Code of Conduct

by Cheyenne Blue

  “Ha!” Michi glanced around to make sure no one was in earshot. “Even you don’t believe that.”

  “I don’t.” Viva smiled ruefully. “Much as I would love it, my chances are Buckley’s and none. Alina will win or Angie. Maybe you, if you stop fooling around with your husband and eat your greens!”

  “What do you know about the fooling around?”

  “The spare bedroom in my apartment adjoins my room. I hear you both—”

  Michi’s eyes opened wide. “Nothing to hear. No sex until after the tournament. Then there’s a slim window of opportunity until the next one starts.”

  “I was about to say I hear you laughing.” Viva dug her elbow into Michi’s side and smirked. “What did you think I was going to say?”

  “Never mind.” Michi shut her mouth with a snap.

  They turned a corner, and Viva’s laughter dried.

  Gabriela walked towards them, her leather umpire’s bag hanging from her shoulder. She walked purposefully, eyes front, the walk of someone who had to be somewhere.

  Viva’s steps slowed. It was a chance meeting, Gabriela could hardly cut her dead in a crowded corridor. Maybe this was a chance to show she could be polite and friendly and no more.

  “Come on, draggy ass.” Michi grabbed her arm. “Oh.” She took a discreet step away and pretended an interest in the photos of past tournament winners on the wall.

  Viva halted. Gabriela was in front of her, about to walk past. Her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth, and she couldn’t think of a thing to say. The corridor wasn’t that wide, and Gabriela slowed.

  “Hi, Gabriela.” It was a desperate croak. “How have you been?”

  Gabriela nodded, a curt acknowledgement, and her pace increased. In a second, she had passed by, leaving Viva staring at her upright back and squared shoulders.

  “Come on. People are staring.” Michi ambled back, outwardly casual. “Where do you want to eat tonight?” she asked loudly. “That Italian place again for some carb loading?”

  Viva stretched her mouth into a grin that felt like a grimace. “Sure. I’ll need that before tomorrow’s match.” She bent to fiddle with her shoelace so that no one could see the hurt on her face.

  When she straightened, her smile felt more natural, and she squeezed Michi’s arm. “Let’s get showered and out of here. I’m starving!”

  Gabriela sucked in a breath and rested against the wall. It was inevitable, of course, that she run into Viva around the tournament. Before they had become involved, the curt nod would have sufficed. Now it pulled her apart. Her feet twitched with the need to follow Viva down the corridor, pull her to one side, and tell her… Tell her what? There was nothing she could say that would make any difference. She was already umpiring low-level matches. Any lower and she’d be on the junior circuit.

  Viva was the one who had misled her. Viva was the one who’d brought this smear on Gabriela’s head. That, if nothing else, should have made it easy to forget her. Gabriela pushed away from the wall and clutched her satchel more firmly. It was time to move on, refocus on that elusive gold badge.

  Chapter 16

  “15-40.” The umpire’s calm tones cut through Viva’s tension. Two match points to her opponent.

  She turned the balls over in her hand as she walked to the service line. She twitched the toe of her shoe into place, a couple of centimetres behind the line, and waited for the crowd to settle.

  It was the first evening match, and centre court was full. Her player’s box contained not only her parents, but also a few of the stalwarts from the Stockyard Social Club, their red T-shirts a blaze of colour in the otherwise staid attire.

  Viva’s concentration narrowed to the ball in her hand. Two bounces and she rocked back on her heel, the ball thrown high and true into the air. Her swing was good, and the racquet connected, smashing the ball over the net. It grazed the line and spun wide. Ace. She whirled around with a jubilant fist pump. She could do this.

  “30-40.”

  The roar of the crowd thundered with the excitement of a possible comeback.

  Viva wiped her damp hands on the towel and threw it back to the ballkid. Still a match point to Paige. She focussed on the strings of her racquet to steady her mind, then returned to the service line. This point matters. Only this one.

  On the other side of the net, Paige crouched, waiting.

