“There wasn’t an ‘us’ then.” Gabriela’s fingers inched closer to where Viva still fiddled with the sunglasses.
“No? I think there was. Not a forever and always necessarily, but there was the possibility of something meaningful between us.” Her mouth quirked down. “Maybe you don’t think so.”
“I don’t know what to think,” Gabriela said truthfully. “I was enjoying what we had, and then it all changed. Then there was too much uncertainty and evasion between us. At least, that’s what it seemed like to me.”
“Evasion. I guess that’s what it was. It all came up so quickly, and I focussed on that. I thought it wouldn’t matter much, that it wouldn’t change things between us. I thought a month wouldn’t matter.”
“You thought wrong.” Gabriela’s words were ashes in her mouth. Viva still didn’t get it. “To you, it’s a month. To me, it’ s possibly my career. I know you’re the high-flyer and I’m an expendable official, but I’ve worked hard to get where I am. It’s my life.”
“I know that now, and I should have known that then.” Her shoulders moved in a tiny movement that could have been negation or simply a shrug. “Self-absorbed tennis player. It’s not like I’ve never had any dealings with the media. I know what they’re like. Once they get stuck on an idea, as long as people are clicking on the stories, buying the magazine, then they’ll milk it for all its worth.”
“Like Jelena and Jack.”
“Exactly. That won’t be dropped anytime soon. So, for me to think we could just ease back for a month, be discreet about our relationship without anyone finding out was naive at best, selfish, and incredibly thoughtless to you. Even my change of plan put a huge burden on your career. I didn’t realise how much.” She took a sip of the dark coffee and stirred the tiny cup with the spoon. “I’m guessing you don’t remember when I came out to the press? There’s no reason you should. I was seventeen, in my first year of professional tennis, and someone took a photo of me walking hand in hand with my girlfriend. We were in Canberra, not even on the tour, and I was practically a nobody then. The next day, the press were at my apartment, wanting statements, going through the mail, bribing our rental agent to tell them what names were on the lease.”
“I do remember it, actually. I remember thinking that if the press paid half as much attention to a player’s game as they did to her looks or her private life, then sports reporting would be a better place.”
“The stupid thing was I wasn’t in the closet at all. Never had been. I’ve always been open about my sexuality—but equally, it’s no one’s business except my own. A straight player doesn’t have to hold a press conference to announce she’s heterosexual.”
“But you did hold a conference.” The memory of that conference returned. Viva, so cool, so confident. “Yes, I’m gay,” she’d said, “and that has no bearing on my tennis.” And she’d changed the subject to talk of her first season on the tour.
“I thought it would get them off my back. Instead, it made them worse. Headlines like Loved-Up Genevieve Jones. So, for me to think that you and I could hide a relationship was foolish—even to think we could put it on hold for a month. It would be bound to come out. It was outed to a small degree, although I think that’s just within close tennis circles.”
“I think so too. Maybe a leak from the ITF. I had to tell them, of course. I couldn’t risk otherwise.”
A small wrinkle creased between Viva’s eyebrows. “I’m sorry. That must be why you’ve had lesser matches, outside courts.”
Viva had noticed. “Yes.” Gabriela swallowed.
“Then it seemed to improve. I saw you umpire a semifinal in Sydney.”
“I was happy to get that. But I was lucky—Irene was to do it, but she got an upset stomach. I was available.”
“Alina Pashin also gloated about it.”
Gabriela stared down into her coffee. She shouldn’t be surprised, gossip being what it was on the tour, but it still made her stomach lurch in dismay. “How did she find out?”
“I’ve no idea. Her tentacles must stretch far.” Viva fell silent, and her intense gaze rested on Gabriela’s face, studying each of her features in turn until Gabriela broke the stare and glanced away, over to where the owner served a customer, cutting honey cake into squares and placing it in a small box with great care.
