Code of Conduct

by Cheyenne Blue

  She went back to the guide and selected another match to watch as she ate. A woman’s match that promised exciting tennis and explosive personalities.

  Room service arrived, and she went to the door to collect her meal. When she sat back down, the TV had switched to showing a press conference. Her heart turned a slow somersault. Viva sat in front of the press. Her hair was damp and curled loosely on her shoulders, and her right wrist was heavily strapped.

  Gabriela turned up the volume.

  “Yes, absolutely, my wrist injury played a part in my loss today, but it wasn’t the only thing. Alina played well. She deserved to win.”

  The same sportsmanlike phrases that every losing player said after a match, whether they meant them or not.

  “My wrist is strained. It’s not a recurrence of my previous injury,” Viva continued. “I’m having treatment—a painkilling injection, physio, anti-inflammatories—and will rest it over the next couple of days. I fully expect to play my doubles match on Thursday and, of course, the Australian Open next week.” She smiled. “And I fully expect to go deeper in the draw there than I’ve done here.”

  The TV reverted back to the match in progress. Gabriela ate her burger without really tasting it. How much of Viva’s answer was real? No player would ever give away the extent of her injury; to do so would give an advantage to her opponent.

  She set the burger down and wished for a glass of wine. Maybe that would take the edge away from her longing to see Viva again. Right now, she missed her so acutely it was a physical pain. Gabriela pushed the sandwich away and took out her phone. She found Viva’s text and stared at it. It would be very wrong to meet her for coffee. The risk of being seen was very real, even in an out-of-the-way place. If that got back to the ITF, it would negate everything she had assured them. But, the other side of her argued, it was only coffee. Two friends, meeting for coffee. Friends everywhere met; why shouldn’t she?

  She closed her eyes, conjuring Viva’s face behind closed eyelids. She could wait until after the Australian Open and then see Viva. Or she could meet her sooner. Viva’s wrist injury—how bad was it really? How was Viva coping? The longing intensified, along with the urgent need to find out what, if anything, was still possible between them.

  Gabriela put down her phone. Nothing had really changed—she was fooling herself. She switched the TV channel to a cop drama and picked up the burger again.

  From her position in the chair, Gabriela could see not only the match she was umpiring, but also the one on the next court. Her match took all of her concentration during play, but during the two-minute change of ends, she had a tiny window of time to look around her. The match on the next court drew her gaze.

  Viva and Michi conferred behind raised hands, and then with a leap in her stride, Viva ran back to crouch near the net, while Michi returned to the service line.

  The two of them had settled into their game and seemed about to cruise to an easy victory. There was heavy strapping on Viva’s wrist, and she was positioned on the forehand side of the court. It seemed physio and a painkilling injection had allowed Viva to continue in the doubles. From where Gabriela sat, Viva was all hard lines of muscle and angles, not a hint of softness about her. Even her wild hair was tightly contained in a thick plait that hung down to well below her shoulder blades. As she leapt for a volley, her muscles stood out in fine definition.

  Gabriela kept her expression blank, but her breath seemed stolen by the sight. Her fingers tingled with the memory of how Viva’s muscles had felt under her palms—the softness of skin contrasting with the firm underlay. Her legs turned from a deep tan to pale cream at the point where the hem of her skirt came. Likewise, her back bore a geometric pattern of tanned skin where there was an oval cut-out in the shirt she habitually wore.

  She bit her lip. It would take time to be able to look at Viva without remembering how it had been.

  Her tablet beeped once, and she glanced down. “Time.”

  The players returned to the match, and Gabriela’s focus shifted back to the match in front of her, the movement of the ball, the spectators, the officials, the ballkids, and all the myriad of things under her command in a tennis match.

  Michi moved restlessly around the locker room, tension shimmering in her body as she paced. “Tell me again.”

  Viva leant against the locker and repeated her words of a moment ago. “Her footwork is terrible, and she hates coming forward. Move her side to side, and then hit a short ball to bring her to the net. She can’t volley worth a cracker, and her reaction times at the net are slow.”

