by Lola Keeley
“Yeah. Maybe the night before the final wasn’t so smart, but I don’t have to answer to her on that.”
I felt the surprised glance without anything having to be said. Turned out I could still shock my little sister.
Even with the vagaries of LA traffic, it didn’t take us long to find the sushi place. We took a small booth in back, nobody giving me a second glance. The refreshing feeling of being anonymous again let my shoulders drop the last inch, and I relaxed into catching up.
Somewhere between the eel and the salmon, Alice pointed her chopsticks at me in accusation. “There’s something going on with you. Did you and Celeste have a little reunion after the match?”
“What? No.” I sipped my wine, considering. “Although she did kind of suggest it? But no, we’re not meant to be.”
“Then it’s someone else. Don’t tell me, that pig from the men’s tour finally wore you down and you switched teams.”
“Ew. No. You might put up with dating men, but some of us have standards.”
Alice flipped me off while finishing her own glass of red. “No, if this is a new thing for you then we have… What? A year of silent pining, minimum? It’s not like you’re going to make a move or really do anything about it.”
For that, I balled up my napkin and threw it at her. “I have game.”
“On the court, sure. If it was a case of hitting a ball at this new mystery woman, there’s nobody better. But dating? I think maybe there’s nobody worse.”
“For that, you’re buying dinner.”
“The starving artist? I don’t think so. I might not watch Wimbledon, but I know what they pay the winner.”
Our parents would be horrified to hear us talking so openly about modest subjects like money. Not quite teenage rebellion, but close to our version of it.
“Speaking of romance and dating, I don’t see you here with a plus one,” I said.
“No, but maybe next time I could bring a certain someone. You’ll like this one. He even has…wait for it…a real job.”
“You mean he’s not an ‘aspiring’ anything? Because I’ve lived through the actor, the dancer, the one who wouldn’t wait tables just anywhere because he wanted to be a ‘professional server.’”
“For that, I’m ordering dessert.” Alice let it all bounce off her, secure as ever that in a comparison of our romantic success she’d come out in front. “And you don’t get details until you spill about yours.”
“Nothing to spill. This girl saved me from getting caught by the paparazzi, we maybe had a half a moment after I won the damn thing, and…yeah. She’s probably straight—”
Alice groaned. I did have form on that front.
“And dating her coach. Because oh, she’s another player. Which worked out so well before. To top it all off, I didn’t even recognise her at first, so I probably look like an elitist asshole to her as well. Not exactly the start of a romantic comedy, is it?”
“I’ve heard worse. Although you can be married thirty-something years and throw it all away, as it turns out. Maybe we’re both crazy to be looking for love?”
“You might be looking, but I’m not,” I argued. “And I knew you couldn’t just be that cool about the divorce. If we’re going to talk feelings, though, it’s going to take more than this wine.”
“You mean a real bar?” Alice asked like she’d read my mind. “I know just the place.”
I signalled for the check and patted Alice’s hand. We weren’t big on hugs and all that warm-blooded stuff, but it felt necessary in the circumstances.
“Come on, let’s go drown our sorrows and get used to coming from a broken home.”
The shrill ring of the phone woke me, or maybe it was the glaring sunlight through the bedroom window—I’d forgotten to close the drapes.
I fumbled for the evil noise-making machine like a drowning person clutching for a rope.
“Ms Larsson, your car will be with you in thirty.”
I grunted some kind of acknowledgement, the spike of panic leaving words beyond my reach. What car? Why? I didn’t even attempt the concept of ‘thirty,’ so I left that alone for a moment. Sitting up was the next grand plan, and I only felt slightly sick when I managed it.
Tequila. My sister could not be trusted around it, and neither could I. Water. I needed to get water and then maybe think about opening both eyes at the same time.
The promotional shoot for the US Open, that was the appointment. A long, repetitive day of shooting headshots that would be turned into giant posters and video clips they could use in animated titles. It was actually one of the few commercial projects I enjoyed. They always had a plan, no talking required, just follow instructions and enjoy the company of other pros and a loaded craft-services table. Pretty sweet day, if you weren’t dying from a hangover.
I risked a look in the mirror. Ouch. Somewhere just north of “alive,” but only just. I swear that never happened in my twenties. One benefit of being fit and having a good metabolism was that alcohol never used to do much damage on the way through. Since I’d turned thirty, some cosmic switch had flipped, and I paid in full for every drink the next day.
Alice came staggering in at that point, clutching two glasses of water.
“Wow, you look rough.”
“Thanks, Alice. It’s your fault, remember?” I took the water and chugged it down with increasing relief. Oh hydration, I would never overlook you again. “You want to tag along for promo shots today? I think it’s at NBC.”
“Burbank? No thanks,” Alice scoffed in response. “Come on, let’s try and get you looking human. The studio can do the rest.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
When I was shown to the soundstage, Celeste was almost dressed and ready. She looked great in her black and vibrant pink runner’s-vest-and-shorts combo. After the strictness of Wimbledon, we were all looking forward to running through the other options for colour and fit. She had even toned the streaks of colour through her locs to be the same shade of pink. Celeste looked completely put together and ready to kick my ass in the name of revenge any time I liked.
