Slammed

by Lola Keeley

  “I should get back downstairs,” Toni said, and the air between us was definitely shifting a little, something new and awkward there.

  “Xavi will be looking for you, right?”

  “Nah, he’ll be sleeping by now.”

  “Nightcap?” I shouldn’t. We both had matches early afternoon. “I think there’s cognac.”

  Toni considered a moment, still half-turned back towards the elevator. “Sure, I could drink some cognac.”

  I ushered her in and nodded to the huge couch that dominated the sitting room. The bar was in the corner, so I tracked down the bottle and poured two measures into the ridiculously oversized glasses that let it breathe. The hotel staff had thoughtfully left some dark chocolate to go with it, so I brought the little plate of individually wrapped pieces along with our drinks.

  “If my friends could see me now,” Toni said once I’d set her glass down. “Late night drinking with the world number one.”

  “Your friends can see anything they like,” I said. “It’s just the press I stay away from.”

  “It’s not like I can post a bunch of pics, though,” Toni said. “I’m not complaining; I’m saying I get it.”

  “If you wanted a selfie you just had to ask,” I pointed out. “It’s so not the weirdest request.”

  “What is? The weirdest?”

  “Um, the girl in Melbourne last year who asked me to sign her left boob? She wanted it tattooed. I mean, why not, right?”

  “She’s going to have fun explaining that to a doctor or a lover someday.” Toni saw the funny side, lifting her glass in a silent toast. “But I just wanted you to know…this isn’t about having a famous friend, for me. You must get a lot of fake people, and I wanted to make sure you knew there’s no agenda here.”

  “That’s sweet of you,” I said, because it was. “Most people aren’t that thoughtful. It’s either full-blown creepy, or they do that thing where they insult you a lot to show how cool they are around a famous person. You, though, you can have your selfie anytime you like.”

  “Let’s not show the world we’re up late and drinking,” Toni decided. “But when I see you on the warmup courts tomorrow, we’ll get ourselves some social-media buzz. I want everyone pulling for you to finish the year on top.”

  “And I want you to jump as many ranking points as possible, so I guess that’s fair. We can be cheerleaders for each other.”

  “That come with the cute little outfit?” Toni asked, and I felt that tingle again. “God, this sofa is comfortable.”

  I yawned, the day finally catching up to me.

  “I knew I was keeping you up,” she said. “Is it weird I want to just crash here?”

  “There’s a bed,” I pointed out. “A spare bed, I mean.” Blushing, great. What a smooth idiot I was. “All yours if you can move that far.”

  “Don’t think I can,” Toni said, her words more of a mumble. “Too tired.”

  “When you crash, you really crash, huh?”

  Toni’s response was to let her head fall back against the cushions with a soft little snore. I eased the glass from her grip before it dropped, and after a moment of debating myself, eased her down onto her side and placed a square pillow under her head. When she didn’t stir, I went into the unused bedroom and brought a sheet to cover her with, smiling at the finished sight of a sleeping Toni all tucked in for the night.

  It made it a little harder to get myself to bed. Part of me wanted to just watch her for a moment longer and revel in the peace. Instead, I stripped off and crawled under my own sheets, too tired even for pyjamas.

  The world could wait for a few hours.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  “Elin, you could at least give the poor girl a bed.”

  I woke up with a start to find someone leaning over me, saying those words. It took longer than it should have to work out what the hell was going on.

  Then I realised I was naked on top and the sheets were halfway down the bed. “Parisa!”

  “Better me than your mother,” she pointed out, completely unruffled by the nudity, pulling the curtains open to let some light in. “Your friend has gone back to her own room, by the way. Celeste wanted to know if you were free for breakfast—she’s staying at the Raffles but is easy about where—and you’ve got an hour of press pushed up to before your first match. Sorry.”

  I lay back down and pulled the pillow over my head. Moments later, Parisa pulled it away. She looked as fresh as a daisy and like she’d been up for hours at the same time.

  “Shower, please. Day’s wasting,” she scolded me, smoothing out the material of her Burberry check dress.

  I grunted some kind of reply and made my way to the bathroom.

  Celeste met me in the cafe closest to the venue, and it was a nice, familiar feeling to walk in and see her waiting at a table for me. We’d both gone for low-key looks around town, but there was no denying we were still dressed for sports.

  “Hey, stranger.”

  “Sorry, Cee, injury and recovery wait for no woman. Fighting fit and ready to kick your ass, though.”

  She smothered a laugh with a sip of her coffee. “We’ll see. I always have the edge on hard courts.”

  “So what’s with the breakfast invite? You don’t normally go for first-day catch ups.” I knew Celeste too well by now to be anything other than blunt with her as I took the seat opposite.

  “Has anyone approached you about performance enhancers? Someone within the tour, I mean. Not some random drug dealer.”

  “Me? No. I got a steroid injection in my hip, but that’s all documented and cleared by the Tour’s medical team. Why do you ask?”

  “There are rumours doing the rounds again. And I’ve had more pee tests than I’ve had trophies lately. It’s starting to feel like every other match. When I question why me again, they say there’s definitely something going around out there.”

