Deepak let go. “Come sit with me.” He indicated the players’ bench, still in shade.
Viva sat, picking her bottle from the ground and taking a long drink. Her wrist throbbed in time with her pulse. She twirled the bottle in her hands. Deepak would wait for her to speak first. It was a measure of their player-coach relationship that he always listened to what she had to say before weighing in. But this time, the words she should say eluded her.
Deepak cleared his throat. “You can start with the medical appointment yesterday.”
She shot a glance at him from under lowered brows. Six years, he’d been her coach. A long time in the fickle world of pro tennis. They knew and respected one another. Were friends even.
“I saw a second specialist yesterday. Dr Singh supported what Dr Jacobwitz had told me: I need to retire.” Saying it out loud made it more real. Viva dropped her head into her hands, unwilling to see the sympathy in Deepak’s expression.
“Okay. When?”
She shot him a glance. “Is that all you have to say?”
“Viva, I know you as well as anyone. I know what this means to you.”
“You can’t possibly.”
“Can’t I? I played professionally too. I wasn’t as successful as you, but that doesn’t mean I felt it any less intensely when my knee took me away from the game.”
“I’m sorry. That was thoughtless of me.” She lifted her head again and observed him—his keen, kind eyes that saw through her frustration and anger. She dragged a breath, held it, then released it in a gust. “Soon. Now. My tendon is held together with spit and fairy dust, and that may evaporate at midnight or with a particularly hard-to-reach backhand.”
“Is that the medical explanation?”
“It should be.”
When the silence stretched too long, Deepak asked, “So you’re announcing your retirement?”
She dropped her gaze down to her lap. “I don’t think I’m ready to let go. Tennis has been my life since I was seven. It’s a part of me. Here.” She looked him in the eye once more and struck her chest with a clenched fist. “It’s in my heart. My soul. I’ve given so much of my life to it, and I wouldn’t change a thing. I love it, Deepak. My head knows I need to retire. My heart is ignoring that.”
“You need to consider your health.” He picked his words slowly. “If you play on another six months, you’ll reach this point again, only your wrist will be worse.”
“I know you’re right. But I just can’t make that decision yet. I need time.” Tears sprang into her eyes, and she dashed them away with the back of her wrist. “I can’t let go. Not yet.”
“Then don’t announce your retirement. Play a few tournaments, see how you go. Withdraw from a match if your wrist gives you trouble. Gradually ease your way out of tennis.”
His concerned face was blurry through her tears. “That would be worse. Gradually fading away, becoming a nobody.”
Deepak was silent. This was how he was, his silence letting her solve a problem for herself.
Viva turned her racquet over and over in her hand. The familiar feel of it was comforting. “I could keep playing doubles. I owe that to Michi. I can’t leave her without a partner.”
“She’s been partnered with Paige during the eight months of your absence.”
“You, then. If I retire immediately, I’m leaving you in the lurch.”
“Thank you for the thought, my friend. But you need to put yourself and your health first.” He hesitated. “I’ve thought about what I’d do when this day came. I’ve had offers in the past.”
She nodded.
“If you retire, I’ll take a break, and then I’ll take up the offer of my oh-so-persistent friend to join him in his tennis academy in Florida.”
“You hate the humidity.”
“I’ll manage. I’m here in Brisbane right now, aren’t I? Ninety-eight percent humidity, they said on the radio this morning.”
“You sound like you’re trying to talk me into retirement.” Her attempt at a laugh fell stonily between them.
“I’m not. If you keep playing, I’ll keep coaching you. But you need to consider your health into the future. There’s a lot of life in front of you, and it would be good to have the full use of your right hand.”
Viva stared at the park outside the court. A mother jogged by with her baby in a stroller. A dog chased a Frisbee. Two middle-aged ladies power-walked their way along the path, their bright hijabs fluttering on their shoulders. A toddler chased a man, giggling as the man pretended to fall so that the boy could catch him. Everyday life was out there, beyond the chain-link fence.
She surged to her feet and picked up her racquet. “I think I need some more drills at the net.”
Deepak rose and took off his tracksuit jacket. “You do. Your footwork is getting sluggish.”
Her wrist throbbed. Deepak had called a halt after two hours of drills, but she’d set her jaw and said she was fine, ignoring the worry crease between his eyes.
Now she sat on the balcony of her apartment, a glass of water by her side. Cold stole into her wrist from the icepack taped to it, but it wasn’t sufficient to mute the throbbing. Careful not to dislodge the pack, she went inside to look for painkillers. Her mobile rang as she was trying, awkwardly, to unscrew the lid with one hand. The caller ID showed it was her mother.
“Hi, Mum,” Viva took the painkillers and the phone and went back outside. She hit the button for speaker and settled back in the chair.
“Darl, how are you? Are you at your apartment?”
“Yeah. Not long home.”
“How was your day? How’s Deepak?”
“Deepak’s good. Same as ever. How’s things at home?”
“Busy tonight, but a bit quiet generally. Mid-week, you know. Jack and your dad are thinking of painting the dining room tomorrow.”
“Please tell me Jack’s not picking the colour.”