I had changed into my own T-shirt-and-skirt outfit of navy and white with touches of gold. With one of my favoured white racquets in hand, I moved to join my colleagues who had gathered around the buffet of food and drink like a plague of well-paid locusts.
With the flurry of greetings and the lunge for a much-needed coffee, I wasn’t really paying that much attention. Having my racquet tucked under my arm gave me a wider turning circle, and I managed to whack someone on the arm as I moved.
“Sorry, I… Toni?”
“Hola.”
“I didn’t know you were—I mean—”
She patted me on the arm, having snagged a coffee for herself already. “You didn’t know the low ranks were allowed in? It’s okay, me either. But Mexico is a big market, and Mexican-Americans… They want me on the promo shots. I think someone called in a favour, but hey. Free trip to LA, right? It’s pretty nice on this coast.”
“It’s good to see you.” I hoped the hair and make-up girls had worked their magic, because I didn’t need to look as hellish as I had on waking up. “And sooner than expected.”
“Like a bad penny, I just keep turning up. You didn’t even know my name two weeks ago.”
“Well, I did, somewhere in this brain of mine. How are you?”
“Good. Bit of a scare with my knee the other day, but all good. How about you?”
Celeste was watching us from where she was holding court—which I swear was no pun intended, ever—with most of the other top seeds.
“Well, my parents are getting divorced, my sister got me wasted, and this coffee is the only thing between me and sleeping standing up.”
That stopped Toni in her tracks for a moment. She looked unfairly gorgeous, done up for the shoot as well, but especially
comfortable in the peach-coloured dress, fitted to perfection with the collar popped.
“You’ve been…busy since Wimbledon, then?”
“I had some time in Sweden; now I’m home and doing this stuff. Weirdly, this is one of the quiet times in the year for me. I used to play everything going, now I’m pacing myself between London and New York.”
“That was like me late last year, when I first came back. My specialist was so sure I was gonna throw my back every time I took a swing.”
We were interrupted by her coach, and as soon as I saw him, I recognised him. Short, stocky, and with an expression like thunder most of the time. “Toni, vamos.”
“I don’t think they’re ready for us yet,” I intervened. “Sorry, I don’t think we’ve been introduced.”
He had the sense not to completely dismiss me, although it looked like he wanted to. “Xavi,” he said, extending his hand for the briefest of handshakes. “A pleasure, Miss Larsson.”
Someone should have told his face it was a pleasure.
“I need to go get strapped up and taped up if we’re doing the whole ‘swing and jump and looking silly in front of the green screen’ deal,” Toni explained. “Usually I’d let it go, but they want some real action shots from us all, and there’s no way I’m risking an injury doing something this dumb.”
“See you out there,” I said.
The director finally emerged at the front of the staging area, clapping her hands to get our attention.
“Ladies, our job today is to get people really excited for September. So let’s get started! Is, uh—Can we start with Elin Larsson, please?”
I was almost disappointed. Going first meant I’d have no excuse to hang around and chat all day. I waved at the director and jogged across to start. Cameras began appearing everywhere, and all the players were ushered to different areas and backdrops.
I was careful not to look for Toni, in case it started any whispers. I told myself I wasn’t bothered when she ended up being shot right next to me.
Alice had been right, and it made me crazy. Here I was, metres away from a woman I found intriguing, and I was doing exactly nothing about it. Then I caught Xavi lurking behind the camera and remembered why it was a dumb idea in the first place.
Maybe going first wouldn’t be such a bad idea after all.
Those brief conversations with Toni had to sustain me for the best part of a month. Although she had my number, I got only a handful of texts. Clearly mass messages at that—updates on where she would be that week if anyone was looking for her. It felt like it meant something to be included, at least.
She kicked ass in Washington, though, while I was playing the Canadian Open. I paid more attention than I usually would have to a smaller tournament, but when Toni made it to the final, I was cheering her on via a stuttering, buffering stream that Parisa managed to bring up on my tablet for me. I sent my commiserations when she lost, pleased to even get a reply.
It was strange to play almost a whole tournament without my mother watching from the side-lines and managing my training schedule. It was easier in the one-week events, since warmups, matches, and cool downs were generally enough on their own. I played pretty much every day to make it to the final, accepting the cute trophy and the cheque with a bit of a spring in my step. No matter how jaded I had been lately, winning did still bring its own kind of high.
My mother showed up for Cincinnati, hitting the hotel reception at the same time as I did. Creepy, how she could time those things to perfection. She didn’t offer much news about the divorce, beyond mentioning that they might sell the house, and I didn’t ask any more than that either. We settled into our suite, only the lounge of it shared, and the routine of another tournament soon took over.
Until the third-round match on Wednesday, when I tossed the ball in the air for a second serve, like I’d done a thousand times before. The first serve had been a fault, something I’d been doing too many times since I first walked out on court. I hated that they called double faults “unforced errors.” It was easier to admit I had just screwed it up.
