Code of Conduct

by Cheyenne Blue

  Gabriela stared at her phone without really seeing the names lined up on the screen. Had she been too hasty? It was an amazing send-off for Viva, a fitting end to her long career. Who was she to demand that Viva turn it down?

  But Viva could have told her earlier. Discussed it. Mentioned it before Gabriela had driven three hours to Waggs Pocket to see her again. That was thoughtless at best, deliberately deceptive at worst.

  Her fingers tightened on the phone, and she switched to her text messages. Viva’s message leapt from the screen. I miss you. The words were burned into her mind. Not for the first time, her finger hovered over the Reply button. She missed Viva too. More than she thought she would when she’d walked out on her. The longing for what they’d had gripped her at the oddest moments.

  She’d seen Viva and Michi on the court the day before, and it had taken all her willpower to keep focussed on her game with Irene.

  Viva missed her. What would it cost her to say the same in reply? To extend a hand, fingers outstretched for Viva to grasp. Would it be so bad to meet for coffee? Sydney was a huge metropolis. They could surely find some out-of-the-way coffee shop where they could meet for thirty minutes. She could say to Viva that she missed her too. To see if there was a way past this for them, not now, but later, when Viva had retired. She stared at the phone. She could at least reply to Viva’s message.

  The chair opposite creaked as Irene dropped heavily into it. The Italian official stuck both elbows on the table and leant in. “Gabriela, I am so very unlucky. I have the opening match on centre court, as chair umpire for the match between that little stronzino Nicholas Simmons and Roger Federer. Nicholas hates me, ever since I defaulted him from a match in Madrid last year. Roger, of course, will be the perfect gentleman, but even he is not enough to make up for the pain of Nicholas.”

  Gabriela pushed her phone into her pocket. “Nicholas is a total bastard with everyone. I’m sure it’s not personal.”

  Irene’s weathered face creased into a delighted grin. “So you say. I, on the other hand, prefer to assume it is personal, and therefore I do not feel bad if I have to issue him a warning or a code violation.”

  “The chair umpire is totally impartial.” It was impossible for her not to smile back at Irene’s infectious grin.

  “Sí, I am.” Irene opened her eyes wide in pretend horror. “You know that. An official has to be. But that doesn’t mean I do not do a little happy dance inside as I issue that code violation.”

  Gabriela’s shoulders tightened. It was that easy to caution a player, make a call against them. Irene made no secret of her contempt for Nicholas Simmons, but no one called her integrity into question over it.

  Irene flung an arm out. “Now. You are staying at the same hotel as me, so how about we escape this miserable canteen food and find ourselves a cosy restaurant for the evening. One with good Italian wine—”

  “Spanish wine.”

  “Maybe. Or we will compromise as we always do with Australian wine, and you can tell me all about your life since I last saw you.”

  “Not much has happened since our game yesterday. I had seafood for dinner, I watched some bad television.”

  “I know all about your quiet life. Instead, you can tell me why you became oh-so-distracted and let me win three games in a row after we were stared at by Genevieve Jones. Is she still angry with you about that foot-fault in the US Open?” Irene tilted her head, and her shrewd, bright gaze fixed itself on Gabriela’s face.

  She forced herself to shrug. “I didn’t see her,” she lied.

  “If you say so. But I saw, and I don’t tend to notice when I’m being stared at by a beautiful woman. Now, if it had been her handsome coach, that would be different.”

  “Down, girl. Keep your cougar tendencies under control.”

  “So, we’ve established you didn’t notice the very beautiful Genevieve Jones staring at you, and I’m sure you’re going to say you haven’t heard the rumours about you and her.”

  “I’ve heard them.” Gabriela’s easy smile and relaxed demeanour put a frown of doubt on Irene’s forehead. Her hand clenched under the table so hard that her nails scored her palm. Would she ever get away from this gossip? And if Irene had heard it, the ITF would surely have too. Thank heavens she hadn’t replied to Viva’s text. The moment of insanity, when she’d nearly agreed to meet, evaporated under Irene’s stare.