“His taste isn’t that bad.” Lindy’s amusement echoed down the line. “You have to admit the lilac he picked for the bar looks fine.”
“Except it wasn’t lilac when he picked it. It was royal purple. It took three coats of white emulsion before it stopped looking like a brothel.”
“I won’t ask how you know what a brothel looks like.”
“I don’t, but Jack might.”
“Genevieve Elizabeth Adelaide Jones! You will apologise to your brother for that remark.”
“Not if you don’t tell him I said it. Anyway, how’s Dad?”
“Good. There’s a couple of grey nomads from Melbourne in the campground, and one of them fancies herself as an artist. She asked your dad to sit for his portrait.”
“Is it any good?”
“I’ve already told your father we won’t be hanging it in the public bar.”
Viva chuckled, and then the conversation halted. Her mother’s expectations hung in the silence. Viva bit her lip. As always, her mother knew when Viva wanted to talk, without her saying a word. It had been the same when eleven-year-old Viva had come home in shame having got double detention for spraying graffiti on the school bike shed. When twelve-year-old Viva had said she wanted to take up the offer to train at the Institute of Sport in Canberra. And when sixteen-year-old Viva had said she liked girls. Really liked girls. Her mother had said the word Viva had been too tremulous to voice out loud.
“You’re a lesbian?”
Viva had nodded, mute.
“We know, darling. We’ve known for a long, long time.” Her mother’s hug had pushed away Viva’s nervousness, far better than any words.
Now her mother’s silence washed wordless reassurance over the line.
“Mum… I saw Dr Singh today.”
“About your wrist?”
“Yes.” Viva bit her lip. “He says I should retire.”
“And w
hat do you want?”
“To keep playing. To win another grand slam.”
The swell of voices from the bar came over the line. Laughter. The rattle of the glass washer.
“Did you practice today?” There was no inflection in her mother’s voice.
“Yes. Two hours of net drill with Deepak.”
“How’s your wrist now?”
“It hurts,” she said in a small voice. “A lot.”
“Can you get a second opinion?”
“Dr Singh was the second opinion.” Her voice was soft. “I wish you were here with me.”
“Is there anyone in Brisbane to talk to? Has Michi arrived yet?”
“She’s still in Colorado.”
“Deepak?”
“He thinks I should retire. He hasn’t said it in as many words, but I know what he’s thinking.”
“Come home tomorrow.”
“I can’t. Practice.”
Her mother’s silence filled the line until she cleared her throat.
Any second now, her mother would agree with Dr Singh, with Deepak. Viva wasn’t sure she could stand to hear the same words a third time. “So, what else is happening?” She put an artificial gaiety in her voice.
“Nothing much. Oh… Your friend Gabriela called.”
“She’s not my friend.”
“She asked if she’d left a sports bag here. I took a look, and there’s no sign of it. Navy blue, she said, with a pale blue stripe. She said it might be in your car, so I gave her your mobile number. I hope you don’t mind.”
“It’s here. I found it after she’d gone.”
“She said she’ll call. Maybe you could talk to her. After all, she’s on the tour. She’d understand.” Her mother’s voice held an uncharacteristic diffidence.
“I’ve already told you; she’s not a friend. Players and officials are not allowed to socialise.”
“This is different, though, isn’t it?” The words “when you retire” hung in the air unsaid.
A crash and then the sound of raised voices filtered through the line.
“I have to go. Sounds like a fight. Call me back shortly if you want to talk more. I love you, Viva.”
“Love you too, Mum.”
Viva put down the phone and picked up her water. The ice had melted. She went back to the kitchen for more and opened the fridge. Dinner. The usual, she supposed. Lean meat, lots of salad, and a bowl of pasta. She closed the fridge and picked up the leaflet that had been in her mailbox that morning. A Thai restaurant home delivery service. That was what she actually wanted to eat: red curry chicken, a huge serving of pad thai, and maybe some fried tofu. If Michi were here, staying in her spare room, hogging the bathroom to style her wild mane of pink hair, they would probably go out to eat. Michi would nudge her under the table to point out cute girls for Viva and cute boys and girls for herself. They would drink more than a glass of wine, a fact that Viva would lie about to her fitness and nutrition coach the next morning. Michi and she would come home way too late, lie on the floor, and catch up with their lives.
But Michi was still in Denver and wasn’t due to arrive in Australia until the week before Christmas. It was the middle of the night in Colorado. She couldn’t call.
There was no one else to talk to. No one on the tour she could trust one hundred percent not to spread the news of her possible retirement. Her parents were busy, and she had lost contact with most of the friends from her old life. Her Australian life, B.T.—Before Tour.
She opened the fridge again and took out cold chicken and salad.
Chapter 7
Gabriela glanced at her watch. Five in the morning. Even in the city, the birds were singing their hearts out, a flock of rainbow lorikeets making enough racket outside her window to wake the dead. If she raised on her elbows, she could catch a glimpse of the mist rising from the river like steam from coffee. It was the perfect morning for a run.