  “C’mon, Viva!” The yell from the crowd broke her concentration, and she waited until the umpire had called for quiet.

  Heart pounding, Viva took a deep breath, tossed the ball, and struck. The serve was good, but not good enough, and Paige’s return went deep on Viva’s backhand side. She struck it back, and for agonising moments they rallied back and forth. Then Paige took advantage of a short ball, sprinting for the return, and her forehand drive clipped the line.

  “Game, set, and match, Westermeier!”

  The tournament was over, at least for her. For a second, Viva bowed her head and closed her eyes in defeat as disappointment overwhelmed her. Then pasting a smile on her face, she jogged to the net to congratulate Paige and shake the umpire’s hand.

  Deepak waited for her as she came through the tunnel from centre court. “Not a bad effort. She kept sending balls to your backhand side. How’s the wrist holding up?”

  She flexed, winching as the movement brought pain. “A bit sore. Not too bad.”

  “Make sure you see the physio before you head away tonight.”

  “I will. After the press conference and an interview with a tennis blogger.”

  “Before that.” Deepak was firm. “Now you’re eliminated, you’ll be commentating, no doubt. Let me know when you have your schedule. We need to keep you fit for Sydney next week.”

  “Slavedriver.” She punched him affectionately in the biceps. “I pity the students in that fancy Florida academy when you get there.”

  “They’ll listen to me. Unlike you, sometimes.” His grin took the sting from his words. He sobered and grasped her shoulders, waiting until she looked him in the eye. “Give it to me straight up. How’s the wrist? Don’t say ‘fine’.”

  “It hurts when I hit a slice backhand or hit a ball at full stretch. Other than that, it’s holding up well.”

  His nod was short. “Good. Let’s hope it stays that way.”

  Viva slung the racquet bag over her shoulder and headed for the locker room. If she hurried, she could get through her list of commitments and maybe catch the end of Michi’s match.

  It was deep into the third set when she slid into Michi’s player’s box, next to Brett.

  He nodded at her before focussing back on his wife. The score was even, with no break of serve. Viva’s gaze ranged around the court, at the ballkids setting up balls, the players waiting for time to be called, and then at the umpire, high above the court in her chair. Oh, this is not fair.

  The umpire was side on and just in front of where she sat, but it was obviously Gabriela. Her slender fingers tapped on the scoring tablet, and she leant forward to call time.

  “4-5, Cleaver to serve.”

  While Viva shot a glance at Michi, it was Gabriela who held her attention. Viva exhaled slowly so that she didn’t disturb Brett. Michi’s serve went long, but Viva barely noticed. She was intent on Gabriela’s profile, the curve of brown calf, and the way her white shoes were drawn neatly together on the step.

  How had she ever thought it would be easy to avoid Gabriela? A tournament was a small place. Every corridor or alley between courts, every cafeteria, and every common space in the tennis centre was somewhere she might bump into Gabriela. And each meeting was a jolt to the senses, a reminder of what she’d had—and lost.

  The audience burst into applause and yells of encouragement.

  Viva dragged her thoughts back and looked at the scoreboard. Michi had held. It was now 5-5. She added her voice to
the cheers.

  “Quiet, please.” Gabriela’s calm tones cut through the cacophony.

  The first two points went to Michi’s opponent, but a lucky drop shot put Michi on the board. She bounced lightly on her toes at the back of the court, moving forward to take the serve on the rise. It was a good serve, but Michi’s return was better and she smashed it home.

  Viva nodded to herself. 30-30. “C’mon, Michi.”

  Beside her, Brett glanced her way. “She’s got this,” he muttered. “Inez is tired.”

  It was the work of a minute for Michi to put away her opponent’s next serve to take the game to go 6-5 ahead.

  Viva gripped her thumbs, willing her friend to hold her cool. A line of red T-shirts across the court caught her eye. As one, members of the Stockyard Social Club leant forward and banged on the railings, cheering for Michi.