  “And?”

  “When have you listened to gossip, my friend?”

  “All the time.” Irene’s eyes twinkled. “It is the lifeblood of the tour: who has hooked up with who, who is in the closet, who has been dumped by their sponsor, who is only playing tennis as a stepping stone to other things. Like that oh-so-gay Polish player who was dumped by his sponsor but got a movie deal so he does not care. Compared to him, my friend, the gossip about you and a certain Aussie player is small potatoes.”

  Irene’s voice had risen in volume, and Gabriela glanced around cautiously. “Ssh.”

  “So, it is true?”

  “I would tell you to be quiet whether it is or isn’t. I do not like being talked about.” No one was paying them any attention. She breathed a little easier.

  “Then let us go and find a wine bar where we can talk.”

  “Why not?” Gabriela stood. “I am done. I was just checking the draw.”

  “Which match have you got first?”

  “Show Court One. Two well-behaved veteran women from peaceful countries that are not at loggerheads. I believe I will have an easier time of it than you, my friend. Now, lead me to this wine you have promised.”

  Chapter 18

  Viva stared fixedly ahead at the change of ends, eyes locked on an insect that had landed on court. Absently, she towelled the handle of her racquet and wiped her damp palms. She’d never had an easy time playing Alina, but this match was about as bad as it could get. Alina’s freight train serve and punishing groundstrokes had kept Viva pinned at the baseline, unable to get the chink she needed to move forward. Alina ran her ragged, side to side like an erratic pendulum, and Viva was unable to find her game.

  When the umpire called time, she stalked to the baseline to serve. This point matters. Only this one. If she held serve now, if she broke back in the next game, if she— She drew a veil down over her chaotic thoughts. This point matters. The mantra worked; her pulse steadied, and her mind focussed.

  Her first serve barely cleared the net, but it skimmed the surface low and flat. Her first ace of the match. Yes! This is where it changes.

  Her serve wasn’t as strong on the next point, but it was enough. Alina’s racquet tipped the ball and sent it wild, high into the air before it landed in the crowd.

  30-0. The crowd, maybe sensing a home player comeback, yelled their appreciation.

  I can win this. This point matters. Only this one. Viva bounced lightly on her toes as she waited for the crowd to calm.

  Alina returned Viva’s next serve with laser-like precision, drilling the ball past her as she approached the net.

  Viva lunged for it and missed. The ball shot past her, and she could only watch as it clipped the line. 30-15.

  She stalked back to the service line, tucked a sweaty tendril of hair behind her ear, and prepared to serve. This point matters. If she could get 40-15, she still had the edge. She rotated her shoulders and served, hard and flat down the T.

  Alina’s anticipation was perfect, and she was in position to return equally hard. The rally continued.

  Viva didn’t count strokes, simply focussed on the fluorescent ball as it rocketed towards her each time. Her breath came in hard pants, and the force of Alina’s strokes jarred her forearm.

  Then Alina hit to her backhand side.

  Viva ran for it, her backhand swing ready. Wrong, all wrong. Even before her racquet connected with the ball, she knew it was a bad shot. Her wrist was bent back at
an unnatural angle, and she couldn’t get the power she needed to drive the ball hard. She hit it as best she could, grunting as the pain seared her wrist and then travelled up her arm. She faltered, the mist of pain in front of her eyes turning to a red haze. No! She gritted her teeth, willing the wave of agony to recede.

  Her shot hit the net cord and dribbled over to the far side. Alina sprinted for it but couldn’t get close. 40-15.

  Viva closed her eyes. My wrist is fine. It’s good. Still the pain pulsed. If she could win the next point, there was a two-minute change of ends and she could call for a medical timeout. She flicked a glance at Alina, summoning a cool disinterest. Alina had to have noticed what had happened. There was no way she’d missed it.

  One more serve. Then she could ice her wrist and call for the physio.

  Her serve wasn’t the strongest, but it had a kick, spinning wide and bouncing high over Alina’s head. Game.