She heaved a sigh. Her running shoes were in the sports bag that was still in Viva’s car. Sure, she could run in her tennis shoes, but they had different mechanics. Running in them would not be good for her feet or her body. She picked up her phone and scrolled to Lindy’s text. It was easy. She should call Viva, be polite and professional, and arrange to collect her things. Then she could go for a run. A sensible person would have called last night, immediately after calling Lindy. A sensible person would have done a lot of things.
Gabriela got out of bed. She’d go to the tennis club and put her name down on the list of people available for social tennis.
She was in luck. The head coach recognised her and invited her to hit. It was humid, even at six in the morning, and she was damp with sweat before the end of the first game. Her feet were leaden, sluggish in the cloying weather. Jorgen played a crafty drop volley to go 3-0 up. They changed ends, taking a moment to have a drink and dry sweaty palms with a towel.
Jorgen indicated a player two courts over. “That’s Queensland’s golden girl over there—Viva Jones. You know her?”
Gabriela looked over. Viva was hitting with her coach, feet moving fast in tiny steps to get herself into position to return the ball. Gabriela looked away. She sometimes went weeks without bumping into Viva, and now here she was again. Possibly the last person she wanted to see. Viva’s frosty silence on the journey from Waggs Pocket still rankled. It wouldn’t have killed her to be polite, and the loud music had made it impossible for Gabriela to attempt conversation. “Some. We bump into each other on tour, but—”
Jorgen grinned. “I know. You don’t mix much.”
“Exactly.”
“Heard she can be a bit of a difficult one. Not afraid to question calls.”
“That is why they invented Hawk-Eye. You can’t argue with that.”
“Doesn’t stop some people, though. Back in the day when I played professionally, the likes of John McEnroe argued the calls all the time. Sometimes, I’m sure the umpires agreed just to shut him up.”
“That doesn’t happen now. Even without Hawk-Eye.”
“It’s as much of a mind game as anything.” Jorgen put down his drink bottle. “Play on?”
He beat her easily, as she had known he would.
“Thank you for the game.” She grinned at him. “I had a good work-out. I am not so sure you did.”
“Don’t sell yourself short. You’re better than most of the players in this club. Did you ever play professionally?”
“I got through the early rounds of junior Wimbledon when I was fifteen or sixteen. But I was never that great. Maybe I just was not motivated enough. Stopped playing at seventeen, went to college, the usual. Played socially and on the college team, that’s all.”
“Maybe you just wanted a life. The likes of Viva and any top-ranked player nowadays—their life is tennis, right from their early years. What’s normal about that?”
“She’s good, though.” Gabriela’s gaze followed Viva’s slim shape as she lunged for a drop shot. “And it paid off for her. A grand slam and a few WTA titles.”
“For her, maybe. But there’s plenty of kids on the tour now who have worked as hard as Viva but haven’t made it. What’s left for them when they stop chasing the dream? Working as a coach in a suburban tennis club, like me.”
Gabriela punched him lightly in the biceps. “Ha! You have a few titles to your name, if I remember correctly. And as for a career—the failed players often eventually end up as officials.”
“Like you.”
“Like me. I left the tennis world for a few years, but I came back.”
“Will we see you umpiring at the Brisbane Open?”
“Yes. I’m silver badge, so I should get some good matches.” A wry smile. “Working towards the pinnacle: gold badge. I hope to get there one day.”
“You’ll do it. You’re a good umpire, Gabriela.”
/> “Thank you.” She gathered her towels and drink bottles and stuffed them into her bag. “I will see you around.”
“You want to have another hit later this week? I’m generally busy later in the day, but early is always good.”
“Sure. I would like that. Thursday?”
Jorgen nodded. “See you then.”
Gabriela ambled to the changing room, a route that took her past where Viva was hitting with her coach. The sports bag tickled in her mind. An accidental meeting such as this was better than having to call Viva to arrange pick-up. She changed direction, headed for the courtside alley, and sat on the bench at the net, close enough that Viva would see her, far enough away that she was not intruding.
Viva was good. Gabriela watched her fluid lines and clean shots. Her thick plait bounced on her back, and even at this early hour, her clothes were wet with sweat. They clung to her lean figure. A frisson of warmth burned low in Gabriela’s belly. She gave a mental shake. Viva was not a person to think about in that way. Better to focus on her offhand and aloof manner. Her rudeness.
Even in practice Viva gave her all. Her coach was hitting to her forehand, and Viva was returning so that the ball struck close to the lines. The coach mis-hit, and the ball went to her backhand. Rather than let it go, she ran for it and thumped a solid two-handed backhand return. The grunt of pain was unexpected.
Her coach let the ball pass by and came over to the net. “Take a break.”
Viva’s shoulders slumped for the barest second before she straightened and spun around on her heel. “I’m fine.”
He drummed his racquet on the net cord. “Don’t be a bloody idiot. You need to rehydrate anyway.” He returned to the rear of the court and collected stray balls.
Viva turned back to the bench.
Gabriela stood; this was obviously not a good time. If she left now, she could avoid Viva seeing her. But Viva’s stride carried her over to Gabriela.
“Hi.” Her voice carried the breezy confidence it usually did. “I was expecting your call. I have your sports bag.” Sweat dampened the strands of hair worked loose from her plait, and she wiped her wristband over her forehead.
Code of Conduct Page 6