  “Beats me, but if I was on something performance enhancing, I don’t think I’d be picking up these fickle injuries all year. Or at least, I wouldn’t feel them so much.” I sighed. “And I know you would never, so if anyone is insulting your character, you send them to me, okay?”

  Celeste gave me her broadest smile. “You always did have my back. Looking forward to off-season? Mentally, I’m already on the beach.”

  “Where to this year?” I asked. Celeste took a joy in her vacations that I envied.

  “Mauritius,” she replied. “Assuming I make it to the final here, then the wife will fly out and meet me. Two weeks of no damn tennis, then some actual time at home. Might do us good.”

  “I’m glad to hear you’re optimistic about it all again,” I admitted.

  “Yeah, I’m sorry about the summer. I respect you too much to be treating you like that, Elin. Forgive me?”

  “Already have.” I ordered my own coffee and the delicious-looking fruit salad when the waitress came over.

  “What about you? Had enough of the sun this year? I still haven’t recovered from when you invited me skiing in Sweden.”

  “It’s not like we ever play in the cold! Ten and a half months of summer is more than enough for me. Anyway, I’m thinking of going to Mexico, staying with some friends who invited me.”

  Celeste took her time putting it together, but she was always much too sharp for me. “Mexico, huh? As in, where that Ruiz girl is from? Isn’t that a coincidence?”

  “She’s the friend with the place there, yeah. And the boyfriend? So don’t get all gossip mode with me. No story here.”

  She said more with the “Mmhmm” than most people could with a whole dictionary at their disposal.

  “Do me a favour, could you?” Celeste went on to ask.

  “Anything.”

  “Keep a record of all the times you get tested after matches. I just have this feeling that the pattern isn’t a
s random as they say.”

  “Sure.” I tried to think when I’d last been called for random testing. Usually once per tournament, but there hadn’t been one in New York. When I’d first starting winning, knocking out bigger names and getting trophies, I used to get grabbed way more often after a match. That’s when I learned to take my in-match hydration way more seriously. Nothing worse than being handed an empty cup when your body was three energy drinks short of being able to pee.

  As our food arrived, a young girl broke off from her family who were at the counter settling their bill. Celeste tensed, even less comfortable with the public than I was. I couldn’t blame her; she’d had plenty of negative experiences that I never would, not least because people could be racist idiots. Add to that her coming out when she met her wife, and she felt twice the need to be defensive.

  “Hello,” the little girl said, in her crisp little English accent. She looked Chinese, but I knew better than to assume her nationality on that alone. Singapore especially had a large Chinese population, a truly global city. “Are you here to play tennis today?”

  She addressed the question to both of us, hands behind her back and sharing eye contact equally.

  “We are,” I answered with a smile. “Are you coming to watch?”

  She nodded, as though I’d passed some test. Shooting Celeste an adoring look, she continued talking to me. “I want to play, when I’m older. I have my racquet with me.”

  I looked over to where a handsome man, presumably her father, was juggling a smaller child, a racquet slung over his shoulder, a backpack no doubt brimming with snacks and toys, all while trying to pay for their meal.

  Celeste spoke up, rummaging in her purse. “Do you want to make your racquet lucky?”

  The little girl nodded.

  “What’s your name?” I asked.

  “Mai,” she answered. “How do I make my racquet lucky?” she asked Celeste.

  “Well, you bring it over here and we’ll show you.”

  Mai darted off, liberating the Prince racquet in its slip holder from her dad’s shoulder. He followed her over, seemingly resigned to another incident of her chatting to strangers. He stopped short when he saw us, which was pretty gratifying given the circumstances.

  “Here.” Mai offered the racquet to Celeste, watching like a hawk. “What are you going to do?”

  “Well, my friend Elin here is the best player in the whole wide world. So if she signs her name, right here on your cover, then you’ll play the best tennis you’ve ever played. It’s like magic.”

  “Really?” Mai crossed her arms and gave me an appraising look. “You’re very good, but magic isn’t real. Also—” She asked her dad something in Chinese, and he replied with what sounded like a mild warning.

  “You’re my favourite,” she said to Celeste. “Can you do magic too?”

  “We’ll both sign,” I said, glancing around to make sure nobody else was getting ideas. I had the press gauntlet in twenty minutes, meeting my mother there. I didn’t want to get stuck in an autograph line, but the rest of the customers remained oblivious. “Is that okay, Mai?”

  “Yes, please!”

  Celeste had unearthed a Sharpie, which would show up great on the white leather of the racquet’s cover. We took our turns to sign, she with a My favorite, Mai and me with Hit hard. There, that should inspire the next generation, surely.

  We extricated ourselves after the requisite family selfie, slipping our sunglasses back on and walking the short distance around to the arena entrance.

  “Guess it’s back to competitor mode now,” Celeste said. “Keep track of the official peeing, though!”

  I hugged her, even though we didn’t do much of that anymore. “See you out there at some point.”

  “Ms Larsson?”