  Michi nodded. “You’re saying exactly what Brett said.”

  “She’s bad at drop shots, and she also isn’t good at taking shots on the run. She’s got fantastic anticipation, though, so it’s hard to put one past her.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Win this against Alina and you’re into your first tour final.”

  “I know that. I can hardly forget.” She grinned. “If I win the final, I’m getting an Australian tattoo. Maybe a cute koala on my shoulder.”

  “Make sure it’s not your serving arm. The Australian Open starts two days after the final here.”

  “I’ll probably have a lot of time to get it done after I’m dumped out early from the Open.”

  An official stuck her head around the door. “Five minutes, Michi.”

  “I better go. Good luck.” Viva hugged Michi and left, up to the player’s box where Brett waited.

  She glanced over at the commentary box, where Andrew and another regular commentator sat. She would be there later, for the second semifinal. But in the meantime, she was able to give Michi her full attention.

  At first, it seemed that Alina would romp home, but gradually, Michi eased into the match, a cross-court slice here, a volley there. And she chased down Alina’s shots, returning them with a wily approach that seemed to fluster the normally cool player. When Michi broke serve with a crafty drop shot, the crowd exploded with cheers. From there, it seemed easy, and in only eighty minutes, Michi made her first tour final.

  Alina’s congratulations at the net were perfunctory, but Michi didn’t seem to notice. She hugged Alina and went on a leaping, prancing circuit of the court that had the crowd applauding her joy.

  The second semifinal was even shorter. In the commentary box, Viva struggled to find any positive thing to say. It was an uneven, error-prone match that was tedious to watch. But Viva’s gaze kept straying to the chair, where Gabriela sat high above play, calling the score in a calm voice. Did Gabriela’s presence mean that the ITF had accepted her explanation and were done penalising her? Viva fingered the phone that sat heavy in her pocket. Gabriela hadn’t answered her text. Had she really expected her to?

  Down on court, the players sat at the change of ends. Gabriela’s chiselled profile was intent on the tablet in front of her. As Viva watched, she raised her head and stared straight at the commentary box. Was Gabriela watching her? Viva didn’t know; the sunlight could be at an angle where it reflected off the glass of the commentary box. Gabriela could merely be irritated at the light in her eyes and probably had no idea who was behind the glass. But as Gabriela continued to stare, it seemed she knew very well that Viva was there. A tiny half smile played on her lips, and her head tilted to one side. Was it in question? Was it an invitation?

  Viva snorted. More likely she was calculating first service percentages.

  The favourite thrashed a lower-ranked player in a mere fifty-five minutes.

  “See you tomorrow.” Andrew turned to her as, duties at an end, she stood.

  “I’m looking forward to it.”

  “No doubt you want Michi to win. I thought you and she had a shot at the doubles title. You had bad luck in the quarterfinals.”

  She shrugged. “It happens. And to be honest, being out of the doubles allowed Michi to concentrat
e on singles, and look where that has got her.”

  Matt nodded. “I think she’s got a very good chance tomorrow.”

  Viva left the stadium to return to her hotel. After throwing herself onto the bed, she pulled her mobile from her pocket. There were two text messages. Her heart rate sped up. Maybe it was Gabriela. Maybe she was agreeing to coffee. Maybe she wanted to see her again.

  The first message was from Jack, saying he and Jelena were having a “date” that night in Chinatown, if she wanted to swing by. The second was from Gabriela.

  Coffee. Just coffee. I’m leaving for Melbourne tonight. Maybe when you get there, we can go someplace quiet.

  Viva started at her phone, anticipation already coursing through her blood. Soon she would sit across a table from Gabriela. The days before then seemed unbearably long. Viva fumbled the letters, a typo in every word as she replied.

  I’d like that very much. Will be in Melb on Sunday.