  Thank God. She returned to her chair, signalling to the umpire that she needed the physio. He jogged out on court a minute later and removed the icepack she’d wrapped around her wrist.

  “The tendon needs to settle,” he said to her. “It’s pulled and inflamed. Do you want to play on?” His tone was neutral.

  She nodded, a quick up-and-down jerk. Giving up was unthinkable, and she’d played through worse. “Can you strap it again?”

  “Yes.” The physio pulled tape from his bag. “It will be sore, but you should be okay if it’s a quick match. See your own physio immediately, though.”

  “I understand.”

  He strapped her wrist with quick, efficient strokes.

  She moved it cautiously, testing the range of motion. “Thanks. It’s good.” She took a final mouthful of sports drink and jogged out to continue.

  Alina’s first serve came straight to Viva’s backhand. The next two points were the same.

  Viva managed to return the third, and the jolt of pain nearly made her drop the racquet. Her game plan was in tatters, and a jittery panic swamped her.

  The next serve came straight to her backhand again, and Viva’s muscles tensed in anticipation of pain. She took the shot, and the pain was there, like an old enemy, hiding in plain sight. The ball went into the net. A love game to Alina, who went on to take the first set.

  Viva called for her coach during the break, and while Deepak’s calm voice steadied her, she’d been unable to implement any of his suggestions or her game plan.

  Her opponent was just too good.

  Viva rose and stalked back to the baseline, prepared for another humiliation on the receiving end of Alina’s serve. Her wrist twinged as she gripped her racquet with both hands, but the sharp pain was just another thing to think about later.

  Alina’s serve thundered across the net, and Viva blocked it, trying to at least get the ball into play.

  Three points later and she was staring in the face of another love game. A point later and Alina had the game.

  Viva grimaced. This was humiliation, pure and simple, a ruthless dismantling of her game. I am better than this. But hot on the heels of that thought was the knowledge that yes, she was better—but not today. Not today when she had an injury that, by rights, should see her retire from the match. I will not withdraw. She would not give Alina the satisfaction. She daren’t look at Jack in her player’s box, at Deepak, no doubt with his arms folded and a frown on his face. Just get through this. Make it as good as it can be.

  Summoning her mental strength, she wrapped the pain in its own compartment, pushed it down and away. It would not be a part of her. Her serve was good, and Alina barely managed a return. Viva ran to take the shot on her forehand. Yes! The shot was good, a cross-court drop shot that Alina couldn’t get to.

  “C’mon, Viva!” The shout, over the roar of the crowd, was Michi’s voice.

  Viva flashed a glance and saw Michi had joined Jack and Deepak. Her pink hair stood out like a beacon as she leant forward and beat on the sideboards.

  But no support in the world could get her through the match. Alina’s barrage to Viva’s backhand didn’t let up. Viva fought. She ran down every ball and played the angles and lines to make Alina run. But every backhand sent a fiery stab into her wrist. Thirty minutes later, she was staring down the court. Match point to Alina. Her wrist throbbed raw pain. Her supporters were quiet. This point matters. Only this one. The mantra buoyed her, but as Alina’s serve flew past, Viva knew it was not enough.

  Her tournament was over; she was dismissed in the first round.

  Somehow, she managed a smile and a congratulatory comment to Alina at the net. Somehow, she lifted a hand in salute to the crowd and left through the tunnel back to the locker room. She slumped to the bench and put her head in her hands.

  What a bloody mess. Her performance today wasn’t worthy of the champion’s send-off that Tennis Australia was giving her. She’d tried, fought every point; no one could accuse her of throwing the match. When it came down to it, she just wasn’t good enough. Tennis Australia would probably pull the plug after this and quietly drop her.

  She levered herself to her feet, grabbed her bag from the locker, and headed for the shower. In the cubicle, she rested her hands against the wall. Tears welled. She was a failure, a fraud for thinking she deserved this send-off. There was now only the Australian Open—the grand slam event—to prove herself, and after the drubbing from Alina, she would be lucky to get past the first round.

