Chapter 7

The Court

AN: Reminder that these are unrelated pieces about Blake and his sister growing up.

Pressure is a privilege.

Even in her sleep, the plague hanging in the tunnel to Arthur Ashe Stadium haunted Meredith Moran. She'd been given a chance to shine, but she'd blown it. The pressure had proved to be too much.

Pressure is a privilege— it only comes to those who earn it.

Billie Jean King's words mocked her. The pressure from her parents, her coaches, and her teachers felt like hands around her throat. How could this feeling be a privilege? Maybe she was too young to understand.

As she stared at her tennis bag that she'd thrown near her vanity, she began to sweat beneath her blankets. Throwing back the covers, she flipped on her bedside lamp before walking toward the door. Then, she tiptoed down the back staircase. For a moment, when she stopped at the next landing, she debated waking her mother, but she decided against it and continued down to the first floor.

"I think it's self-explanatory."

The back staircase dumped her near the pantry. Hearing voices, she turned toward the kitchen— Ben and Kate were awake, chatting by the counter in the dim light. They weren't fooling anyone because the entire family knew that they were seeing one another. If the late-night conversations weren't evidence enough, Blake had caught them kissing in the garden at the beginning of summer.

"Hey Hon," Kate, the chef, called out once she'd spotted Meredith standing in the shadows. "Can I make you something?"

Shaking her head, she took a seat at the island.

"If you lose five pounds, getting back to center will be easier for you," echoed in her head.

"You've got to be bloody starved," Ben commented. His thick British accent made him look that much cuter in his pajamas. "You locked yourself away in your room after returning from Queens."

"How about a Cosmo?" Wearing a small smile, Meredith added, "But hold the cranberry."

When Ben laughed, Kate shot him a death stare, silently telling him not to encourage underage drinking.

"How about some tea?"

Opening the cabinet, Kate pulled down a mug that matched the two that already sat on the countertop. After she poured the steaming water from the kettle over the teabag, she stirred in a spoonful of honey. Then, Kate rounded the island and passed the mug into her hands. Before she returned to her spot next to Ben, she gently squeezed her left shoulder.

"Did you watch?" Meredith asked as she pulled on the string of the teabag.

"Of course," Kate said with a sad smile. "Ben and I camped out on the couch with the dogs."

"Don't tell your mother," Ben pleaded, knowing that the golden retrievers were forbidden from the furniture.

As Meredith laughed, she mindlessly reached down and stroked the top of Poppy's head. Just then, Major decided to plop down beside the feet of the stool. He panted, happy to be close.

"You lost your head out there."

Midway through the match, she'd had a panic attack. Well, now she knew that's what had happened. She'd been up 6-2, 3-2 when she'd started to feel dizzy. After losing her serve, the feeling of not being able to breathe came next. Luckily, it had gone unnoticed by most, but the people who knew her had known. In the end, she'd lost 6-2, 3-6, 2-6.

"I should have demolished her, but everything just got to me," Meredith mumbled.

She'd been expected to win. Although her opponent had been another wild card, she'd only lost to Emma Price once while playing on the junior circuit. And that was when she'd been playing with a blown-out shoulder.

"It happens, Darling" Ben told her.

Leaning back against the edge of the counter, Kate added, "It's important to remember that this was only your U.S. Open debut! Making it to the quarterfinals at seventeen is an accomplishment in itself."

Yes, but at the moment it didn't make her feel better.

Meredith took a single sip of tea before she whispered, "I should head to bed."

With school tomorrow, she needed to be up by seven. Her mother had urged her to take the day off tomorrow, but she'd already skipped the first two days of her senior year for the tournament. She was anxious to get caught up. Missing one day was the equivalent of missing one week at other schools.

"You should tell your father to head up as well," Kate said.

"He's still up?"

"In his study."

After letting herself in without knocking, Meredith decided to pause in the doorway. Listening to the rustling of files, she took in the dark paneling of the room. It used to feel warm and welcoming.

"Daddy?"

Hearing his name, Fred Moran looked up from the binder clutched in his hands.

"Sweetheart," he greeted.

Because he hadn't mumbled something about being busy, Meredith took a seat on the sofa. The leather felt cool against her legs. Pulling the throw blanket from the back of the couch, she spread it across her lap.

"Roger wants you to run in the morning to keep loose," he said. "Even with the season dying down, he wants to jump right back into it."

"Daddy, I'm done," she told him. Swallowing, tears welled in the corners of her eyes. She loved the sport, but, after three years competing on the junior circuit, she was burnt out. Juggling her training with her schoolwork was proving to be impossible. "It's too much."

Dropping the binder, Fred asked, "You want to quit tennis?"

"No, but I..."

Need a break?

Need two or three Valiums?"

Need to talk to a therapist?

Staring at her hands, she mumbled, "I don't know." Meredith let out a breath. "Maybe I shouldn't be playing competitively anymore."

"If this is about what happened on the court then you need to forget about it," he said. "Meredith, you're fine."

But she wasn't fine.

Pressure is a privilege.

This was all too much.

"I don't know why you get so worked up."

"If you lose five pounds, getting back to center will be easier for you," echoed in her head.

And that was only the beginning.

After storming out of her father's study, Meredith marched up the front staircase. Instead of falling into her bed, she walked into her closet and started throwing clothing into a bag. Once it was full, she returned to her room, grabbed her phone from her desk, and dialed a familiar number.

"Hey, Jeff."

"Meredith Moran," he said smugly. "I haven't heard from you since June. Have you missed me?"

Her shoulder ached.

"Pick me up," she told him, biting her lip.

Jeffery Rhodes III would drive his Range Rover to their house on East 73rd Street instead of using his parents' driver because he hated the extra pair of eyes. They would head out to the Hamptons, pushing 95 mph on the expressway, but she wouldn't care. The house would be empty because his parents were in Europe until the end of September. They would stay the rest of the week, missing school. She'd already missed two days, so what were two more? They would get drunk, they would have sex, and they would pop pills because no more matches meant no more drug tests. Her parents would be pissed, understandably, but she wouldn't care because she couldn't take the pressure anymore.

Pressure is a privilege.

She was still too young to understand.

In October, she would pick up a racket, questioning whether she really missed it.

Meredith would decide that she didn't.

Pressure is a privilege— it only comes to those who earn it.

In December, she would return to the court.

"I want to train again," she would tell her father. "Just in case I want to play in college," she would quickly add.