  She set the phone down on the bed and had a quick shower. The bubbling anticipation in her chest was not because Michi might win tomorrow, nor was it that she was commentating at the final of a high-profile event. It was because she would be seeing Gabriela—really seeing her, face to face, across a café table—very soon.

  Michi won the final in straight sets in a decisive match that had her in control from the first ball. As her opponent’s shot went long on match point, Michi dropped to her knees on the court, her hands pressed to her cheeks, eyes wide. Then she rose to her feet to hug her opponent, who seemed on the edge of tears.

  “A great victory for Michi Cleaver,” Andrew said. “Viva, how do you rate her chances in the Australian Open next week?”

  “I see her going deep in the draw, but I don’t think she’ll win the trophy. Not this year anyway.”

  “And we’ll be seeing you too at the Australian Open. Your final tournament before you retire from singles. Do you have any expectations as to how you’ll go?”

  “I’d like to see the draw before I answer that.”

  “Wise answer. We’ll be seeing more of Viva during the two weeks of the Open—both on court and here in the commentary box.”

  Next week. Her final singles tournament and one of the biggest events of the year. Even as she nodded and smiled at Andrew, determination was gripping her. She would make this tournament one to remember.

  Chapter 19

  Viva hadn’t said what time she would arrive on Sunday. Gabriela woke early and prowled her hotel room before settling for a coffee on the tiny balcony overlooking Melbourne. Twelve storeys below, traffic moved sluggishly through the city. The caffeine coursed through her system, and her mind spun in wild circles. When her knee started jiggling, she jumped to her feet. A run would settle her.

  She crossed the Yarra River to the Botanical Gardens, where a popular path for runners led around the outside. A couple of circuits of The Tan was just what she needed. But for once, the rhythmic beat of her shoes on the path failed to clear her head. Where was Viva? Would she call her? Would she answer if Viva did? She accelerated to pass a group of slower runners jogging in a pack and then slowed again.

  She shouldn’t answer her phone. She shouldn’t meet Viva, even for coffee. It was career suicide if anyone were to see them together. She should turn her phone off so that the temptation wasn’t there.

  But oh, how she wanted to see Viva again.

  Her phone rang around eleven. Gabriela stared at Viva’s name on the screen. Her heart pounded. Two rings. Her finger hesitated over the button. She should reject the call, forget Viva. Move on with her life. She closed her eyes. She couldn’t. It was a visceral thing, an urgent drumbeat in her heart. Whatever the risk, she wanted to see Viva face to face, just one more time. She pressed the button to accept the call. “Hi.”

  “Hi, this is Viva.” The line fell silent, as if Viva had exhausted all her courage with the one sentence.

  “Are you in Melbourne?” Gabriela cursed her inanity. Of course she was.

  “Yeah. I’ve just checked into the hotel.”

  There was silence again.

  Gabriela bit her lip. She had agreed to meet for coffee. Why was it now so hard to form the words?

  The sound of Viva clearing her throat came down the line. Maybe it was hard for her too.

  “So,” Viva said. “Coffee. Just coffee.”

  “That is all it can be. A few minutes, nothing more. I would like to know how you are doing.” It was concern about Viva’s injury, she told herself. Nothing more.

  “And I you.” Viva paused. “I have time today or very early tomorrow morning if either of those times suits you. My first match isn’t until Tuesday.”

  “Today is good for me. I am chair umpire for two matches tomorrow.”

  “Where would you like to meet?”

  “Do you mind going somewhere away from the city?”

  “That’s fine.”

  “Do you know Clifton Hill? It’s a suburb about twenty minutes away by tram.”

  “Yes. I sometimes go there. There’s a nice café by the river.”

  Viva’s voice was husky, a little breathless, as if she’d finished a work-out. It reminded Gabriela of her voice at other, more intimate moments. Desire unfurled a tiny shoot, and she quashed it, focussing her mind. Coffee. It was just coffee.

