Code of Conduct
Page 23
The camera cut to Viva. Expressions flickered across her face, a montage of empathy, surprise, and pleasure.
Jelena smiled ruefully. “I won’t deny that getting through to the quarterfinals of a grand slam and the prize money I’ll get from that—even if I advance no further—made a difference to the timing of this. It does. A huge one. It will give me enough of a financial base to cope with the loss of my only sponsor. I am sure there will be some people watching this who will say that I should never have gone along with the deception in the first place. To them, I say try not to judge me too harshly. I knew it was wrong, but I could not have stayed on the tour if I’d lost that sponsor—until now.”
“Does your sponsor know yet?” The interviewer’s eyes were as soft as Gabriela had ever seen from a hard-bitten reporter.
“Yes.” Jelena’s lips twisted. “As of this morning, I have no sponsors. After this interview, I’m off to a chain store to buy myself some tennis clothing. I thought that might happen, but it was still something I had to do—be true to myself.”
A hush fell over the studio.
Gabriela twisted her fingers in her lap. Brave Jelena, cutting herself loose like this.
“Jack, what do you have to say?” the interviewer asked.
He glanced down and gently released his fingers from Jelena’s clasp to hug her briefly about the shoulders. “Jelena is a fantastic player. If she doesn’t win this year, I’m sure we’ll see her hoisting the trophy in years to come. On a personal level, she’s been a terrific friend, and it’s been great hanging out with her and her girlfriend. With Viva soon to retire, I throw all my support behind Jelena.” He directed his words at the camera. “And if there’s any potential sponsors listening, well, I say get in touch with Jelena now.”
Viva cleared her throat. “I echo everything these two have said. I’m honoured that I was a role model for Jelena, and I applaud her for standing proud. It’s not an easy time for her do this. Most players would be focussed inward, on their next match, but Jelena’s stand now is good for LGBT+ people everywhere. Especially in sport. We won’t be hidden.”
The hush from the audience broke as first a handful, then what seemed like the entire studio broke into loud applause.
Viva stood and urged Jelena up, and the two hugged tightly.
Gabriela swung her legs onto the bed, her run forgotten. It seemed Viva was still Australia’s golden girl. There’d been no mention of the photo of the two of them in that interview. No snide comments, no finger pointing. What did Australia care if Viva had a girlfriend who was an official? No, they would probably smile, wish her happiness, and go on their way, unknowing of the complexities and conflicts such a relationship might bring.
Her, though… Her laptop sat on the desk. Every time she opened her email, her heart was in her throat as she scanned the senders for anything from the ITF. A warning, a breach of the code of conduct. So far nothing, but the waiting was almost worse.
Paige was already on court when Viva entered Rod Laver Arena. The noise of the crowd swelled around her as she walked to her chair and set down her bags. Quarterfinalist. She heaved a breath. She’d been in this position before of course, but this time was different. This time was the last time. Maybe even her last match.
Paige was at the net with the umpire ready for the coin toss, and Viva went across to join them. Paige, bouncing from foot to foot, blonde ponytail swinging, won the toss and elected to serve.
Viva’s match plan was to attack from the first point and not allow Paige any inroad into the match. By keeping her on the back foot, she hoped to take the lead and stay there, hopefully wrapping the match up in two sets. She flexed her wrist, testing the hold of the strapping. She’d taken the allowed limit of painkillers before the match. With luck, it would be enough to get her through.
Maybe Paige was intimidated by the patriotic crowd, but her game was tentative from the start. Her returns played it safe, landing well inside the lines. Viva made the most of it, aggressively attacking Paige’s weaker shots and running around balls on her backhand side to take them with her stronger forehand. It took fifteen minutes for Viva to gain an early break of serve and go to a 3-0 lead.
As she sat at the change of ends, Viva glanced over at her player’s box. It was full. Deepak was there, of course, plus her fitness coach. Next to him were her parents and Jack. And behind them, a row of the red T-shirts of the Stockyard Social Club stood out vividly. She hadn’t known they would be there. She recognised Max and other stalwart supporters who had been there for her over the years.
