“For many it does. But there are still countries that make it difficult or impossible for the LGBT+ community. No one should make that decision for another person.”
Viva crossed her legs on the couch and swallowed a piece of sushi. Was Jelena watching this? She picked up her phone, expecting another text from Jack, but Gabriela’s name flashed up. Viva wiped her fingers on the napkin, as if smeary fingers would make the text impossible to read.
Saw you on TV. You and Waggs Pocket looking good.
She hit Reply.
Not looking good right now. Eating sushi on couch in my undies.
She hit Send and waited. A minute passed, and she set the phone down on the coffee table. There was no reason Gabriela would reply. She picked up the last piece of nigiri sushi from the tray and wiped it in the wasabi. The pungent horseradish made her eyes water.
On the TV, her mother was showing the cameras through her office, where Viva’s trophies going all the way back to her tennis club days took up most of one wall.
Her phone pinged, and she snatched it from the table.
I wish I was there too. Even though your undies are probably total coverage tennis shorts.
Viva glanced down at herself. Grannie knickers were de facto wear on court under a short tennis skirt. Off court was different. As Gabriela already knew only too well. She stood and went to the bathroom where the mirror showed clearly what she was wearing: turquoise and purple striped chain-store bikinis. A couple of dollars a pair. Her skin was white around the underwear; further down her thighs the all-year tan of a tennis player started. She snapped a photo of herself in the mirror, waist-down, nothing identifying, and sent it off before she could talk herself out of it.
She settled back on the couch, staring absently at the TV, where she and Michi were playing doubles. The camera cut to Michi outside the pub, pink hair blowing in the wind. Michi could have been talking about good farming practices for all Viva took notice. She stared at the phone in her hand, and when it pinged, she had the text open before the sound had died away.
Just as I remember.
Viva dropped her head into her hands. She and Gabriela were the past. She heaved a shuddering sigh, and the phone pinged again.
I miss this. I miss you.
Her fingers trembled as she hit Reply.
I miss you too. I wish I could come to your room. Even as she hit Send, she knew she’d gone too far. She sent another text.
I know I can’t. I just want to be with you so badly.
Would Gabriela respond?
The minutes ticked past, and the TV program ended on a montage of her career highlights. Viva barely glanced at it. Her parents would have recorded it; she could watch later. Right now, the silent phone in her hand was all that mattered. But even as she stared at it, she knew Gabriela would not respond.
Michi’s volley spun hard and true and landed between their opponents. Both players flailed for it and missed as the shot thudded into the backboard.
“Yes!” Viva flung her racquet in the air and ran to hug Michi, spinning her around. “Third round, partner!”
After a final fist bump, they jogged to the net to hug their opponents and shake the chair umpire’s hand before moving to the centre for the on-court interview.
“I won’t keep you,” the interviewer said, “but this is big congratulations for you. Just one question—Viva, how are you going to pull up after this match? You’re playing your second-round singles match later tonight on Rod Laver Arena. Anke’s a tough opponent. Are you going to have the legs to run her down?”
“I guess I’ll find out later.” Viva slung the towel around her neck. “I’m going to have an ice bath, see the physio, and rest up. We’re last up on Rod Laver Arena, so Roger Federer, if you’re listening, take all the time you want to defeat your opponent.”
The commentator smiled and turned to Michi. “You’re already in the third round after your win yesterday. How far do you think you can go in this draw?”
“I have no idea. Does anyone? As far as I can.”
“Thank you both. And good luck in your next matches—both singles and doubles.”
Whoever said a tennis player’s life was glamorous had obviously never had an ice bath. However many Viva took, the shock as she lowered herself into the icy water always hit her like a fist to the chest. But for muscle recovery it was still the best, so into the freezing water she went. She ducked her right wrist so that it could get the benefit as well.
Deepak appeared as she started to shiver. “Two more minutes, then see the physio.” He crouched at the edge of the bath. “You should be fine against Anke this evening. Stick to your game plan. Think angles. Try to keep the match short. You’ll need your energy for the third-round match. As of five minutes ago, Alina Pashin is into the third round and is your next opponent—if you get past Anke.”
