Slammed

by Lola Keeley

  “Unlikely. But I think I have enough in the tank for two. Then there would be a kind of long, public farewell, I guess? If I can’t do it, then I’ll play next season. But I don’t want to play until I’m too old for it.”

  “Mmm, that’s right, your birthday is next week. At thirty-three you’re my older woman.” Toni gave me a wink, her grin downright cheeky. “Oh, I’m not complaining.”

  “Well, you young ones are always coming for my crown,” I teased, even though we were both well aware she’d be twenty-seven the day before Wimbledon. “I thought I should start having some fun with that.”

  “Are you telling me there’s a line outside?” She dragged her fingertips down the inside of my thigh, her nails short and blunt, but enough to spark a reaction all the way down. “Because I was planning on taking my time tonight.”

  “I think you’re already more than I can handle,” I confessed. “I’m not looking for anyone else.”

  “Good,” Toni replied, shifting position so she could kiss me, her fingers slipping beneath the water. “Because neither am I.”

  Toni lost to Celeste in the semi-finals and didn’t take it well. I had to leave her stewing in her hurt and anger, taking up my part in the second semi and playing for the chance to meet Celeste. Maybe the worry forced me to be efficient, or maybe Fatima was off her game that day, but I booked my berth in the final as if it had been written in the stars, just waiting for me to show up and fulfil the prophecy. Winning felt like that sometimes, as though forces beyond a simple ball and racquet were at play.

  It made for a quiet evening, one where Toni eventually asked to be alone and I was happy to comply. I found my mother in the hotel bar, nursing the one glass of Scotch she allowed herself on a match day, and she motioned for me to join her. For once, we talked in our native tongue, no guests and no Alice around to give us pause.

  “How is she?”

  “Pissed off with the world,” I replied. “She really thought she was in with a chance, after Madrid. There’s no telling her that this was still a good showing.”

  “Hmm.” My mother sipped at her drink. “I didn’t know if she had it in her, but she’s like you. It’s not obvious, but this level of investment will pay off for her. If she can stay fit. I remember how bad her back was; she was supposed to be done for good.”

  “Still.” I waved down the waiter and asked for some juice. “It’s one less motivated person in my way. I want to have a good summer.”

  “I hope you didn’t say that to her.”

  “Of course not. We don’t… My success is not at the expense of hers. And vice versa. I can be happy for her, if I win on Saturday, she’ll be thrilled for me. It’s healthy, Mamma. It’s good.”

  She watched me for a long time, considering. “Yes, I think it is. And no ‘if,’ Elin. When. Celeste is strong again this season, but you have the edge. Without her serve here she’s relying on everything else.”

  “I know, we’ll go over it all tomorrow. You’ve found me some weak spots?”

  My mother nodded. Always ready to help me win. “Since you want to save the tennis for tomorrow, I should probably tell you…your father called. We have a buyer for the house.”

  That startled me, just as the waiter brought my juice. I almost spilled it over him in his starched uniform, and the apologies took a minute or two. “That’s really it? Just gone?”

  “Yes, and we can sign the divorce papers the same week. It won’t be until after Wimbledon, don’t worry. Are you coming back in July with me?”

  “I don’t think so. I don’t want to watch that, sorry. Dividing up our lives, I mean. I know you two are so adjusted, but it’s weird for me. It was weird being home with Pappa and not you, honestly.”

  “It’s okay,” my mother assured me. “Here I am, ending the great love story of my life, and it seems yours is just starting.”

  I blushed, furiously. My mother didn’t talk about things like love. If asked, I would have said she loved her children, loved her job, and yes, eventually she would have mentioned my father. I’d never seen him as her great love, and I realised in that moment how much children missed. I had taken for granted our safe and welcoming home, no screaming fights or dark clouds hanging over it. Once we started to travel with the tour, that family life had been my oasis, my safe place to land.

