have more career match wins, a longer winning streak, and a better overall win percentage.”

It doesn’t make me sound that great when put like that. I spent my career trying to one up my old man. Trying to erase his name from history. Never really loving the game like most other people did.

“Sounds…” He breathes out and looks up. “Lonely.”