Viva groaned and sank lower in the water. “Great. Maybe I’ll just drown myself right now. It will be less painful.”
Deepak smiled slightly. “It’s a good thing I know you’re joking.”
“Don’t bet the house on that,” she called to Deepak’s retreating back.
Maybe the tennis gods had been listening or just Roger Federer, but he took five sets and four hours to get past his lower-ranked opponent. By the time Viva and Anke stepped out onto Rod Laver Arena, it was already past eleven at night. But the Australian Open was known for the night matches taking as long as needed to finish under lights. For the caffeinated tennis fan, a seat at the evening session could go until three in the morning.
As she bounced the ball to serve first in the match, Viva willed energy into her legs. She felt sluggish, her legs heavy and slow to react.
Across the net, Anke bounced lightly on her toes, blonde ponytail swinging.
Viva tossed the ball, swung, and the ball thundered across the net down the T.
But Anke was there, with her customary anticipation and light-footedness, pushing the ball back into play. Eleven strokes later, Anke had drawn first blood on the opening point.
Viva swallowed and concentrated on the ball, the toss, the stroke. She hung on doggedly, and after two hours found herself staring down Anke on the far side of the net. Match point to Viva on Anke’s serve. Match point to take her to a third-round encounter with Alina.
Across the net, the Swede bounced lightly, looking as fresh as she had two hours ago when she bounded onto the court like an eager Labrador puppy.
A twinge shot across Viva’s wrist, and she ignored it, concentrating on the ball. She rocked in her stance, ready for Anke’s serve. She was just so tired. She pushed the thought aside. This point matters. Only this one.
Anke netted it.
Viva wiped her palm on the side of her tennis skirt and moved forward a metre inside the baseline, sending a signal to her opponent that she was ready to pounce on the weaker second serve.
The serve was a high bouncer, and Viva drove it back into the middle of the court. For several strokes, they rallied, and then Viva saw an opening. One wickedly angled slice that scraped the net and shot out to the side and the match was over. Relief swamped her. Viva was into the third round.
Gabriela heaved a sigh. It was nearly two in the morning, and she had a match at eleven that would need her awake and alert, not doped with fatigue. When she’d sat to watch the live TV from Rod Laver Arena, she’d told herself she’d watch the opening two games, no more.
But she’d stayed. The camera had focussed on Viva’s face, concentration etched in her brow, her eyes keen and sharp, and Gabriela had been lost. Each close-up of her face brought back memories of that same face immersed in lovemaking; each wipe of sweat from her forehead reminded her of licking other, more pleasurable, tastes from Viva’s skin. Whenever the camera zoomed in on Viva’s long, slender fingers with their neatly trimmed short nails, Gabriela remembered the patter
ns those fingers had drawn on her skin, the skill with which they had coaxed pleasure from her body.
With Viva’s final fist pump of victory, Gabriela rose, picked up her phone, and walked over to the window. She found Viva’s last text. What would it hurt? It was a simple congratulatory text to a friend. That was all it was. Congratulations! Good luck in the third round. She hit Send and returned to the bed, throwing the phone down on the pillow. On the TV, Viva smiled at the on-court interviewer and congratulated Anke on a good game.
“Your next opponent is Alina Pashin,” the interviewer said. “Any thoughts on that match-up?”
“She’s got a big lead on me in our previous match-ups.” Viva pushed her hair behind her ears. “An enormous lead to be honest. Still, I have to beat her sometime, and it might as well be tomorrow. Actually, it can only be tomorrow.” She grinned.
Gabriela’s own lips stretched into a smile as well. How like Viva to use self-deprecating humour. She must know Alina would be the favourite in that match.
The interviewer waited until the laughter from the crowd had died down, then said, “Still planning on retiring? Third round of a grand slam isn’t too shabby.”
Viva held up her wrist. “Yes. I don’t have much choice.”
Gabriela turned off the TV and got ready for bed with robotic movement. She heaved a sigh. The room seemed empty, devoid of character, of life. It was just another bland hotel room: clean, tidy, pleasing, but ultimately just a shell. For a second, she thought of calling Irene, simply to hear a friendly voice, but she resisted. Irene, too, had an early match. Friends didn’t call friends when they had to get up early for work.
