Slammed

by Lola Keeley

  I nodded, before jumping in to correct. “Just injuries, I think.” I’d looked her up that morning when fighting boredom and mild jitters. “She’s cracked the top one hundred again quickly enough, but no. No doubles, not at this stage of my career. The only way I’ll go back to doubles is if—”

  “You can’t keep up in singles anymore. That’s what I thought.” Celeste leaned in to kiss me on the cheek. It had real tenderness, not the brisk continental both-cheeks kiss we’d exchanged over the net. “Come on, get back out and bask in your glory, woman.”

  “I had the good part; the only fun left for me now is the cheque. And we don’t even get those anymore, just a nice soulless bank transfer.”

  “Your entire career is basically just torturing your introvert self for being amazing at something you can’t do in private, isn’t it?”

  I laughed. Celeste always had been able to cut through the bullshit. She certainly could see right through me. “Save that quote for next time they want to make an inspirational montage about me, hmm?”

  “Oh, they’re probably cutting some right now. Dollars to donuts they’re already showing it on the BBC, but it’ll take ESPN an hour or so. I can’t wait to never watch them.”

  “Will I see you in Cincinnati?”

  “And the shoot for the… Wait, what’s the next one? Watches, maybe? Or some kind of sports deodorant?”

  Enough to make me groan. Endorsements were big money, but an even bigger pain in the ass. “I’ll ask Parisa. She keeps all that stuff straight.”

  “Well done, seriously. See you out there.”

  I liked that about Celeste. Other people would retreat into solitary after losing, holed up in a hotel room to throw things around, or taking an hour-long shower just to cry. I’d had those kinds of finals myself. Instead, she’d be out there with the grace and composure of a champion, just one who didn’t quite live up to her own standards on this particular afternoon.

  Which meant I really could hide no longer. I was also starving. Winning tennis matches took a lot of energy, and I burned through calories even harder than I burned through racquets and tennis shoes. Taking evasive action from where my mother had cornered our King, I edged around part of the room to tackle the buffet table.

  “Carbs before champagne?” asked a familiar voice, with its attractive Spanish lilt. “A woman after my own heart. But I brought you a drink all the same.”

  Toni handed over a flute of champagne, her own already half-empty. Thirsty despite my water and energy drinks downed between games and sets, I tipped the glass back and finished it in one big mouthful.

  “Thank you. I think I needed that.”

  “Congratulations. That was…something. Although you’re probably really sick of hearing that by now.”

  I couldn’t help smirking as I confessed the truth. “Oh, I might look like it’s all too much to bear, but you’d be surprised how much you want to keep hearing it. Trust me, try being on the other side of it, and you miss it a lot.”

  “Celeste gave you a good match. For a minute there…”

  “Well.” I found myself to eager to change the subject. “You scrub up nicely, out of tennis gear.”

  “I figured, being in VIP and all. Thanks for that, did I thank you already?”

  I shook my head. “Not necessary, it’s a nice perk. My civilian friends have all had a turn, and they only care so much about strawberries and champagne after a while.” Great. Way to sound like a lonely loser whose friends don’t even like her. “Is there anyone here you wanted to meet? I could introduce you.”

  “Nobody is going to want to talk to the girl ranked ninety-nine when the winner is in the room,” Toni said, but she squeezed my arm to show she was joking. “I have a thing later, actually. But I’ll see you tomorrow, at the Champions Dinner? My federation are sending me as their one guest.”

  “Spain only get one guest? But you have—”

  “Oh no, I live in Spain now, and I train there. But I’m Mexican, so I play for Mexico.”

  “Ah, sorry. There’s so many people to keep track of, and as you can see, I’m no social butterfly.”

  “You’re doing great from where I’m standing.”

  My mother chose that moment to visibly wave me over to join her royal conversation.

  “Excuse me, I have to go be very Swedish and downplay my achievements a lot.”

  “Not too much, you hear? See you tomorrow.”

  And before I could so much as shake her hand, she was gone. I couldn’t blame Toni; I wanted nothing more than to leave myself. Instead, I made my way over, without food, to engage in more small talk, this time in the more relaxed form of Swedish.

  “Do you have a dress, for tomorrow?” the queen asked me, bringing my attention back to the formal dinner that I usually did everything to duck out of after the official red-carpet photos.

  “I do,” I confirmed. “Blue, of course. I’m really looking forward to it.”

  “Well, that makes a change.” My mother couldn’t help commenting, since almost every big party was a battle of wills between us. “Every time I have to drag you there.”

  I gave an uneasy laugh, hoping the subject would change. An American news crew broke free of the press area and gave me an excuse to move on. So what if I walked to the huge windows overlooking the way out, hoping to catch a glimpse of Toni? It didn’t mean anything. Well, not much of anything, anyway.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Parisa yanked her bedroom door open after I knocked for the third time. “You’d better be dying. Or have killed someone. It’s barely eight. On a Sunday.”

  “I was thinking about my dress,” I admitted, trying to catch her attention quickly. While I got up at six most days for my run, no one could ever accuse my personal assistant of doing the same. Usually I didn’t mind; it gave me a couple of hours each day not talking about rankings and appearances and photoshoots.