  I looked up from fixing my laces. With a half hour still to kill before my match, I was only thinking about keeping warm, keeping my muscles loose and ready for a real workout. I had Keiko in the first round, the draw not so staggered here with only the top section of the rankings qualifying. Toni had scraped in second-last, mostly thanks to some injuries, but it would start off next season perfectly for her.

  Of all the people I expected to see in the doorway, Toni’s coach and boyfriend wasn’t one of them.

  “Xavi, right?”

  “Yes, ma’am. I wondered if you had a minute to talk?” His accent was much thicker than Toni’s, but his English just as impeccable. He had the build more of a wrestler than a former tennis pro, but we all settled differently in retirement.

  “What about? Usually I don’t see anyone right before a match.”

  “Of course. It’s just… I figured if I don’t ask now, maybe I never will. Are you happy with your coaching setup?”

  I gave him a long, appraising look. “You mean with my mother? Who’s coached me my entire career?”

  “Lots of people change their coaches when they need a fresh approach. You’ve had some injuries too, that makes for big changes. I’ve been watching your progress closely this year, and I have some suggestions. If you were open to a change. I could work with Britta, or if she wanted a rest after getting you this far…”

  “This far is twenty-one Grand Slams, yes?” I didn’t like his brazenness, no matter how polite. I knew this sort of thing went on; some other players had a different coach every two seasons. I’d been tempted once or twice, when someone whose game I admired retired and went into coaching, but ultimately, success as a player had no bearing on what made a great coach. My mother deserved credit for my achievements, especially when she’d learned so much on the job in those early years.

  “And with my plan, you could not just grab the Open-era record, but hopefully smash it. You could easily have four, five more years, managed correctly.”

  And somehow that did it. It wasn’t the disloyalty, not really. It was partly the realisation that coming to coach me would effectively be abandoning Toni, just when she was getting back on track. Much more than that, though, the length of time Xavi was talking about filled me with instant dread.

  Five years? I’d barely talked myself into next season. Of course, I’d never really worked out how I would retire, outside of random dreams where I had to announce it on a cooking show or choose between retiring and doing a bungee jump from some impossibly tall building. My subconscious wasn’t subtle and for many years had been doing my mother’s work for her.

  In that moment, though, I was sure of one thing: I didn’t have five more years of this in me. Maybe the needle for my tank hadn’t quite ticked over to empty, but it was in the range where any sane person would divert to the nearest petrol station. It was freeing, in a way. I didn’t have an exact number, but the horizon was no longer endless.

  “Thank you, Xavi, I’m flattered. But I’m perfectly happy with my current plan. You must be proud Toni made it here this year?”

  “Antonia is very good,” he said graciously. “For a while, I thought she wouldn’t come back, but she proved us all wrong. Still, there are levels.”

  “And given the chance—given some expert coaching—she could reach the highest levels,” I replied. “I’m no coach, but I know ability when it’s hitting across the net from me. You should invest in her. I suspect she’ll pay off.”

  “Right, but there’s a difference—”

  “She wants a slam like other people want to be able to breathe,” I reminded him. “Pour your effort into that, not someone cruising for the nearest exit, okay?”

  “Are you saying—”

  It was tempting to say yes. To confirm it here first and hope word would spread. How long would it take me to extricate myself? Could my next muscle twang or joint creak be an excuse to finally walk?

  “I’m saying I’m on the end of my journey. Toni’s not even halfway. If you asked my mother, I’m sure she’d tell you the same. And she’s
a world-class coach.”

  The dig wasn’t discreet, but I didn’t want it to be. I loved my mother, for all her faults, and she’d given me everything. Toni? Well she deserved better, even if I couldn’t give it to her.

  “Good luck out there today,” he said. “I’m sorry I disturbed you.”

  I waved him off without absolution and kicked my overstuffed racquet bag to one side. Restless, I started doing a modified kind of step aerobics on the bench I’d just been sitting on. Motion always calmed me, and I needed my head back in the game.

  I waited for Keiko after the match—we’d hugged and kissed cheeks over the net as usual—but she was nowhere to be seen. Knowing she wasn’t a sore loser, I asked one of the ball boys if he knew where she’d gone.

  “Testing, I think?” He looked mortified to even be asked, but at smaller tournaments the ball boys and girls did more than just the on-court duties.

  “Right,” I replied, realising that even as the winner of the match I hadn’t been asked. That was pretty strange in itself. With all possible respect, did it matter as much if someone was doping if they lost? Of course it did, integrity of the sport and all that, but Keiko was about the least likely suspect I could think of. I’d test myself before her, and I knew I hadn’t taken a thing.

  We finally crossed paths again in the players’ restaurant, in this case just a small catering kitchen with a room attached to sit at long tables. It was private at least, so I made myself a fairly epic salad bowl and settled down across from her.

  “You nearly had me there,” I confessed. “Is it me, or is it getting closer each time?”

  “Sure, if you discount me dumping you out in Paris. That wasn’t close.” Keiko winked at me. “Did I hear right? Ruiz’s coach is shopping himself around and he came to you?”

  “How the hell did you hear that?”

  “I have sources.”

  “Well, uh…”

  “Only I can’t imagine how Britta would react to that. Tell me if she finds out; I’ll pay for a ticket to watch.”