“I missed you, Viva.” The words welled in her throat, dragged from within. “I didn’t expect to. What’s a couple of nights together? What’s a few days, dinner, sex? Nothing much, in this day and age. I thought I’d move on and forget you.”
“But you didn’t.” It wasn’t a question. Viva’s hand stole across the table, her fingers stretched out towards Gabriela’s wrist. There were scant centimetres between them.
Gabriela looked down at those long, strong fingers with the short, blunt-cut nails. Viva’s index finger twitched, but her hand remained still, as if she couldn’t make the final move to bridge the distance.
She cleared her throat. “When’s your first match?” She knew of course. She’d scanned the draw, looking for G. Jones (Aus).
“Tuesday.” Viva smiled. “I told you that only this morning—you must be distracted. I got lucky this time, and I’m playing a qualifier. Hopefully, I can at least make the second round before my arse gets kicked six ways to Sunday. Court allocations aren’t out yet, but I’ve been told unofficially they’re putting me on Rod Laver Arena. I guess they want the cameras there for what might be my final competitive match.”
“I’m chair umpire for two matches tomorrow.”
Viva nodded and withdrew her hand, picking up her cup. “Good matches?”
“Not bad. Men’s singles—that could be fiery. And Paige’s opening match against a qualifier.”
Viva took a sip of her coffee.
“How is your family?”
“Good. Mum and Dad sent you their best. I said it was unlikely I’d be able to pass it along, but here we are.”
“Here we are.” Gabriela echoed the words, and this time it was her hand that moved into the no-man’s land of Formica table between them.
“Why did you agree to meet me? What changed your mind?” Viva’s expression had a wistful, eager look, a strange and vulnerable mix in someone so confident.
Gabriela concentrated on Viva’s short nails again. It was easier than looking at her face. “I saw your loss to Alina. Your wrist looked bad. I wondered how you were.”
Viva’s mouth twisted. “A medical update? Is that all you wanted?”
“Honestly? I wanted to see you. I can’t get you out of my head, and I didn’t think much past that. I wanted to see if there was still something between us. Potential, yes?”
“And is there?” Viva’s voice was hesitant.
Gabriela’s fingers twitched with the need to close the gap between them. “It is still there, I think. I… I still want you.” She took a deep breath. “But nothing has changed, Viva. I don’t think it can right now. I am being penalised; I can’t afford to lose more standing. Everything I have worked for.”
“After this tournament?”
“I do not know. I cannot think about that now. I am taking a huge chance just meeting you here.” She glanced around the café. Two women gossiped by the door, and the owner wiped the counter with a cloth, methodically in circles. A snatch of song in a foreign language echoed from the rear yard, but otherwise the café was quiet. It was probably the emptiest café in Melbourne on a Sunday morning in summer. She met Viva’s eyes. “When it came to it, I just couldn’t stay away from you.”
“It won’t matter then. Afterwards.” Viva’s words held a strained quality, as if she had rehearsed them in her head.
“It is not up to me. It is nothing you can influence. I simply have to wait and see.” Gabriela picked up the fork and used it to divide the flaky pastry. “You want half?”
Viva barely g
lanced at it. “Will you think about it? Please?”
The baklava was cloying sweet in her mouth, and she took a gulp of coffee to ease it past the lump in her throat. “I will think about it.”
Viva’s fingers combed through her hair, tugging at a knot. Her face twisted. Abruptly, she stood. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked you to meet. You’re risking so much for me, and that’s not fair on you. I don’t know what I hoped for. I just wanted to see you, too. To remember how it was.” She pushed her hands into the pockets of her shorts. “I guess I’ll see you around.”
“Wait.” Gabriela stood, too and, leaving the coffee and cake unfinished on the table, she moved to Viva’s side. “I’ll walk with you.”
Viva nodded. “If you want to, I’d like that.”