  “That’s a first. I can’t get you to think about your dresses when you’re actually wearing them, so what gives?”

  “It’s just… You had a couple of other options that you said were better?”

  “I said they were sexier, but yeah. There’s a Carolina Herrera and a Givenchy somewhere in the pile I have to return. Why?”

  “No harm in looking at our options, is there?”

  “Are you going to wear it to watch the Men’s Final or something?” Parisa had almost finished waking up. I had to get out of there before she got too curious. “Or do you want to change between the red carpet and the event? Because people keep asking if we’re going to bring back the traditional dance…”

  “Sure, I’ll dance if you want.” We both blinked at each other for a moment at that revelation. So what? I liked dancing. I’d taken classes before tennis swallowed my whole life at thirteen. I could even, to a point, keep the beat. The rhythm in most songs was just like varying the speed of a rally, to me. “What does that buy me?”

  “I’ll look out every dress option we have.” Parisa pulled her hair up into a temporary bun, all business. “Does this mean I can get someone in for hair and make-up too?”

  “Fine,” I sighed. “Do your worst.”

  “If you’re really in a good mood, you’ll go with your mother to the match today.”

  “The last thing I feel like today is more tennis, but if I can convince her to come get a massage, then fine.”

  “The team thanks you.”

  Part one of my mission secured, I made my way downstairs to the kitchen. Naturally, Mother had beaten me there. She had the juicer running but most importantly a full cafetière of some insanely rich-smelling coffee. I swooped in to pour my own mug, but she batted my hand away and poured generous cups for both of us. Cream and sugar were already out, and she didn’t grumble when I reached for both. Clearly the smudged mascara under her eyes, and the fact that she was still in
pyjamas and robe, meant she had stayed out for a night worth this morning’s calorific indulgence too.

  “You don’t have the papers out yet?” I asked. Usually the morning after a final, I’d be greeted with the papers sorted by favourable and unfavourable coverage laid out on the nearest surface. “Not like you, Mamma.”

  “It’s still early,” she replied, voice rasping a little. “And I already checked the important ones on my tablet. They’re happy: You made it interesting for them.”

  “That’s one way of saying it,” I said with a snort. “The other would be that Celeste wiped the floor with me in the first set. We showed her, though, didn’t we?”

  These were the best times for my mother and I. Winning always gave her that temporary respite from the endless pushing she had devoted her life to. I shouldn’t complain; all her energy and drive would have been for nothing if I hadn’t wanted to do this. It was easy to forget that after all these years. At first she had wanted me to be any other teenager, not dropping out of school at fourteen to go professional and play in my first championships.

  “I was worried about you out there,” Mother said. “But you took control like I knew you could, Elin. Very good.” The compliments were rare, and I wasn’t ashamed to bask in them for a moment. “Of course it could have been a quicker start for you if Friday night had been spent in proper preparation.”

  “Mamma…”

  “Fine, fine. You won; I have no case. But this is the critical time, dear daughter. You need to focus on breaking your records before you can even think about slowing down or retiring. You’re so close to having the most Grand Slams of any player, ever. Don’t let yourself fall short.”

  “And if I break that record I can just walk away?” I asked. “Who says I’ll be any more ready then?”

  “Only you can tell,” she replied. “But until you do, I’m going to train you as hard as I ever have and keep planning for the next win. Now, how are you feeling after playing so differently yesterday?”

  “Exhausted,” I had to admit. “I was thinking of having a real massage this afternoon—not sports massage, something more relaxing. Can I book you one too? Call it my thank you.”

  She sipped at her coffee, eyes closed for a moment. “That might be nice, yes. Don’t think this means you can skip the dinner.”

  Parisa showed up then to save me an argument, half-dressed with a bundle of couture bags over one arm. “Right, these are all the dresses you have to choose from, and I sent a text to a friend at Harvey Nicks to be on standby, in case you’re feeling extra fussy.”

  My mother stared at Parisa, before a suspicious look made its way to me.

  “This is…more enthusiastic than normal.”

  “I won!” I reminded them. “Really, it’s ungrateful to be a bitch about a party being thrown half in my honour. I’ve decided to enjoy myself. You know, since I can go out drinking without a bunch of other adults tracking my movements?”

  That shut them up, at least for a little while. I grabbed the dresses from Parisa, draining my coffee mug on the way out of the kitchen.

  “Going to try these on! Won’t be long!”

  The red carpet wasn’t as bad as in previous years. After all, it was a Sunday evening in a city with a hundred other cool things going on. The pressure was in winning the damn thing, not celebrating it.

  I managed not to trip in the ridiculous heels Parisa picked out, and for once I felt like a bit of a princess in the navy satin dress we’d decided on. Strapless and cut in all the right places, it definitely showed off my arms. My one small tattoo—a rebellious souvenir from the first major tour that neither of my parents had been on with me—had a smudge of make-up covering it. When playing it was always covered by the racer back of my sports bras, but this dress left that whole section on display.

