Code of Conduct

by Cheyenne Blue

  “I know, darling. I didn’t mean it like that. But you haven’t the high profile you had when you won the US Open. If you were fit, you’d still be right up there, in the marketable tennis stars’ top ten. You’re lucky you have the looks. With them and your outspokenness on LGBT+ issues, you’re still in demand.”

  “Of course. It’s all about the looks, isn’t it?” She tried to keep the bitterness out of her voice. Years of top-level tennis and it came down to whether she looked good in a short skirt.

  “Not all, but it helps.” Shirley paused. “The Brisbane International starts in a few weeks.”

  Viva supressed a sigh. “I do know.”

  “Then Sydney, followed by the Australian Open.”

  “I know the schedule, Shirley. You don’t need to rub it in.”

  “I do, darling. That’s my point. Tennis Australia want you to announce your upcoming retirement now, but it will only take effect after you get knocked out of the Australian Open. They want you to play Brisbane, Sydney, and the Open and then quit. You can still commentate after you’ve been knocked out of each tournament. How deep do you think you could go? Quarters maybe?”

  “I was aiming for that,” she said automatically. “But Shirley, I’d be going against my doctor’s advice to play.” The leap of interest subsided somewhat. She’d be risking her health for a final few matches. But the spotlight would be on her and her tennis career. Recognition of her contribution to Australian tennis. What if she agreed? She bit her lip, and the longing to be once more on a court, fighting for a match point, rose up, overwhelming her with its intensity. What if she did make the quarters? An epic match as her final competitive game. She would be bound to lose at some point—she wasn’t in any shape to make the final—but if she went down fighting in her home grand slam… She closed her eyes, visualising the crowd on its feet, the cheers, the applause, and the foot stamping. That was the way to exit a career. That was how she would be remembered.

  “You said you could play another few months.” Shirley’s cajoling tone brought her back to the present.

  “Possibly. If I had cortisone and analgesic injections.”

  “Would you consider that?”

  “I did initially. But since I made the decision to retire, I haven’t done anything about it. I don’t need the injections for everyday life. Even exhibition matches, coaching, that sort of thing, with a light playing schedule and sufficient rest periods, I should be fine.” The tiny seedling of hope unfurled a little more. Could she do this? A few more matches. It would give her time to come to terms with retirement, she reasoned, time to adjust to the withdrawal.

  “That’s good.” There was a silence down the line. Viva pictured Shirley scribbling Exhibition Matches!! and underlining it three times on her yellow legal pad.

  “So what do you think?” Shirley’s voice came back on the line. “It’s not just tennis. You’d play the three tournaments and commentate. If you played doubles with Michi, that would be a sweetener. The two of you look so good together.”

  “We play well together.” She kept her voice even. Shirley’s emphasis on Viva’s looks had always irked her. Usually, she ignored it, and the woman did have good taste. She always managed to procure her a gorgeous frock for awards nights and galas.

  “Yes, of course you do.” Sweetness crept into Shirley’s voice. Her persuasive tone. “There’d be a TV crew following you around for a bit. They also want to make a one-hour TV special. They’d film you playing, practicing, at the players’ parties, and also at your parents’ pub, being a normal girl. That sort of thing. Talk to your family and friends. Australian Story are interested as well. Your matches would get the centre court prime time slots, of course. Good exposure.”

  Viva bit her lip. This was more than she could have hoped for. This would be an unbelievable end to her career. The words “I’ll do it” sat thickly on her tongue, waiting to be said. She swallowed, unable to speak for a moment.

  “With all of that, I should be able to get you another sponsor. You’ve already got clothing, shoes, and racquet sponsorship. What about make-up?”

  Viva still couldn’t speak.

  “Okay, no make-up.” Shirley must have taken her hesitation as doubt. “You’re not really the sort for that. How about cars? Are you still driving that nondescript little hatchback?”

  She found her voice. “It’s a VW, and I love it.”