  The final game went by in a blink. Michi served two aces and skipped around the court, chasing down her opponent’s shots. She ended the match with a lob over Inez’s head. The Argentinian could only watch in disbelief as the ball dropped abruptly and clipped the line. Game, set, and match to Michi.

  Michi tossed her racquet, caught it expertly in one hand, and dropped an elaborate curtsy to the crowd, who roared their approval. A long hug for Inez at the net and then she jogged over to shake Gabriela’s hand and blow kisses to Brett, Viva, and the Stockyard Social Club. Then she was gone, pushing through the crowds back to the locker room.

  “She’s doing well.” Brett turned to Viva. “Don’t tell her I said this, but I think she’s got a chance of getting to the semis—if not here, then in Sydney.”

  Viva angled her body towards him, as much to avoid seeing Gabriela descend from the umpire’s chair and leave the court. As much to avoid seeing her tanned legs, the muscles of her thighs. As much to avoid remembering exactly how those legs had felt underneath her fingers. “I won’t tell her. But I think she’ll have worked it out for herself. She’s got a great sense of her game.”

  “And now that the number one seed lost earlier today, she’s in with a chance. Michi plays Signe next, and she’s beaten her the last three times they’ve played.”

  “If she makes the semis, the champagne is on me.”

  Brett stood. “I’m away to catch up with her. I’ll see you at your apartment later.”

  Maybe it would be all right.

  Gabriela glanced around centre court, at the familiar blue playing surface, the crowd of spectators filling the stadium, clutching food and drink. At the last minute, her match had been switched, and she now had a quarterfinal on the main arena to umpire. Maybe her banishment to the outside courts was over.

  The evening match promised to be an exciting one. The number two seed, Alina Pashin, was playing the surprise quarterfinalist, Michi Cleaver. Alina was tipped to win, but Michi was a crowd favourite here. The Aussie crowd loved her pink hair and exuberant personality, as well as her agile and attacking style of play. It probably also helped that she played doubles with Viva.

  Was Viva in Michi’s player’s box, watching the match? Gabriela didn’t let herself glance around to check. Really, what difference did it make? Viva was then, a moment out of time in her life, and this was now, and it was her life. Her career.

  Gabriela descended from the chair for the coin toss, which Michi won and elected to serve. Was Viva here, cheering on her friend? Her fingers twitched, and the desire to know got the better of her. She glanced to her left, where the players’ boxes were. There was Brett Cleaver, and, surprisingly, a row of red T-shirts from the Stockyard Social Club, including Viva’s brother, Jack. But no Viva.

  She snapped her gaze to the front. What did it matter that Viva wasn’t there? It didn’t, not to her. The sooner she stopped thinking about her, the better.

  Michi was playing well, but Alina was simply too good. Viva leant forward in the commentary box, her eyes on the game. Andrew, the regular commentator, was easy to get along with and, being an ex-player himself, knew his stuff.

  “You know Michi’s game as well as anyone,” Andrew said, “playing doubles together as you do. What does she need to do to win this?”

  “Michi is a superb serve-and-volley player, old school if you like, in the mould of Martina Navratilova. She’s very quick—”

  “Small and nimble,” Andrew said.

  “—with excellent anticipation. Watch her racquet head as she approaches the net. She doesn’t telegraph her shots.”

  Michi played a crafty drop shot that Alina, from her position just outside the baseline, was unable to reach.

  “Excellent shot!” Viva said.

  “Good tactics,” Andrew said at the same time.

  They looked at each other and grinned.

  Despite the drop shot, Michi lost the match. Once they were off air, Andrew removed his microphone and headset. “Same time, same place tomorrow for the semifinals. You did well today, Viva.”

  “Thanks.” She smiled at him. “You made it easy. And you covered my bloopers.”

  “Only two. Not bad for a rookie.”

  “Thanks. I’ll be off. I have a best friend to console about her loss.”

  Michi and Brett returned to the apartment a couple of hours after the match. Considering she had lost, Michi seemed quite upbeat. She and Brett sat on the high stools at the breakfast bar, watching as Viva pulled cheese, dip, and veggie sticks from the fridge.