Viva switched her concentration back to the court. She would make it memorable for them.
When the umpire called time, she leapt to her feet and jogged back out to serve.
Viva won the first set 6-3 and held serve to take the first game of the second set.
At the far end of the court, Paige lined up to serve. The ball whistled over the net, grazed the line, and thudded into the backboard. Ace.
It was as if the ace was a wake-up call. Paige’s body language now reflected an aggression that had been missing in the first set. Her shots sizzled, bouncing true off her racquet.
The match had turned. Viva hung on doggedly, chasing down balls, slamming them back. As fit as she was, her legs ached with the effort of quick sprints and stops; her ankles protested at the abrupt changes of direction.
When Paige broke back, Viva gritted her teeth. She was wrung out, her clothes wet with sweat, clinging to her in the heat and humidity. She flexed her wrist. The tape was holding, but the painkillers were wearing off. Her wrist ached. She pressed gingerly at the base of her thumb, and pain stabbed deep into the joint. Her muscles were like lead, weighing her to the ground.
Paige held serve to go 4-3 up.
Viva bounced the ball, preparing to serve. The crowd was noisy, and the yells of “C’mon Aussie, c’mon” were persistent enough that the umpire had to call for calm. Viva waited, outwardly composed, until the arena was quiet. She took a breath. This point matters. Her mantra focussed her, and she tossed the ball, smashing it over the net for an ace.
She could do this. Her concentration narrowed to the ball in her hand, the rasp of her breath, her grip on the racquet. This may be her final singles match, but by all that she had in her, she would go down fighting. Her pulse thundered.
Her serve was good, but Paige was in position and slammed it back. Every angle she tried, Paige was there, her speed getting her to the ball, her strength getting the ball back.
Viva hung on. Her tennis wasn’t pretty; it was desperate and determined, shots made by instinct rather than learnt patterns, but they did the job. She took the game with an ace.
Paige’s arm went up in challenge.
Viva watched the Hawk-Eye replay, the ball’s trajectory as it approached the line, then the close-up. The ball was in by no more than a millimetre. 4-4.
I can do this. Viva crouched on the base line, waiting for Paige to serve. I can break her. Certainty swelled in her chest, the confidence of knowing when an opponent was on a downslide. The incorrect challenge had rattled Paige, and the momentum had swung again into Viva’s favour. I will get this. The certainty lifted her game. Adrenaline forced her muscles to respond, and the roar of the home crowd cheering her on pushed her, point by point, closer to victory.
Until she held match point. Butterflies somersaulted in her belly, and her shoulders tensed in anticipation. Deliberately she relaxed them. It’s only a point. It matters. Her mouth was dry. If she won this point, she was into the semifinal. Her, Viva Jones, written off by tennis experts and doctors as a has-been. She would show them.
Across the net, Paige moved from foot to foot.
Viva tossed the ball, swung, and the racquet connected. Bad serve. She knew it as the racquet connected. The ball dropped down into the net. Second serve.
Still the chance. Viva took her
time, deep breaths forcing the butterflies into submission. She didn’t look at her player’s box; she only cared for this ball, this serve, this point. Her second serve was more careful, a safer shot to get the ball into play.
Paige returned it, driving it hard over the net, and for a few strokes they rallied back and forth.
Viva’s breath rasped in her ears, along with the bounce of the ball on each shot. Another shot. Another. There was only the ball, flying over the net, only her tortured breath in her ears, only Paige on the other side of the net.
Paige mis-hit, and her return went into the net.
Viva dropped her racquet, euphoria coursing through her. She had won. She had shown them all she wasn’t past it. She was not a tennis has-been. Not yet.
She jogged to the net to kiss Paige on both cheeks.
She was into the semifinals.