  “Good. I’ll approach them first. And then, at the end of the Aussie tennis season, you can sweep into the commentary box for your new career.”

  Viva rolled her eyes. Shirley was very good at her job. Frighteningly efficient, with a manner like polished concrete: smooth, shiny, surprisingly beautiful, and very unyielding. That attitude worked great when persuading a recalcitrant sponsor to come on board, but when it was turned on her, Viva felt like a butterfly on a pin. “Slow down, Shirl. I haven’t said I’ll do it. I need to talk to Deepak. He’s probably flying to Florida as we speak.”

  “He’s not, darling. He’s in that funny little motel he likes near the tennis centre, waiting for your call.”

  “I need to talk to my parents and my doctor.” Gabriela. What would she think? Viva had been so adamant she was retiring, and now… She didn’t know. She stared out at the wide window, and her mind filled with the image of Gabriela as she had been, naked in front of this window, the lights of the city washing over her skin. Gabriela. The word stung. If she did this farewell tour, what would it mean for them?

  “Well, talk quick. Wheels need to start turning.”

  “I don’t know if I can do this.” Viva stood and moved back to the counter, where the mental picture of Gabriela was not as strong. The sandwich ingredients sat neglected. She pulled out a slice of bread and started buttering it. The automatic movement of her fingers calmed her.

  “Is it the wrist?” Shirley’s voice softened.

  For a second, she was tempted to say there was no way she wanted to risk her wrist. That was probably the only thing that would get Shirley off her back.

  “That’s part of it. But not all of it. I’ve psyched myself into wanting to retire. I don’t know if I can revisit the argument.”

  “Think of the money. It would be what, one month out of your life, and you’d be boosting your coffers considerably.”

  “Yours too.”

  “Of course, darling. That’s what I do. This sort of deal is what you pay me for.”

  She put the knife down. It wasn’t about the money. Shirley, though, wouldn’t see that. Shirley was a pragmatist, and, to her, money was the final clincher.

  “Don’t you want to know how much the offer is?” Shirley asked.

  “Not really. If I do this, Shirl, if I accept, it will be because after nearly twenty years of tennis being my life, I want the recognition of my career. I have enough money.”

  “There’s no such thing as ‘enough’. Wait until you’ve been divorced three times before you say that again.”

  Viva chuckled. The money wouldn’t sway her; it wasn’t the make or break Shirley seemed to think it was. This was about the intangible things. One final hurrah. A chance, maybe, to tell her story to a TV audience. Maybe it would inspire some other kid to keep practicing, slog through the drills, in the hope that one day she, too, would win a grand slam.

  “Tell me how much, then. You know you’re dying to.” She broke the cold chicken into pieces, added lettuce and mayonnaise.

  Shirley named a figure. It was huge. It was more than she’d earned in the last six months of tournaments. It was enough to buy her parents’ pub. Enough to make her comfortable, even if she never worked again. Viva closed her eyes. She’d accepted retirement. Needed it for her body. And the last few days, the idea had worked its way into her mind so that she was resigned to the idea, optimistic about a new life of opportunity even. But this… She swallowed down her excitement. Maybe sh
e’d give her parents the money, let them have an easier life. There were no dollar signs in her head; there were butterflies in her stomach at the thought of playing on centre court once more. The Australian tennis season, her home state tournament. Excitement leapt as the vision of a cheering centre court crowd filled her head. To play again. To win again. To feel the racquet in her hand, the focus, the concentration, to win a match. She could do it. One final go-round. One final hurrah. Her wrist would hold out. The injections would see to that. Three more tournaments.

  “Would I have to reach a certain round? What if I get injured?”

  “No. You get as far as you get. If you need to withdraw from a match to protect your wrist, then that’s what you do. No one will say you gave less than your best.”

  “I have always given my best. I’ve played through injury before.” She struggled to keep the hurt from her voice. How could Shirley even intimate otherwise?

  “I know that. But this is different. Obviously, Tennis Australia want you to get as far as you can. There’s a bonus if you make a quarterfinal, bigger if you get to the semis or the final. But not at the expense of your health.”

