Chapter Text
Colin remembered the first time he played the Australian Open. His entire family came out, making the exhausting trek from London, only for him to lose in straight sets in the first round.
If his memory served correctly, he’d won a couple of stunning points, enough to show the crowds that he had real promise. Sparks of his natural talent that everyone had been blowing smoke about for years and years on the juniors circuit. But at only eighteen, in his debut amongst the professional tour, his first major, he went down spectacularly to a player ranked 84th in the world.
He hadn’t shaken the embarrassment off by the time he played the French Open, also losing in the first round. He hadn’t expected much, clay wasn’t really his thing. He could still taste the remnants of it in his mouth from that last fall on the court, chasing down a ball on a match point that was clearly savable, but he stumbled and missed, tumbling face first into the clay court beneath him. When he saw his mother afterwards, he refused to hug her, citing the red stains mixed with sweat all over his body, (looking eerily similar to blood, symbolic battle wounds from his on court demise) but mainly not wanting to look her in the eye. At least fewer siblings came that time, only Benedict and Daphne showed up in Paris. He went straight into the locker room and cried in the shower, watching his clay-blood swirl down the drain.
In Stuttgart, he built up his confidence a bit by winning two matches before losing in the third round. He always felt like grass was his best chance anyway. Afterall, he grew up with his heart set on Wimbledon.
It wasn’t a unique dream amongst the English by any stretch of the imagination, yet he couldn't help but continue chasing it down, no matter how crazy it sounded. Growing up hitting the courts for hours on end, winning titles on the juniors circuit, even stepping onto the court at his first major, it all seemed within his reach. Until the moment he heard “Game, Set, Match, Rudnizcak,” a player who retired years ago anyway and never went on to make it further than the Round of 16 in a major.
That first Wimbledon lived rent free in Colin’s brain for years afterwards. Hyped as the up-and-coming hometown hero. The best chance Great Britain has seen at a major title since Sir Andy Murray. Newly nineteen, Colin crumbled under the pressure. He walked off the court in shame, his head hung low, the pity cheers from the British crowds echoing in his head as he re-entered the tunnel on his way to the showers.
6-1, 6-2, 6-0.
The entire Bridgerton family had showed up to watch him eat shit. He couldn’t talk to any of them until the following day, preferring to wallow in his failure. When he finally faced them, it was exactly what he expected. His mother was too nice to him and the look in Anthony’s eyes said “you gave up university for this?” and Colin didn’t have the stomach to defend himself.
Throughout the rest of the tour, he played a few smaller tournaments, even winning a few matches here and there. He begged his mum to stop coming, but anything in Europe she insisted she would be at.
Come August, he didn’t even make it into the US Open main draw, crashing out in qualifying rounds. His first trip to Flushing Meadows and he didn’t even get to set foot on the bloody Grandstand, let alone Ashe, the stadium lights blurry in the rearview mirror of the car taking him back to his hotel. He flew out the next morning and cut the rest of his season short.
The trades were unbearable after that first year on tour. His moniker of “The Future of British Tennis” completely dismantled, replaced with titles such as “The Boy Who Crashed Out” or “The Overhyped Bridgerton Fiasco” from more than a fair few commentators. His team assured him that he wasn’t the first player to have a rough go of it in their debut and he wouldn’t be the last. He just needed to focus and work harder.
At Christmas, he sat his mother down and asked her to stop coming to his matches. He cited the inconvenience to her, stating simply that it wasn’t reasonable for her to traipse all over the globe to see him, especially now that he got his rookie season out of the way. She’d agreed reluctantly, making him promise that he would let her come when he made it past the Round of 16. He conceded, not realizing at the time that it meant she wouldn’t come to any of his matches for another six years.
The only exception was Wimbledon. It was home turf, she insisted. She had to come. In his fourth year on the tour, he made it to the third round, but lost in straight sets. A recently graduated Eloise joined his mother, Anthony, and Benedict for the disappointing match, enjoying her last free summer before Oxford. Everyone avoided his gaze after his crushing loss, the glimmer of hope being snatched yet again from his blistered fingers, but Eloise looked him dead in the eyes and said “you played like shit.”