  “That will be busy. There is a little café, The Athenian. It is a local one in a residential area. Very quiet. It is run by a Greek couple, and they do not seem to take much notice of their customers. It is on the corner of Studley and Yarrawonga streets.” Gabriela waited.

  “I think you mentioned it once before. I’ll find it.”

  “There are booths at the rear that are quiet. That is where I usually sit.”

  “What time? I can leave anytime now.” After a beat, Viva added, “If that’s what you want.”

  “I can be there in an hour.”

  “I’ll see you soon. And Gabriela?”

  She waited.

  “Thank you.”

  When Gabriela arrived, Viva was already waiting. The café was as quiet as ever, and Viva was the only customer. She sat in one of the booths at the rear, idly stirring a tiny cup of something. Gabriela placed her order and came to join her.

  Her first thought was that Viva looked well. She wore a soft lilac T-shirt, and her wayward hair was loose down her back. A large pair of sunglasses sat on the table in front of her. Her face was relaxed, lacking the pinch of pain that had dominated the last time she’d seen her.

  “Hey.” She sat down opposite Viva.

  “Hey yourself.” Viva leant forward, as if she were about to kiss Gabriela.

  Gabriela bit her lip. How she wanted that kiss. But she couldn’t. Her upper body leant away, a tiny motion.

  Viva paused and sat back in her seat. “How’s things?”

  “Good. It is nice to be back in Melbourne.” When had their conversation become so inane? “I heard your commentary on some of the Sydney matches. You are doing well. You have got a nice blend of knowledge and informality.”

  “Thanks.” Viva fiddled with the sunglasses that lay on the table between them. “Andrew keeps asking me for gossip about the players, but I won’t do that unless it’s already common knowledge.”

  “Like the fact that your brother is dating Jelena Kovic? Allegedly.”

  “I haven’t mentioned that.” Viva studied Gabriela, as if making up her mind about something. She lowered her voice. “You know that Jelena—”

  “Is gay. Yes. I imagine Jack is helping out one of his sister’s friends for some reason.”

  “Something like that. I wish Jelena didn’t have to fabricate this story, but I understand her reasons. That doesn’t mean I’m going to talk about it as if their engagement is going to be announced any day now.”

  “I guess you have been reading the tabloids.”
>
  Viva grimaced. “Unfortunately, they’re kind of hard to avoid. If it’s not a story about the young romance of the year between Jack and Jelena, it’s a story about me and retirement. One paper says I’m going to marry Deepak and open a tennis academy.”

  “Tell them it’s Michi who married her coach.”

  “Another says I’m pregnant.”

  “Of course. What other reason could there possibly be?”

  “Then, of course, there’s the rumour that I’m going to move to the States so I can marry my girlfriend to gain US citizenship. Were all of these journalists comatose during the press conference when I announced my retirement? I distinctly remember saying I was retiring due to my wrist not being able to keep up with the demands of the modern game.”

  Gabriela tilted her head and regarded Viva. “So, you are still retiring?”

  “Yes. Of course.”

  Of course hadn’t meant much in the past. Gabriela let it slide. This meeting was too precious to waste in recriminations.

  Viva broke off as the café owner brought Gabriela’s coffee and a square of honey-soaked baklava.

  “Thank you,” Gabriela murmured.

  A brief half smile flickered across the owner’s face, and then she returned to the counter without another word.

  Viva lifted her head and looked Gabriela full in the face as she resumed the conversation. “I said I would retire after the Open. And I haven’t forgotten I told you I’d be retiring before the Australian tennis season, and I reneged on that promise. I want to apologise.” She sighed, a waft of breath. “I seem to spend a lot of time apologising to you.”

  Gabriela waited. Viva seemed to be picking her words with difficulty, dragging them up from a place deep inside.

  “When I got the offer to keep playing until after the Australian Open, I thought of lots of things, but mainly it seemed an acknowledgement of my career that few athletes are lucky enough to get. But I was too focussed on what the offer meant to me, and I blew aside what it would mean to us. To you.”