  She perched on a stool, anticipation leaping in her chest. Something like this didn’t come along often. Sure, it was a marketing ploy, another push for ratings in the sport, but it was also a shout-out to her career as a player. It would feel good, better than good, to end on a high note like that.

  It would be incredible.

  Her wrist would be okay. Dr Singh hadn’t said she couldn’t play, just that she couldn’t expect to go deep in any draw. Deepak would be happy—it would give his tennis academy a boost. Her parents would be delighted—a television crew in the pub would be great exposure for them. Jack would be his most outrageous—he would love it too.

  What about Gabriela? She was the only person who wouldn’t be thrilled. She’d told Gabriela she was retiring. What would it mean for them? Viva’s mind ticked through the possibilities. They’d had two dates and two nights together. That wasn’t a commitment. Although, the tiny voice whispered, Gabriela had only agreed to those dates because she thought there was no conflict of interest.

  A couple of nights did not make a relationship, despite what they both so obviously wanted. She couldn’t put her feelings—maybe even Gabriela’s feelings—above the culmination of her entire career. Gabriela would have to understand. And in six weeks, the Australian Open would be over, and then she would be totally free. She and Gabriela could see what they were to each other, free to pursue a relationship without impinging on the officials’ code of conduct.

  “I’ll do it.”

  “Of course.” There was no surprise in Shirley’s voice. She probably thought the dollars had reeled Viva in.

  “I’ll have to see my doctor for the cortisone injections as soon as I can.”

  “You handle that; I’ll handle the contract.”

  “Thank you, Shirley, for arranging this.”

  “My pleasure, darling. But the appreciation from you is nice.”

  Viva hung up, her head buzzing. She took the sandwich outside onto the balcony. There was less than a month until the Brisbane Open. Butterflies danced in her stomach, and she took a huge bite of sandwich to subdue them. Back on the courts again, if only for a few weeks. A golden send-off. It was perfect. She finished her lunch and went back inside to look up Dr Jacobwitz’s number. She was in luck. Upon hearing the urgency, his secretary checked with the doctor and said if she could be at the clinic by five, she could have the first injection done today.

  Her next call was to Deepak.

  “This is what you want?” His voice came down the line. “Of course I’ll work with you for the extra weeks, my friend. I would be insulted if you hadn’t asked me. You rest the wrist after the injection and let me know when you’re back in Brisbane. We’ll have a lot of work to do. Where will you be?”

  “I’ll go home to Waggs Pocket.”

  “There’s no reason you can’t do cardio. Run, cycle. If you can get to a gym a couple of times in that week, work on your core.”

  “I will.”

  “And do the footwork exercises. You’ll need them. Good footwork will get you into position and make it easier on your wrist. I’ll see you in a week. Take care, Viva.”

  “I will. Thanks, Deepak.”

  She ended the call and dropped the mobile on the table. The plan was in motion.

  Chapter 13

  “So, tell me again what we have to do.” Viva’s mum glanced across at her husband. “The film crew will come to the pub?”

  “Yes, that’s what Shirley said. They’ll take footage around Waggs Pocket, including me pouring beer, chatting with locals, going for a run in the bush, that sort of thing. But they want all of you to be involved too. A few ‘informal’ chats that will actually be fairly scripted.”

  Jack grinned. “Can I tell them about the motorbike-and-trip-wire incident?”

  “Not that.” Viva glared. “If you do, I’ll tell them you read my diaries. That will lose you all cred.”

  “Maybe I could round up my friends for a repeat performance.” He put his hand on his heart and parroted, “I realised when I was thirteen that marriage to a man was not for me. For I was different. Special in ways I can barely articulate, even to you, dear diary.”

  “Shut up, Jack. Any time now is fine. In fact, you’re always asking if you can use my apartment in Brisbane. How about going tomorrow? Stay all week.”

  “And miss the excitement? No way.”