Viva had heard that Robin Willis was a chauvinist who disliked sharing the commentary box, especially with a female player. He was from an era where women’s sport had been relegated to the dead TV hours—if it was shown at all—and he refused to accept that women’s tennis was as popular—or more so—than the men’s game.
Viva entered the commentary box before the quarterfinal to find Robin intent on his headphones and controls. When her cheerful “Hello, what a great day for tennis” went unanswered, she concentrated on her own board, making sure all was as it should be.
Finally, Robin turned to her with a half nod that might have been a greeting. “Try and keep your comments succinct. Leave the analysis to me.”
Viva’s nails dug into her palm. “I’ll chip in when needed. I have a good insight on their games.”
Robin grunted. “A player’s perspective isn’t necessarily insight.”
“I think it is,” Viva said in saccharine tones. “Obviously, the tennis channel agrees as they hired me. Would you prefer I talk about their dresses?”
Robin’s lips thinned, and he grunted an unintelligible reply. Then they were on air, and Robin switched to the smooth commentator, welcoming the viewers to Rod Laver Arena for the third women’s quarterfinal match.
“I’m here with Genny Jones,” he said. “Genny announced she would retire after the Australian Open, and she now joins us in the commentary box. Welcome, Genny.”
“Thank you, Robin. However, as many viewers know, you’re welcome to shorten my name, but I prefer Viva.”
“Of course.” The look he shot her was pure venom. “Today’s quarterfinal match-up is between Michi Cleaver of the United States and Maria Lucashenko of Ukraine. Cleaver is fresh off her first tour win in Sydney, and while Lucashenko is yet to claim her maiden title, she’s one of the hungry young players sniffing at the heels of the top ten.”
Robin continued, barely drawing breath. Viva pasted a half smile on her face and waited. She might have been a novice in the commentary box, but this sort of monopoly was designed to put her in her place. She summoned the outwardly calm exterior that had served her so well on the court over the years.
Robin droned on, and Viva switched her gaze to the players. Michi looked eager, her tension and energy barely contained in her petite body. Maria, on the other hand, was the epitome of the cool Eastern European player. She was renowned for her lack of emotion on court, hitting every ball with cool precision from the baseline.
Then the chair umpire called the two-minute warning, and Viva froze. Gabriela. She sat in the chair, tapping on the tablet the umpires used. The excitement of being in the commentary box was rapidly fading. Robin was a dick, and Gabriela was in the chair. Viva shot a glance at Robin and found he was staring at her, a calculating expression on his face. He knows. Despite his professed scorn of the gossip and social aspects of tennis, he had obviously heard the gossip about the two of them—and from his expression, he intended to use it to his advantage.
“Viva,” he turned to her for the first time on air, “you know Cleaver’s game a bit; what can we expect to see from her in this match?”
“I know her game better than anyone,” Viva replied. “We continue to be doubles partners. You can expect Michi to play aggressively, to come to the net at every opportunity. What she lacks in height, she makes up for in speed and agility.”
“Yes, her husband has been a beneficial influence on her.”
“Her coach,” Viva corrected. “Michi is married to her coach, but it’s his coaching abilities that have improved her game.”
Viva hoped that the coverage had switched to the court and was not on Robin’s face. His look of spite told her she was in for an uncomfortable time.
Maria took the first set after a tie breaker.
“A good solid set from Lucashenko,” Robin pronounced. “Cleaver, on the other hand, is looking shaky, and her challenge on set point was unnecessary.”
“I beg to differ.” Viva nodded in the direction of the screen mounted above the court, which was showing a replay of the final point. “Michi’s shot landed close to the baseline so near to Maria’s feet it was hard to see. It would have been difficult for the line umpire to get a clear view, too. So Michi’s challenge made sense.”
“Cleaver didn’t look too happy with the result. I guess the question is will she hold composure enough to put up a fight in the second set.”