  I saw in that moment that I hadn’t been picturing that anymore, when I thought about home and peace and contentment. I’d been picturing my own, high in those Hollywood Hills. Completing the picture? Toni at my side. I wanted to ask her to move in with me, even if she kept her own place in Spain.

  “Yes,” I finally said, although maybe we’d both forgotten the question by then. I raised my glass in an ironic toast. “To the great loves of our lives.”

  My mother clinked her glass against mine. “Be happy, Elin. Two out of three now, yes?”

  I nodded.

  “One, after this.”

  “Then let’s try to make it Wimbledon,” she replied. “You always were at your best on grass.”

  Was this really my last French Open? It was still hard to imagine, even as I soaked in the details on the day of the final. I had always loved this event, even just the subtle changes of the umpires speaking only in French, from the silence, s’il vous plaît to saying égalité instead of deuce. Would I miss the red clay stains on my shoes and, more embarrassingly, on my shorts? Most years I avoided that, but I’d had my share of lunging for seemingly impossible returns and even the odd fall.

  I got to the locker room early, long before Celeste showed up. I had one little addition to make in my first final played as an openly gay woman. I was no seamstress, but I had brought the handy little sewing kit from my hotel room. I laid out my kit for the match on the bench beside me, my bag packed exactly as I liked it, my skirt and shoes laid out as though ready for the first day of school. I changed quickly into everything but my brand-new T-shirt, already embroidered over the heart with the tournament, the date, and my opponent.

  I sat on the bench in my bra and skirt, threading the needle with clumsy fingers. I’d tape them up for the match when I was done, more superstition than for any noticeable difference in my grip. I checked the various sponsor logos and found the perfect spaces I was looking for on each sleeve.

  I hadn’t done this since my first Grand Slam final win, the one where I’d beaten Mira and pissed her off for a lifetime with the hyperbolic commentary of “The Queen is dead; long live the Queen.” Back then, I had picked up a last-minute sponsor during the tournament when they realised I was going to make the final.

  This was before I had Parisa or Ezi or any kind of team beyond my parents and a well-meaning woman from the Swedish tennis federation. I only realised on the day of the match that I hadn’t added my sponsor’s logos to my shirt, and they’d paid specifically to be on my sleeves. Since those got a lot of camera attention during the game, I already knew they would be a big deal to forget. With no one around to ask, I’d borrowed a sewing kit from the locker-room assistants, and the sponsors had been very happy to see their name all over the footage of my shock win.

  Today, I wasn’t sewing to keep the sponsors happy, but I wasn’t going out there in front of the world again without something important in place. Not just for me, or for Toni, but for who knew how many kids watching on television?

  Parisa had sourced these patches who knew where, but she got them to me on time. The two rectangular rainbows fit perfectly between my official sponsors’ logos, drawing the eye right to the spot as I stitched them as neatly as I could with white thread.

  Celeste came in then, and if she thought it was weird to find me sewing, she said nothing. We wished each other a good game and retreated to our private dressing rooms.

  Three tries left. Time to go.

  Four games into the second set, the ball girl on my side of the net did what they were all te
rrified of doing: She tripped when scuttling across to retrieve the ball. The crowd gasped, because she really did look tiny in the huge arena. It was so unusual for one to even stumble that the officials froze for a moment in indecision.

  I didn’t really think about it, but the instinct borne of countless scraped knees and stumbles had me jogging over to her, dropping my racquet so I could check for injuries.

  “You okay?” I asked. The crowd were murmuring that I had gone over, and I could feel the officials approaching behind me. The little girl looked terrified, assuming they were coming to scold her and pull her off court for messing up. She was struggling not to cry, so I summoned the best French I could fumble together.

  “Ça va?”

  Her lip trembled and she pointed to her left knee, already trickling blood down her shin for her socks to absorb. The apologies tumbled out next, in perfect English, that she didn’t mean to ruin my concentration.

  “We’re okay. Can I tell you a secret?”

  “What?”

  “When you’ve played the final lots of times, you don’t need to concentrate anymore. Come on, let’s get you fixed up. Ready?”