The crowd weren’t exactly on my side either, since my opponent was American. Sophie was classy enough not to work the home-crowd angle too much, but I didn’t enjoy my every dumb moment being cheered like they couldn’t wait to see a giant-killing moment. So much for tennis being a dignified sport where they only applauded the positive and politely ignored the things that went wrong.
Not that I made for much of a giant, that day.
Anyway. Bounce, bounce, toss it up in the air. Standard, one of the most repeated actions in my daily existence—hell, my whole life. Which was the perfect invitation for the… Okay, I didn’t remember the name, but the big muscle running through my left hip.
It wasn’t close to the worst ways I’d hurt myself trying to hit a ball, but it had me doubling up in pain and missing the ball entirely. At least until I realised that bending over was only hurting it more. Straightening up, I waved vaguely at the umpire. I walked like I’d only just learned how legs worked over to my chair, dropping my racquet on the ground and signalling for my physio, Ezi, to come running. She was already on her way, as the umpire called for a medical timeout, one of the few permitted breaks in play.
The tournament medical staff arrived right along with her, the doctor and nurse looking a little overwhelmed at being called into action in front of the large crowd. Usually, aches and pains were played through until the next natural break—change of ends on the court, the pause between sets. Acute injuries, though, anything that resulted from a fall or a sudden inability to move properly, meant immediate attention.
They had me stand and prodded at where I indicated until I hissed with pain. With the diagnosis made so quickly, I had the option for three minutes of physio treatment or to retire the match entirely. A forfeit, if you like.
I could already tell which it would be. While something like this would be easily fixed, it would take time and rest. Honestly, I’d had trouble with both of my hips on and off for at least ten years. A lot of players did damage in the early years of their career from playing too hard and too often, and that kind of niggling pain flared up again and again.
As Ezi offered me an arm to support me, I made my way to the umpire and announced that I would have to retire the match. The crowd at least had found some sympathy for me at that point and applauded me politely back to the locker room. Sophie, always the most sporting, came to shake my hand and propped me up on my other side, before running back out on court to retrieve her things and make the “victory” official.
“Mamma.” I tried to head her off as soon as she made it down from the VIP seats. “It’s okay, just that same damn muscle.”
“I’ve called the hospital; they’ll scan you and the specialist will be waiting.”
“Not necessary,” I protested, but I already knew it was a lost cause. I wondered whether it was worth trying to clean up and change. The transition from standing to sitting and the way my hip yelled at me said no, I’d be going in my match gear.
Hospitals, physio suites, doctor’s offices: I was used to them all. They’d always been a part of the job, and sometimes a welcome respite from it. It troubled me a little, especially in countries like America, that wherever I went in the world the tour or my own money would always make sure I got the best of treatment. It felt decadent when I knew so many of the people who lived and worked there could barely afford insurance and too often didn’t have real access to healthcare at all.
Still, at least my swanky doctors had nice offices. No squeaky floors and ugly lighting for me.
I always thought there was something a little off about anyone who went into sports medicine. Don’t get me wrong, I was grateful for them. Over the years and in countless places, they’d patched me up and kept me on top of my game. Still, they were often a lot to take, personality-wise. Usually athletes
in their own right, they often were more interested in my stats than my scans at first. Eventually, though, they all got past the jokes and trying to be friends right down to the medical nitty-gritty.
As I suspected, it was a bad muscle strain. Rest, painkillers, a change up in my physio to strengthen my core and the pelvis. I wasn’t wild about a room full of people nodding about my pelvis, but I had gotten used to that and worse indignities. There was some warning about wear-and-tear on my hip joint itself, but I’d learned to deal only with the injuries I had at any given time.
“The important thing,” my mother said, as we got back into the car, “is that you should be fit in plenty of time for New York.”
“Good,” I said with a sigh. “You know Alice wants to come this year? Maybe we could do something nice in New York, just the three of us.”
“Winning a tournament isn’t doing something nice? Come, Elin. Every slam counts now.”
“Yes, Mamma.”
I leaned back on the leather of the SUV’s seat, watching the scenery fly by as we headed back to the hotel. Parisa had rearranged my schedule already, and I looked forward to some quiet time. Before I could get too complacent in my injured state, my phone bleeped for my attention.
You ok?
Toni. Well, that was unexpected.
Fine. Why? I replied. Surely it wasn’t big news.
Toni’s little bubbles seemed to stay on the screen for a long time as I waited for her response.
I saw you took an R. Nothing serious?
Had news really travelled that fast? Maybe she’d been watching the coverage, as we all did from time to time out of habit. Or had she been watching on purpose? Following my progress as I had been hers? Was that too much to hope for?
Old hip problem, likes to remind me who’s really in charge sometimes. Rest and physio, back in a week or two. How are you?
The bubbles loaded and loaded. Great. A slow texter. At least she finally had a flaw. The lack of them so far had been a little annoying.