  “I nearly had her.” Michi’s irrepressible personality had already bounced back. “If I hadn’t dropped serve at the start of the second set, if only Hawk-Eye had given me the call on her serve, I could have taken it to three sets.”

  “I thought the ball was out.” Brett laid a comforting hand on Michi’s knee. “It was only in by the tiniest of margins.”

  “The umpire called it well. Hawk-Eye supported it.” Michi shrugged. “Them’s the breaks.”

  Gabriela had indeed called it well. Viva turned from the fridge, a bottle of wine in her hand. “A glass to celebrate you reaching the quarters?”

  Michi covered Brett’s hand with her own. “If my coach says I can.”

  “You’ve earned it. A glass tonight, then tomorrow it’s back to training.”

  “Want to hit tomorrow?” Michi asked Viva.

  “Sure, if it’s early. I’m meeting Deepak at eight.”

  “Seven, then.”

  Viva twisted the cap on the wine, poured three glasses, and pushed the cheese board nearer the others. “I’m commentating for both semifinals later. Is it wrong of me to hope that Alina loses?”

  “Human, not wrong. She’s never been that pleasant to you. To anyone, actually. She’s always by herself in the locker room. Sticks to her own clique.”

  “Unfortunately, I think she’ll win. Her opponent’s the only qualifier left in the draw. Alina will mince her up and spit her out.”

  “Make sure that’s not part of your commentary.” Brett reached for a carrot stick and heaped it with dip.

  “It won’t be.”

  “Do you know who the chair umpire is?” Michi asked.

  “No. But I know who it’s not, and that’s the main thing.” She glanced at Brett. He was studying the cheese board as if it was the strangest food he’d ever seen. Brett was okay; she trusted him. “I don’t suppose you’ve heard why Gabriela isn’t umpiring for the semifinals? I would have expected someone of her level to at least be there for one semi.”

  “I haven’t heard anything,” Michi said. Beside her, Brett gave up the pretence of staring at the cheese and shook his head.

  “She said…before she dumped me, that she’d be penalised for our relationship. I thought she’d get a slap on the wrist, maybe a fine; I didn’t think it would be this bad for her.” She bit her lip. “I don’t know what I can do.”

  “Probably nothing. If you try to interfere, you may make it worse for
her. The ITF may see you butting in as some sort of cover-up.”

  “The lady doth protest too much,” Brett added.

  “But I can’t just do nothing. I’m barely a player these days. Two more tournaments and then I’m gone from the singles tour. And I’m unlikely to make it past the first round the way I’m playing right now.” She reached for a carrot stick. “It doesn’t seem fair on her.”

  “Imagine if more players and officials had relationships,” Brett said quietly. “Right now, it’s only you and Gabriela—that they know of.”

  “And that’s not a relationship now.” Viva sipped her wine.

  “If there were more player-official relationships, it would be a scheduling nightmare.” Brett glanced at Michi, as if seeking her approval for his words. “Did you notice Gabriela only had matches on the other side of the draw to you? That’s not so hard to accommodate, but what if there were other relationships to take into account? They could hardly say it’s okay for you two and then squash down other people’s relationships.”

  “It’s a workplace relationship. They’re allowed practically anywhere else.” She banged her glass down on the counter and glared at the drops of red wine on her pristine countertop.

  “It’s not the same.” Michi’s words were quiet. “Imagine the potential for match fixing.”

  The breath whooshed out of Viva, and she sighed in defeat. “I know. I really do know all of that. Of course it makes sense. It’s just… Well, I miss her.”

  “Oh, honey-bun.” Michi scooted around the bench and took Viva in her arms, hugging her hard. “Maybe when you’re retired, it can be different.”

  “I said that. She blew me off.”

  “She was angry, upset. She probably felt betrayed. People say all sorts of things they don’t mean at times like that.”

  “I’ll be playing doubles anyway. With you. So, in that way, I’ll still be a player.”

  “But not every tournament.”

  “No. Just a few.”