The sunlight made Gabriela blink after the dimness of the café. She turned along the residential street, where the heat made the trees droop over front yard fences. They paced along, side by side, without speaking. The buzz of traffic from Hoddle Street grew louder, and a tram rattled past.
They crossed over a cobblestone laneway that ran behind the rows of neat Victorian workers’ cottages. A loquat tree with dark green leaves hung low. They were nearly at the busier street, with cars and people, where someone might recognise Viva. The laneway was narrow, secluded, hidden from prying eyes. The thought that leapt into her mind was stupid; it was something she should not do, but Gabriela swallowed, reached for Viva’s hand, and tugged her into the laneway and under the tree. Even though the leaves were dense, there was only patchy shade up close to the fence. Gabriela leant against the fence and settled her hands on Viva’s hips, urging her closer.
Viva’s eyes burned with an intense fire. “This isn’t wise.”
“No.”
Viva didn’t move, but the sudden tension in her body, taut and quivering under Gabriela’s hands, gave her away. Desire, tamped, banked, but not extinguished. It leapt anew in Gabriela’s belly, a kindling fire of warmth and desire. The laneway was quiet.
It was now or never.
It should be never.
With a small sigh, Gabriela urged Viva closer and raised her hand to cup the taller woman’s neck.
Viva’s lips opened on a word. It may have been “can’t”, but the thrum in Gabriela’s head drowned out any sound.
“We can,” she said, instead. “If you want this. Only here, only now.”
In answer, Viva dropped her head and claimed Gabriela’s lips. There was bitterness on her breath, strong coffee maybe, but as their lips moved together, Gabriela tasted only joy and need and the rightness of the moment. The kiss was hot, drugging and sweet, and it echoed of need and tenderness.
So much tenderness. Viva’s hands stroked up Gabriela’s bare arms and curved around her neck with the lightest of touches.
Gabriela arched up, into the kiss, against Viva’s chest, pouring all the words she couldn’t say, all the feelings she couldn’t let free into the meeting of lips.
And then Viva broke the kiss and stepped back a pace. “This is all we can have, isn’t it?” Her voice was hoarse, husky with need and underlying sadness.
Gabriela shook her head, a slow one-two. “Nothing has changed. I still cannot.” She hunched her shoulders. “I’m sorry. This was a tease.”
“I’m not sorry.” A touch on the cheek. “I’ll remember this.”
And then Viva was gone, pushing past the green leaves back out to the real world of sunlight and people who might know them.
Gabriela waited for enough time to let Viva walk away, and then she, too, exited the laneway, turning in the other direction, towards the Yarra River. She would walk back. After all, what else was there for her in this day?
Viva threw the paper on the table, stood, and moved to the balcony of her hotel room. The Wildcard Wonder screamed the headline. “Genevieve Jones may have made an undignified exit from the Sydney tournament, but those in the know have tipped her as a long shot for the Australian Open title.”
If only they knew. Viva gripped the rail and let her head drop. Her wrist throbbed with the familiar bone-deep ache. Her first match was tomorrow, and her best hope of playing through was painkillers, ice packs, and the tightest physio strapping she could bear. She’d said in the press conference in Sydney that her wrist was fine, but that was a fabrication. She was barely holding on.
She gripped her injured wrist with her other hand, willing the tendons to become less inflamed, for them to knit firmly and strongly. Her wrist pulsed pain against her fingers.
She went back inside to where the TV was tuned to the tennis. The channel was showing highlights of the opening day: Alina Pashin grinning as she raised her hands above her head in triumph. Michi’s grimace of concentration as she slammed a backhand winner to clinch her first-round match. The defeated slump of a veteran player as she lost to an up-and-coming young player whom, in days gone by, she would have wiped from the court in under an hour. And the joy of a teenage qualifier as, against all odds, she made it to the second round.
Viva picked up the icepack she’d discarded earlier and once more wrapped it around her wrist. Deepak had cut short her session that morning, telling her sternly to rest the wrist and study her first-round opponent’s qualifying matches. She had no commentating duties until she was knocked out of the tournament, so once her cardio and strength training were done, she had little to do.