Violet gasped, Benedict punched her in the side and Anthony wrapped an arm around Colin’s shoulders, steering him away from committing a very public display of violence against his little sister. Death by Tennis Racket rattled around in his brain.
For the next three years, he never made it past the second round of Wimbledon. He was only granted entry as a courtesy anyway, as a player representing Great Britain, barely able to qualify on his own at a whopping all time high ranking of 78th in the world.
At the start of his eighth year on the ATP Tour, Colin kicked off the season early a few days before New Year’s Eve at the Brisbane International to warm up for another Australian Open. (He’d nabbed a qualifying place by the skin of his teeth.) He was up a set and dominating in the second, feeling the confidence start to ooze through his veins when it happened as he chased down a return on a pretty strong serve from his opponent. It sounded like a small pop in his knee, and then he was down, and then the blinding pain started, shooting up his leg, causing his abdominal muscles to clench, and didn’t let up. He cried out, forgetting he was in the middle of the court, hundreds of spectators in the stands, cameras watching him from every angle.
His season was over before it started.
—
January in London was miserably cold, even more so when recovering from knee surgery. His mum begged him to recover at her house so she could take care of him, but he refused, stating the need for his independence at twenty five. His flat had an elevator and he could make it up and down with his crutches. However, his first week of recovery was non-negotiable, which was how he found himself hopped up on pain meds laying on his mother’s couch, stewing in his misery, watching a young American rising star make it to the third round of the Australian Open at only nineteen.
Hyacinth asked if she could watch with him when she came home from school. Colin had been away from home for most of the last seven years, and realized when he really looked at her that he barely knew her. She was almost fourteen now, a proper teenager, but he still remembered her as a little girl. And yet, she was wearing makeup and texting boys and rolling her eyes at their mother the way Daphne used to before she became a mother herself. He should be taking this opportunity to try harder with his family, but he could barely muster the energy to grumble out a “sure,” letting her plop down next to him with her laptop.
He could just blame the pain meds.
The American, Steve Wilder, eventually made it to the Quarterfinals. Colin threw the TV remote across his childhood bedroom and let the anger and frustration wash over him as the sedatives lulled him to sleep, concluding the worst week and a half of his life.
He dreamt about his childhood. His dad put a racket in his hands the summer after he turned four at Aubrey Hall. The whole family played together. Anthony and Benedict were pretty decent already. Colin took to it like a natural, beyond anything his parents had seen or expected. Every summer, he inched closer to his older brothers’ level of play, and by eight, he’d surpassed them. Edmund Bridgerton was a humble man, but he was in awe of his son’s talent, and spurred him on, constantly reminding him to always be the best he could be.
He dreamt of the tennis camps he attended. The at home rallies where he had to play at less than half his ability so that Daphne could stay in the game, otherwise she would cry. His compassionate heart would never allow it, so he let her win, and his father looked on proudly. He dreamt of Edmund taking him to meet with a coach, who told Colin he had real promise and could consider going pro one day.
He dreamt of the juniors tournaments where he made it to the finals of most, grabbing a few titles that didn’t mean anything anymore.
He dreamt of being in Florida for a two week invitational when he was twelve. Benedict, newly eighteen, had gone with him, since mum was too close to giving birth. That’s when they got the call. He was across the Atlantic Ocean when he learned his father died. A bee sting. A bee sting?
He dreamt of the sounds of his trainers pounding against the hardcourt after the funeral, the rhythm of the game the only thing keeping him sane. He threw himself even harder into his training. It was the only way he could survive. If he had nothing left of his father, he had this. He could make him proud. Realize their dream together.
Colin woke up in a cold sweat, wincing at the pain in his knee. He wanted to leave and go back to his flat, he really did. But he knew realistically, he was a long way off from that. He graciously (as graciously as he could) accepted his mother’s help as she nursed him back to health, bringing him pain medicine, and cooking his meals. As much as he would love to wallow and eat a massive cheeseburger, he insisted all of his food be kept as lean as possible. If he was going to be off his feet and unable to train for months, he couldn’t take any chances for his conditioning to worsen beyond what was in his control. And this he could control.