“She’s strong mentally. If I was a betting woman, I’d be putting my money on Michi for the second set. Maria played well in that first set, but she’s a player who likes an even rhythm of play. Michi mixes up her shots and pace enough that Maria is not getting that rhythm.”
Robin blinked. “That tactic is used by some of the best male players. I doubt that Cleaver has the game or the strength to pull it off.”
“She has.” Viva’s reply was clipped. “It’s the tactic that won her the Sydney tournament ten days ago.”
Robin leant back in his chair. “I miss the women’s game of old. The days when women were women, and it was a graceful sport, a delight to the eye. Cleaver is pleasant to look at, granted, but the women’s game is losing crowd appeal now that the players are so masculine-looking.”
Does he realise what a chauvinist he is? Viva stared, open-mouthed, for a second. “The women’s game is exactly where it should be,” she managed in civil tones. She clenched on the pen in her hand so hard that the plastic bent.
Robin leered, showing large white teeth. “Of course, I was joking.”
Viva inclined her head but did not reply. The silence stretched, an awkward silence that was only broken by Gabriela calling time.
Michi won the match in three hard-fought sets. Her racquet fell to the ground, and she pressed her hand to her mouth, disbelief written in every line of her body.
“Michi is through to her first grand slam semifinal, with a very well-deserved win.” Viva fought to keep her voice neutral, but the delight vibrated in her words. “She will play Meghan Olsen, the number three seed in the semifinal. Next up is the last women’s quarterfinal: Jelena Kovic of Serbia against Oksana Lebedeva of Russia.” Viva turned to Robin so that, as senior commentator, he could give the wrap-up of the match.
He did so, with barely a glance in her direction. Once they were off air, he stood and squeezed past her to leave the commentary box without a word.
For a second, Viva watched his wrinkled trousers depart, then shrugged. She’d made an enemy there. If her future commentating career depended on his assessment, she was out of a job.
Jelena won her quarterfinal, beating Oksana Lebedeva. Jelena was now Viva’s opponent for the semifinals.
Shirley called the second Jelena won her match. “This couldn’t be more perfect! You’re Jelena’s idol, you’re friends, she dated your brother.”
“Fake-dated.”
“Same-same where the press is concerned. You’re the most newsworthy player in the Open at the moment.”
“Roger Federer might not agree.”
Viva could almost hear Shirley’s brain ticking. No doubt she was trying to work out the best publicity angle. But it would be good to play against Jelena. Despite their friendship, they’d only played against each other twice, and Viva had won both times. But that had been a long time ago, and Jelena was a very different player now.
She ended the call with Shirley and flopped on the bed. Tomorrow morning, she’d meet with Deepak, and they’d go over Jelena’s game, fingering the weaknesses. But for now, she had nothing to do, nowhere to go, no place to be.
She rolled over and stared up at the ceiling. Jelena’s huge gamble with her career seemed to have paid off. Jack mentioned that the same day the breakfast program aired, Jelena had gained two new sponsors—more than enough to make up for the one she’d lost. She and Marissa were now seen openly together, and the papers were full of photos of the two of them holding hands, having coffee together, and kissing. Jelena’s happiness was a palpable thing.
Jelena hadn’t wanted to live a lie. She’d put Marissa over her tennis future. Viva rested her head on her arm. Jelena had put love first. How bold and brave was that move. She could have found herself with no sponsors, struggling to fund her career. That sort of pressure took its toll on a player’s game. It was yet another reason why it was so hard for the lesser-ranked players to break into the elite.
Viva crossed her legs at the ankle and stared up at the ceiling light. Since she’d mainly dated other players or people on the tour who were either openly out or didn’t care if they were outed, she’d never had to make that decision.
Until now.
Would she give up her career for Gabriela if it came to it? Viva frowned. She shouldn’t have to; whatever happened in her next match, she would be retired by the end of the week. From singles anyway. And doubles? Surely it shouldn’t matter. Umpires for doubles matches were the lower-ranked officials. The chances of having Gabriela umpire one of her matches was exceedingly slim.