The qualifier she was to play had a solid, obvious game. If Viva’s wrist held up, it should be a straightforward match for her. The TV switched to a men’s match. The power game held her interest for a while, but then she turned it off and went out to the balcony again.
Her phone beeped in her pocket, and she pulled it out, heart racing. She hadn’t heard from Gabriela since their coffee date the day before—but why would she? Gabriela had made her position very clear. Until Gabriela had kissed her.
The text was from Jack. Back in Waggs Pocket missing my lovely girlfriend Jelena.
Viva smiled. The media were still making much of the supposed relationship between the pair. If she were a betting woman, she expected she would see her brother in Melbourne before the week was out—courtesy of Jelena’s agent.
She switched to a news channel, and it was talking about the Australian Open and the favourites for the title.
“Alina Pashin would have to be considered the number one pick in the women’s draw.” The commentator, an Australian ex-player, said, over a pastiche of some of Alina’s winning shots, “With Serena Williams out this year, Alina has to be the best bet.”
“Who else?” the sidekick asked.
“Michi Cleaver is hot off her Sydney win, and while she could be a semifinalist, I don’t see her going all the way.”
“Any prospect of an Aussie winner?”
“Genevieve Jones is our best hope. She won the US Open a couple of years back, but she’s yet to find that winning form since. While I’d love to see an Aussie girl hoist the trophy, you’d have to say Viva is a long shot at best.”
She didn’t need an expert to tell her that. Viva took a deep draught of water and changed channels.
She fired off a text to Michi: Hey, hotstuff, Oz TV just talked you up. She called up another blank text and typed in Gabriela’s name. Viva stared at it for a moment before deleting the text and throwing the phone back on the couch.
Chapter 20
Viva barely broke a sweat to win her first-round match.
“Good game.” Deepak grunted in satisfaction. “She was an easy opponent, but you played it perfectly. Rest up tonight, and then tomorrow we’ll work on your court angles. How’s the wrist?”
“Not too bad.” It wasn’t quite true, the dull throb was only partially masked by painkillers, but she would cope.
“You’re playing Anke, a true backboard,” Deepak continued. “She’ll run down anything you send her way for as long as
it takes for you to make a mistake. You’ll need to mix it up.”
Viva nodded. She would rest—eventually—but first she had an interview with a women’s magazine and a guest spot on a radio station picking her three all-time favourite songs.
Much later, she returned to the hotel, ordered room service, and settled in front of the TV. If only the public could see her now. So much for a tennis player’s glamorous life—she lay on the couch in her underwear, eating sushi with her fingers and drinking from a litre bottle of water.
As she flicked channels, she saw that the program about her life and career was airing. She smiled wryly. Apparently, the programming gods didn’t have as much confidence as Deepak that she’d survive the next round. They’d done it well, she conceded. Interviews with her family—even Jack was charming, and the story about the motorbike and the trip-wire didn’t make an appearance. Waggs Pocket and the pub got several mentions, and there was a couple of minutes footage of her and Michi behind the bar serving drinks for the pub’s doubles night.
For the umpteenth time, Viva watched the final point in her US Open win. Forehand, cross-court backhand, half-volley winner and the Viva of two years ago dropped her racquet to the court and fell to her knees, hands pressed to her mouth. Genevieve Jones, grand slam champion.
Her phone pinged with a text, but she ignored it, transfixed by her younger self on the screen. Echoes of that elation tingled in her fingers. It had been the best of times. The program moved to a clip of her discussing the charities she supported and then, inevitably, her being a role model as an out lesbian in the mainly closeted world of professional sport.
“I’ve never seen myself as a role model,” the on-screen Viva said. “I am who I am, and hiding my sexuality never once crossed my mind.”
“Do you think that holds true for the younger players as well?” the interviewer asked.
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