It was a Saturday, he realized reluctantly, which meant he needed to brace himself to expect a barrage of Bridgerton visitors to the house. If he hid in his room, they would just come find him there, so he reluctantly made his way to the elevator (a genius addition to the house Violet added several years prior, having decided she wanted to live and die in this house) and planted himself at the kitchen table.
Anthony stopped by early, but frowned as he scarfed down a plate of eggs and sausages Violet had cooked up, leaving Colin staring down resentfully at his vegetable egg white omelet.
“I can’t stay long,” Anthony mumbled, sipping from a teacup. “The Financial Director of this company we’re trying to acquire has been driving me mad and I agreed to meet up with her to go over some of the documents today. I just wanted to stop by and see how you’re doing.”
“Incredible. Amazing. Couldn’t be bloody better,” Colin said, pushing his plate away from him.
Anthony sighed and clapped a hand on his shoulder.
“I shouldn’t have said it like that. I just meant—”
“I know what you meant,” Colin grumbled out. “Sorry. Just in a mood.”
“You’re allowed to be in a mood.”
“Yeah, but that doesn’t mean you need to be a total dick,” Eloise’s voice cut through as she pushed her way into the kitchen. “But I guess that would be new for you, so who am I to expect a personality change with that knee repair?”
Colin was rolling his eyes so hard at his sister that he almost missed the tiny redhead that strolled in behind her. He cleared his throat in embarrassment, and stared down at his knee contraption, the brace to end all braces, feeling sorry for himself again.
“Hey,” Penelope said quietly as she leaned over to hug Anthony. He smiled and hugged her back. Since when did they have a hugging relationship?
“Penelope,” Colin said in greeting, offering her a stiff head nod. He’d known his sister’s best friend well when they were growing up, but he was just now realizing it had been a while since he saw her last. Years, maybe.
“Hey, Colin. I’m really sorry to hear about your injury. I made you these.” She pulled out a small tin from the tote bag she was carrying. “Just some ginger cookies. I remember you liked them from like a million years ago, and I just… yeah. Thought you might enjoy them.” She tucked a curl behind her ear and offered him a half-smile.
He tried to feign excitement, accepting the tin. “That’s thoughtful of you,” he started. God, he really would kill for a ginger cookie right now, especially after watching Anthony demolish his breakfast. His stomach growled at the thought. “But I kind of can’t—”
“I actually made a recipe I found that uses almond flour and just honey as the sweetener and some coconut oil. I just figured you would prefer something a little healthier given—”
She’d barely finished her sentence before Colin ripped the top off the tin and shoved a cookie into his mouth. He didn’t have a chance to even be embarrassed about it, the soft, chewy cookie melting on his tongue, warm spices dancing across his tastebuds, settling in his stomach like a salve on a burn.
“Holy shit,” he mumbled around a second cookie. “These are unbelievable.” He ignored Eloise’s snickers as she poured cups of tea for herself and Penelope, sliding one over to her friend.
“Glad you like,” Penelope said quietly as she sank into a chair across from him and held her teacup up to her lips, blowing on it softly.
Violet re-entered the room from her task of changing Colin’s sheets and piled up two plates full of eggs, sausages, and toast for the girls, which bothered Colin less as he chewed happily upon another cookie.
With a few more vague words of wisdom and empty encouragement, Anthony departed, and was soon replaced by Daphne with little Auggie, whom Colin adored, but did not have the energy for, so they left soon after as well.
After she helped him to the couch, Penelope settled across from him and bit her lip. “I hope you don’t mind that I’m here. Your mum invited me, and I wanted to see how you’re doing.”
He waved her off. “No, don’t be silly. It’s fine. I’m glad to see you.”
She smiled and picked at a piece of lint on her jumper. “You too.”
“Yeah, I’m in rare form,” he scoffed.