  She nodded, and I stood up while taking her hand. “What’s your name?”

  “Olivia.”

  “Okay, Olivia, go get that cleaned up. Nobody is mad, I promise.”

  I handed her over to the head of the ball boys and girls. The umpire called my name over the microphone, and I looked back at him in confusion. Was he going to call me out for some kind of violation? Screw that.

  I watched Olivia get helped back towards the changing areas and picked up my racquet, only to shove it under my arm and start clapping for her. The crowd finally got the hint and joined in, Celeste too. I saw Olivia smile at that, and satisfied at last, I walked back to the baseline ready to receive service again.

  I found myself struggling to keep my usual neutral expression. Olivia. That was a nice name for a little girl.

  No, I had taken the first set, and I was still on track for the second. No wandering thoughts, no distractions. Olivia’s scraped knee would be fine, and she’d no doubt be back at it next summer. Celeste bounced the ball, ready to launch it at me, and I readied myself all over again.

  Celeste seemed to be flagging when I broke her serve in the second set. We never made real eye contact during a match, but I recognised the frustration in the set of her impressive shoulders, in how her feet seemed just a little more bound to the clay than her usual constant motion. All I had to do from there was hold my own serve, and the trophy was mine.

  The replicas we got to take home were pretty enough in their own right, but that wasn’t my incentive. Winning now meant equalling a decades-old record and setting myself alongside the greats of the game. It wasn’t what I pictured starting out. I hadn’t dared dream of this even at my most arrogant.

  Then, at thirty-love, the little bastard went. That same hip muscle that had disrupted so much of the last season just failed to extend and stretch like it had a thousand times before. I managed to cover the initial tearing pain by thumping the failed serve into the net, a cry of frustration echoing around the stadium. I couldn’t step off at that point, not within two points of the Championship. Whether through adrenaline or sheer bloody-mindedness, I got the next ball over the net and played out the rally without having to hold my side. Celeste got the best of me on my backhand and pulled it back to 30-15.

  Shit.

  I wish I could say exactly how I claimed those next two points, but I went after them like they were a couple of painkillers: something I was badly in need of. I knew I wasn’t holding myself correctly, that I was likely making it worse, but I knew interrupting for medical treatment would be fatal to my chances. Give Celeste a chance to get back into it and she’d come for me.

  It took a cheeky drop shot to clinch it, but when I fell to my knees it looked like celebration.

  “Jeu, set, match, mademoiselle Larsson,” came the announcement. The crowd were whipped up for the award ceremony to follow, but when I looked for Toni and my mother in the box, I found only their concern radiating back at me. Nobody else seemed to have noticed, and I went through the ritual of shaking hands and briefly commiserating with Celeste as we waited for the presentation. She went first as runner-up, and after what seemed to be a small eternity, I got to walk up over and receive my trophy. Holding it up for the crowd gave me fresh jolts down my side. It wasn’t light, and the width of its base meant the damn thing took two hands.

  The moment I could tuck it down at my hip, I did, and I had the chance to address the crowd. Asked how it felt to win again, to equal the record, I just babbled a little in French about how happy and proud I was. It seemed to be what everyone was expecting.

  I counted the minutes until I could get away from all the attention, even though I’d spent the day trying to drink in every second of it. The pain had abated as I held the Suzanne-Lengler cup down low, but once the interviewers let me go, I had another round of lifting it and smiling for the press to do.

  By the time I escaped, I was fighting back tears. Celeste walked me back and neither of us said a word, I knew enough to give her space after a loss, and she clearly didn’t want to crowd me either. Once I’d handed the trophy back and slipped into my private dressing room, I finally sat down and tried an experimental stretch of my left side. The tears fell then, and they brought the cursing with them.

  That was when my mother and Toni came spilling in, with Parisa and Ezi hot on their heels.

  “Tell me where it hurts,” Ezi teased gently, stepping in to investigate. “Yeah, that’s gonna take a scan, Elin. I think you’ve really torn it this time.”