  “You will behave, Jack. For Viva’s sake.” Her mum softened her steely tone with a smile.

  “Okay.” Jack threw up his hands. “I’ll do whatever you want. I’ll sing your praises to the rafters, say I couldn’t have a better sister. On one condition.”

  “Which is?”

  “You introduce me to Jelena Kovic.”

  “Jelena?” Viva shrugged. “If you want. Just an introduction, though. No more. After that it’s up to you.”

  “Deal.”

  “Who’s Jelena Kovic?” her mum asked.

  “Up-and-coming Serbian player,” Viva replied.

  “Very hot,” Jack added.

  “Very gay.” Viva smiled sweetly.

  “Really?” Jack’s face fell, then he rallied. “I still want to meet her. Even if I’m not her type—”

  “Trust me, you’re definitely not.”

  “—she seems like a lot of fun. Intelligent. I bet she’d be great for a friendly night out.”

  “There’s hope for you yet. I’m proud of you, brother.”

  “There’s still one thing about all of this that I don’t quite understand.” Her dad’s interjection was quiet, but every head turned towards him. “Why now, Viva? Why do the TV song and dance now and not when you won the US Open or the end-of-year championship? Why not when you won three of the four doubles grand slams in the same year?”

  “I’m sure it’s a recognition of a long career.” Her mum’s voice was soft.

  “It’s a bit more than that. I haven’t told you officially, but I mentioned the possibility to Mum. I’m sure you’ve guessed, though: I was going to retire before the start of the Australian season.” She held up her wrist, the words she should say stuck in her throat.

  Even Jack was silent.

  Her dad’s gaze drilled into her. She’d never been able to put one over him. “You said was, Viva. I don’t think that was a slip of the tongue.”

  “I’ve agreed to play two tournaments and the Australian Open. They’re giving me a send-off. Hence this TV special, prime-time matches and the like. Then after the Open, I’ll do some commentating and see what else I want to do with my life. Maybe I’ll come and work here. Or write my memoirs.” She kept her gaze on her dad, as a myriad of expressions crossed his face: sympathy, sorrow, a flicker of a glance at his wife’s sto
ic face. Relief.

  “I won’t lie to you. I was worried. Your wrist was obviously not back to normal, even after the surgery. And these medical appointments in Brisbane you’ve been so closed-mouthed about… Well, there was obviously something going on.”

  She nodded, still staring at her father. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. I sort of said it to Mum—”

  “She never breathed a word. Anything you or Jack say to either of us in confidence stays that way. We don’t want you to feel you can’t talk to us.”

  “Never that.” She reached out a hand, and her father took it, cradling her injured wrist as if it were precious. “I just hope I find something to fill the gap. I’m not sure who I am if I’m not a tennis player. I might still be able to play doubles. I’m not sure if I can give up everything, just like that. I haven’t decided yet.”

  “Whatever you do, you won’t sit around, will you, love?” Her dad smiled across the table. “Learn to cook, and there’s a job here as chef for you anytime you want it.”

  “You can’t do worse than Dad,” Jack said. “Do you know he put battered deep-fried lasagne on the menu last week? The only person who ate it was Max. And us, but we had no choice.”

  She forced a watery grin. Her family: down-to-earth, loving, slightly bonkers. And very definitely there for her.

  “How long are you staying here?” her mum asked.

  “A week. Then it’s back to Brisbane to prepare for the tournament, but I’ll be back for Christmas.”

  “Of course you will, darl. Aren’t you always? I’m so glad the first tournament of the year is the local Brisbane one. It makes it easy for us to go.”

  “Do you mind if I invite Michi for Christmas? She’s flying into Brisbane on the twenty-third, but her husband can’t come until later. She’ll be on her own otherwise.”

  “Of course not. We love having your friends, and Michi fits in so well.”

  “Invite Jelena Kovic as well,” Jack said.

  “What about that lovely girl, Gabriela?” Her dad’s gaze was steady. “Isn’t she by herself as well?”