“Sorry,” she blushed. “I didn’t mean it like that.”
“You’re fine.” He shook his head. “Sorry. I don’t know why I’m being like this.”
Penelope examined him carefully, leaning forward to rest her forearms on her knees. “You’re allowed to be upset. What happened to you is objectively upsetting. No one is expecting you to be cheerful right now. You do know that, right?”
Colin felt a knot of emotion form in his chest as he met her blue eyes. He inhaled slowly, opening his mouth to reply, when Eloise blustered back into the room, this time with Hyacinth. He loved his family dearly, but if there was any combination of siblings he dreaded being around more than any other, it was Eloise and Hyacinth.
BBC Sport was replaying yesterday’s Quarterfinal matches, filling Colin with dread. His sisters chatted amiably around him throughout the day, trying to distract him with nonsense he couldn’t have cared less about. He could feel his sour mood grating against their chipper conversation like sandpaper and his knee was throbbing. He just wanted to get away from it all.
An opportunity presented itself when he insisted he could get his own pain medication, so long as someone handed him his crutches. He hobbled away slowly, grateful for a few moments of peace.
His bedroom hadn’t changed much over the years. He never intended to be back here, but as he sat at the end of his bed, staring at an oversized framed poster of Roger Federer on his wall, the weight of his setback sat heavier on his heart. He was going to lose so much time.
The tears came on surprisingly fast. Through the haze of his anguish, it was hard to know how long ago it started. The crutches fell to the floor with a clatter as he flopped back against the mattress.
A small knock at the side of his wide open door frame snapped him out of his stupor. He sat upright.
“H–Hi,” Penelope squeaked out. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—I just, I was down the hall on the phone, and I heard you…”
He wiped furiously at his face, trying to hide the evidence, as though he could wipe her memory of him crying as well.
“I’m fine. Just having another pity party, that’s all. You can go back downstairs.”
She paused in the doorframe. “Can I get you anything?”
He shook his head.
“Have you taken your pain meds?”
“That’s what I came up here to do.”
“Where are they?” She stepped further into the room. He could have stopped her, but he didn’t. Her presence wasn’t quite as agitating as any of the members of his family currently.
“Medicine cabinet above the sink.”
Penelope nodded and crossed the bedroom into the ensuite, grabbing the pill bottle and filling a cup to fill with water. She brought it over and stood in front him holding them out in her small hands.
Colin let out a slow, deep breath. “Thanks.”
After he swallowed the pill, she wordlessly sat next to him on the mattress, keeping him company while he sipped the rest of the water, realizing how dehydrated the crying had made him. When the glass was empty, she held her hand out. His brain was too fuzzy to think, to protest, so he placed it back in her palm.
“Better?” she asked.
Closing his eyes momentarily, he huffed out a small laugh. “Kind of.”
He thought she would get up to go bring the glass back to the sink, or leave altogether, but she didn’t. She remained seated next to him, staring up at the big poster across the way.
After a few moments of silence, she spoke again. “I don’t know much about tennis, I’m afraid. The basics, sure. But beyond that? I got nada.”
He laughed a real laugh this time. Something about her candor disarmed him. “I’m starting to think it’s not all it’s cracked up to be.”
“Now I know you don’t believe that.”
He shrugged. “I dunno. Maybe I took it too seriously. Or not seriously enough. I’m still trying to decide.”
She giggled at that. “Well, maybe both are true to some extent.”
“How do you figure?”
“You tell me. What’s your argument for either side?”
Colin sighed. “Maybe if I’d tried harder, worked harder, pushed myself more earlier on, I wouldn’t have injured myself. Maybe I’d have done better in other bigger tournaments, and not ended up at that one at all. Or maybe I still would have, but I wouldn’t have gotten injured if I’d been faster or sharper or more flexible.”
“I can see why you might think that,” she said quietly. His eyebrows rose at her reaction. Any single member of his family (bar Eloise) would never have let him get the words out. They’d reassure him he was doing amazing and that he did everything he could and his time would come. Blowing smoke, as they say.