  No. Viva straightened. That was the thinking of a loser. She flexed her wrist cautiously. Maybe the physio could work a miracle. She had lost not because she had lost the will to win, but because her body had let her down. She dashed away the tears and tipped her head back, letting the water stream over her face.

  She wasn’t done yet. There was the Australian Open still to prove herself.

  She was combing her wet hair in front of the mirror when Alina’s reflection appeared in the glass behind her. She was still in her tennis clothes, the euphoria of her win lighting her face. Alina dumped her bag on the bench and pulled out her towel and toiletries.

  “Bad luck.” The insincere words echoed in the tiled room. “Of course, I was always going to win.”

  Viva’s fingers tightened on the comb. “You played well.”

  Alina’s face wore a smugness that grated. “You’ve picked a good time to retire. Home ground send-off and of course things would only get harder now that you’re as old as you are.”

  “That doesn’t seem to bother Serena Williams.”

  “She’s exceptional.” Alina’s words held a dismissive quality, designed to wound. “And, of course, now that your secret relationship is out in the open, you’ve lost that advantage. No more line calls going your way.”

  Viva resumed combing her hair, tugging the wide-toothed comb through her unruly hair with more force. The comb snagged on a tangle. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Alina moved closer so that her cool, beautiful face loomed large in the mirror. “Your girlfriend.”

  “I don’t have a girlfriend.”

  “Oh? That’s not what the gossip says. Even the ITF must be listening, as your girlfriend has been umpiring some very low-grade matches lately.”

  Viva pasted a smile on her face. It stretched her cheeks and felt as fake as a political campaign promise, but it was there. “You should spend more time working on your drop shots and less time gossiping about things that don’t concern you. You missed three in our match.”

  Alina took a step back. “I need to shower. I have a winner’s press conference in twenty minutes. Good luck in the doubles.”

  She sauntered away, over to her locker, and undressed, leaving her sweaty clothes scattered over the floor.

  Viva glanced after her, then she stepped over Alina’s discarded clothes and went to meet her physio.

  Gabriela changed back into her civvi
es in the officials’ locker room. Her head ached from a long day in the sunlight. The match she was umpiring had gone for over three hours, and although the shade parasol over the umpire’s chair kept off most direct sunlight, it had still been hotter than Hades on the court. She sipped from her water bottle, contemplating her evening. She could see if Irene wanted to join her for dinner, or she could return to her hotel and soothe her aching head in the curtained dimness of her hotel room. She sighed. The vivacious Irene could wait for another night. Right now, all she wanted was to stroll back to her hotel to stretch her legs after the hours in the umpire’s chair, flop on the bed, order room service, and catch up with the matches she had missed.

  Decision made, she left the grounds and took the long way to the hotel. It was around six, and the day’s matches had finished, and the evening ones were yet to start. Gabriela ordered her meal, then sat on the bed and flicked to the tennis channel, calling up the match options on the remote.

  She paused briefly at the match she’d umpired. They were replaying a Hawk-Eye challenge. A linesman had called a ball out, and Gabriela had overruled the call, saying it was in. The other player then challenged the overrule. On the TV, she saw herself leaning down from the chair to talk to the second player. He was gesticulating fiercely, and while the coverage didn’t relay what he said, Gabriela remembered his voice, rising in annoyance as he told her exactly why the ball was out. Then as the replay came on the stadium screen, he turned to watch it, shrugging as he was proven wrong. He was a gentleman, though. With a nod to Gabriela and a quiet “Pardonnez-moi, madam” he resumed play.

  Gabriela sighed in satisfaction. A call that was correct, an orderly court, well-behaved players, and an enthusiastic and appreciative crowd—they were the components of an umpire’s dream. Her dream, part of a career she loved. She took a mouthful of water. After all these years, it was pretty special to still love one’s job. It had the trappings of a glamourous career without the fame and glitz. World travel, hotels and eating out, a variety of countries to explore.

  She took a final look at herself on the TV, head turning back and forth as she watched the match. Pride shot through her. Her career.