  “Son of a bitch.” I dropped my head in my hands. Had I really managed to wreck my body right when I pulled level on the record?

  “Hey, hey.” Toni came to sit beside me on the bench, laying her arm over my back where I’d hunched forward. “Babe, it’s okay. You’ve hurt it before and bounced right back. I know you’re on a roll here, but another season to nail it… You could do it in Australia if you can’t play any sooner.”

  My heart sank at the thought. I’d been holding on so tightly to this being my last season that the thought of going on felt like breaking a promise to myself, one that really counted. All my new dreams about kids, about doing work that wasn’t just hitting balls around all week, they seemed as far away as they had ever been.

  “It’s fine, I’ll be fine,” I said, wiping the tears and pulling myself together. My mother was watching me with her arms crossed, a little apart from the fuss around me. “Can I get something to get me through all the handshakes and hugs? Then I’ll need to get to hospital, but somewhere discreet, okay? No kidding, I don’t want everyone to know. Not this time.”

  They all nodded in agreement, Parisa stepping out to start making calls. Ezi started rooting through her bag, pulling out a bottle of something promising and some sprays.

  “I’m going to blast you like I’m tranquillising a horse, okay?” Ezi’s hands were steady and gentle, and I trusted her completely. “Then we’ll get someone with an MD to really show you a good time.”

  “I’d kill any of you right now for some Percocet,” I confessed. “But give me what you’ve got. Toni, you okay to hold me up if it gets too much?”

  She flexed to make me laugh, and it worked. Her arms looked as great as ever in the sleeveless creamy blouse she’d worn with tailored trousers. But for the definition, she didn’t look too much like an athlete, just a normal person dressed up for a day at the tennis. I liked the look on her a lot.

  “Let’s get this over with,” I said, swallowing the pills and pulling my shirt back down over the ice gel pack that Ezi had taped in place, covering the cooling spray that was already starting to work. It would minimise the damage, and I could get out of there.

  The rest? I’d deal with that later.


  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  It proved to be a late night at the hospital, but they let me slip in through a side entrance and treated me in a completely private room. Toni stayed by my side apart from coffee runs and producing a haul of junk food that I couldn’t believe she’d found in France, never mind near a hospital.

  “You burned up a shit ton of calories today, babe, and canapés won’t replace it. One cheeseburger won’t kill you. The milkshake? Maybe, but hey, it’s strawberry.”

  “What kind of maniac brings me a meal from Death Row and chooses strawberry over chocolate?”

  Toni shrugged from her seat next to my bed. I really didn’t need to be admitted, but lying propped up on a body pillow was way more comfortable than just about anything else. That and the fact that they’d given me the good stuff in an IV. I could have run through the brick wall and not felt it at that point.

  “The kind of maniac you’re dating.” Toni looked up as my mother re-joined our little party, busy with her phone. I expected her to at least try to hide our unhealthy feast, but to my shock Toni offered a bag to my mother and she accepted it without complaint.

  “Mamma, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you eat fries,” I said, as she picked a few from the bag and chewed them with dainty little bites. She muttered something in Swedish and ignored me.

  “When is the doctor coming?” I asked, sipping at my milkshake. The strawberry was actually pretty nice. “I don’t want to sleep here if I don’t have to.”

  “You just don’t like that the gown shows everyone your ass,” my mother chimed in, helpful as ever.

  “You would think a place as fancy as this would have gowns that go all the way around,” Toni said. “And the nurse said the doctor would be in at nine, so any minute now.”

  As though she heard, Dr Huppert appeared in the doorway of my room.

  “I will pretend not to see your diet,” she began, with a tight little smile. One of the world’s leading Sports Medicine specialists, she came as highly recommended as any human person could be. She’d treated everyone from golfers and boxers to the world’s most expensive footballers. She’d resurrected careers that were supposed to be finished. It was hard not to feel like she held my future in her hands.