He took a few moments to compose himself, letting his hazy thoughts congeal in his head, unsure how he wanted to express the fears that plagued him for years. Unclear, even, why in this moment he felt the need to share them with his younger sister’s best friend.
“But also,” he started, swallowing down the discomfort of his admission. “Maybe I shouldn’t have bothered. Maybe I was just never good enough to begin with. I’ve been wasting time. I mean, I don’t even have much of a life outside of tennis. No friends, no girlfriends, I barely get to do normal shit like go to concerts or take a holiday. I mean, fuck, everyone thinks that because I’m traveling all the time that I’m having cocktails on the beach instead of sweating my arse off in gyms or practice courts in the blazing heat of Miami. And what do I have to show for any of it? I barely break even off the prize money and now I’ve got a bum knee and a reputation in shambles. What was even the fucking point?” His blood pounded through his veins.
His question was rhetorical, but he could tell by the look on her face, that she was formulating a response. It didn’t come quickly, though. Penelope liked to think through her words. A stark departure from the Bridgerton tradition of blurting out the first thing that came to your head.
“That could all be true too. I just have a sneaking suspicion it’s not. You’re at your lowest, which is understandable, questioning every choice you’ve made that led you here. I get that.”
“How do you get that?” he asked, brow furrowed in confusion.
She shrugged, rolling the empty water glass between her delicate fingers. “I know what it’s like to be unsure of yourself. You don’t have to be a tennis player to know that. I just think in times like this, it’s important to remember why you started in the first place.”
Colin thought briefly about all the missed birthdays and holidays. He didn’t meet Auggie until he was already three months old. Being on the tour ate up so much of his life, and he felt cheated suddenly. Like he gave up all of those things for nothing. Penelope broke him out of his reverie.
“Doesn’t that mean something to you still?” She gestured her chin towards the wall in front of them, a collection of tennis posters covering the expensive wallpaper, Federer at the forefront. “Didn’t they inspire you to go for it? Why does that have to mean less now just because you’ve had a setback?”
“It’s not just a setback, it’s major surgery,” he groaned. “It’d be like starting over.”
“And lots of professional athletes bounce back from major surgery. I’m not saying it’ll be easy, and I don’t exactly know what it takes to get through it. I’m just saying, you don’t have to throw away your dreams because it got harder. You can get back there.”
“What if I can’t?” he asked, voicing his actual biggest fear out loud. The dark cloud looming overhead. “What if I try and give it everything I’ve got and I can’t get it back?” Shame trickled throughout his body.
Penelope paused again, not rushing her response. She spoke quietly, cradling his insecurities with her soft spoken understanding. “Then at least you’ll know for sure. And you won’t look back with regrets.”
Her words washed over him, the sheer directness of them, for a few moments, as she got up to deposit the glass at the sink. She came back to stand in front of him again, her hands sliding into the back pockets of her jeans.
“If you want to have some peace and quiet for a bit, I can go back down and tell them you’re taking a nap.”
Nodding wordlessly, he stared down at his hands in his lap and the brace holding his knee together. It ached from holding it out straight in his current position, but the pain meds were strong and he knew soon the throbbing would subside soon. Tears prickled at the backs of his eyeballs again.
“Yeah.” He cleared his throat. “I think maybe I’ll have a lie down.”
Before she exited the room, she flipped off the lightswitch and turned back to look at him, making sure he settled in bed. “You’re alright?”
Colin nodded as he leaned back against the pillows. “I’m alright.”
She began pulling the door closed.
“Penelope?” he called out.
She pushed it back open a crack and stuck her face in through the opening, looking at him questioningly.
“Thank you.”
Her face lit up. In that moment, he suddenly remembered what she looked like as a kid and how different she looked now. She was almost twenty three, an Oxford graduate, and living on her own. (Well, with Eloise, anyway.) He’d missed so much of her life, yet it felt like falling back into step with an old friend. A friend that was never really his to begin with. But maybe now she would be.
“Get some rest,” she whispered, closing the door softly behind her.