  Did I mention that what I knew about fashion could be written on the white stripe running through a tennis ball? Honestly, if it wasn’t about the newest rubber soles on tennis shoes, I had less than zero chance of knowing about it.

  I knew that the dress looked good, though. If I had to play dress up, I liked garments that looked classic. The one good crossover between professional sport and fashion was that they liked you lean, so I had that going for me, although my thigh muscles made the skirt of the dress a little tighter than I think the designer intended. The split in the material certainly drew plenty of glances.

  As was tradition, the Men’s and Ladies’ Singles winners were photographed together. Jürgen, the men’s champ, was far better at all this press than me and better than most people on the tour. He was tall as all hell, and when the girl who’s over a metre-seventy said that, it meant properly tall. With close-cropped dark curls atop stylised shaving on the sides, and some designer stubble, he often looked like a male model who’d wandered into a game of tennis by accident.

  The press often seemed to think Sweden and Germany, where Jürgen hailed from, were basically the same country, not helped by the fact that we’d played mixed doubles together at a few tournaments when I still did that sort of thing.

  That should have been the point where I got to say that despite his natural gifts, wealth, and success, Jürgen was a surprisingly kind and shy sort of guy.

  Nope, in fact he was exactly the worst type of asshole that you’d expect. Entitled, smug, and prone to treating everyone around him like his personal property. He had made his way through the women’s side of the tour like a dose of chlamydia, and rumour had it that he had in fact left some of the girls with an unwanted present like that. Those of us who didn’t date men were usually beneath his notice, though it hadn’t stopped him trying to “turn” us once or twice.

  Only my success made him treat me with any kind of grudging respect, though I knew he told anyone who’d listen that it would be impossible to rack up career stats like mine in the men’s competitions, since they were all so much more competitive. Point a television camera at him, though, and he was Prince Charming. Like I said: an asshole.

  As usual he tried to pull me into an overly friendly hug, holding on too long and letting his hands drift just short of places that would trigger self-defence responses.

  “Larsson, look at you. All dressed up like a real girl. Does this mean you’re finally switching teams?”

  “Not if you’re what’s waiting on the other side, no. You can let go, Jürgen. Otherwise the posse of models waiting for you might get the wrong idea.”

  That got him detangled from me quickly. We did the requisite press line—one question each, big smiles, and lots of candid shots. The trophies were wheeled back out for us to pose with. How strange to spend two weeks winning something only to hold it for less than ten minutes combined. We got replicas, of course, but those were already spirited away and packed for the journeys home.

  I’d like to say I sensed her the moment she appeared on the red carpet, but the sporting press certainly recognised Toni quicker than I had at the bar. They didn’t make as big of a fuss as they did over the top seeds, most of whom had been making the headlines for years. There was no denying Toni was gorgeous, though, and in my one—okay, maybe two—internet searches for her since Friday night, I had seen the modelling shots she’d done in her early career. A cursory look at the top stories suggested finding her in a bar on a Friday night hadn’t been much of a coincidence.

  The party girl of tennis? No wonder our paths hadn’t crossed much. While Toni had been out in clubs with footballers and pop stars, I had been my usual boring self. In other sports, people would study their opponents to learn their weaknesses. I never had to do that. I played my way and they all came out trying to beat me. Sometimes the coaches would have me work on a specific shot or tactic, if the opponent had a particular weakness, but I didn’t remember a lot of people outside of the matches as we played them. It was a handy excuse for not having recognised her right away, anyway.

  Al
l the same, before she was even free of the red carpet, I had handed back the trophy I’d sweated and strained for through all those matches and made my way right to her.

  Of course our greeting with continental cheek kisses set off a flurry of clicks and flashes too, even though it was nothing more than friendly and I’d greeted a bunch of the other players that way already. We did the minimum of turning to pose together, before ducking through the doors into the ballroom set out for the occasion.

  “You made it,” I said, at a loss for anything more interesting.

  “Yes, I got a taxi. I didn’t have to swim the Thames or anything.” She had that faintly amused look about her again. No doubt she found me a bit strange. Everyone else did. “Can I congratulate you again? Or will that just make you blush?”

  “If you like. I’m more interested in what’s for dinner, though. I have a week free from my tournament diet and I can’t wait to eat something other than steamed protein.”

  “You wait for British catering to let yourself go?” Toni laughed for real that time. “That feels like a waste.”

  “Careful, you’ll get us both thrown out.” Nobody was close enough to overhear our conversation, though Jürgen was doing his best to leer at Toni from where he’d taken up his post at the open bar.

  “I don’t think they throw out the champ. Would leave the top table a little empty, no?”

  “Oh, there’s always an empty chair or two, after all the photo ops.”

  “Like your date? Only I didn’t see you come in with anyone,” Toni said, looking around as though I could be hiding someone in plain sight. “And there’s no room in that dress to hide anyone else.” Her look up and down was lingering, appreciative in a blatant sort of way. I liked it a whole lot better than when Jürgen had tried the same thing just minutes before.

  “Yeah, I never quite got around to that. Not recently, anyway.”