I have her.
The power of victory surged in Viva’s blood, bringing her nerve endings alive, her mind sharp and focussed. The invincible feeling she’d had in the first set, as if she could do nothing wrong, as if Alina were her puppet, pulled hither and thither by the power of Viva’s racquet, surged up in her again. The dismal failure of the second set, which she’d lost 6-1, was gone. That was in the past. What mattered was the here and now.
The score stood at 4-4, third set. Alina was serving, and it was 40-0. But the score didn’t matter. This point did. If she won this point, she could win the next and the next, put the game to deuce, then two points to win the game. Viva focussed on Alina as she methodically bounced the ball. The crowd didn’t matter, not even Deepak, Michi, Brett, and Jack sitting together in her player’s box. This point was what counted.
Until Alina let loose an express train of a serve, a thundering bullet that swept over the net, hit the court, and spun off to one side at a dizzying 153 kilometres per hour. Viva didn’t even get near it.
“Game Pashin. Miss Pashin leads five games to four.”
Viva strode to her chair and drank, a mix of water and sports drink. A bite of banana, a bite of energy bar. Her sweat-drenched hair clung damply to her neck, and her dress was wringing wet. The on-court temperature was over forty degrees Celsius.
Viva stared into the middle distance, eyes focussed on a spot on the court surface. The ballkid behind her held an umbrella for shade, but even so, the heat was intense.
I can take her. I’m used to this heat. Pretend this is Waggs Pocket, where this heat is nothing. Nothing.
When the umpire called time, Viva sprang to her feet and jogged down to the service line. She was in position, bouncing lightly on her toes, as Alina walked with her customary calm to the receiver’s position. A flick of her eyes to ascertain Alina was ready and Viva swung, hitting the ball cleanly down the T. It wasn’t the bullet that Alina’s had been, but it was good enough. Ace.
Viva nudged her toe behind the service line and focussed on the balls in her hand. Her serve sent the ball spinning over the net.
Alina slammed it back. Game on.
She held serve to level the match once more.
This game. This is the game to break her. She flicked a glance at Alina on the far side of the net. Was she tired? Flagging? It was hard to stick to her game plan of mixing it up, making Alina run side to side in the face of the stronger woman’s relentless barrage, but if there was a time in the match to try harder, it was now.
Alina’s serve thundered down, and Viva blocked it with just enough force that it bounced over the net. She came in towards the net and was ready when Alina sent a blistering shot to the body. Her half-volley put the ball out of Alina’s reach. 0-15.
The second point turned into a gruelling rally. Eleven shots, back and forth. Viva stopped thinking; her mind was a blur of instinct as she drilled the ball side to side. And then Alina’s shot hit the net cord and dropped back on her side. 0-30.
Then Alina double-faulted to make it 0-40.
Hope leapt in Viva’s belly. Three break points. If she could convert just one of them, she would serve for the match. The wall came up in her mind. This point matters. Only this one.
Alina served an ace. 15-40.
Two break points left. The rally was long, and this time it was Alina who controlled it. Viva’s breath heaved as she battled to return the balls. Then Alina hit a long drive down the line to her backhand.
Viva lunged for it but could only tip it with the racquet frame. The force of the ball sent a shock wave through the racquet to her wrist, which was already bent at an awkward angle. As pain streaked up her forearm, she gasped and dropped the racquet. She pressed her injured wrist against her body for a second, then straightened. The cool glance she shot to Alina took all of her fortitude. Then she bent, picked up her racquet, and returned to the baseline. 30-40.
She swallowed against the rush of saliva in her mouth. There was no way Alina would have not noticed. She would exploit it to her full advantage. The grey mist of pain surged again, and she pushed it back. Not now.
Alina’s serve went to Viva’s backhand. She slammed it back and blinked away the wave of red in front of her eyes. Alina’s return again went to the backhand. Viva gritted her teeth and hit, but the ball went into the net. Deuce.
Viva was almost glad when Alina’s serve was an ace as it meant she didn’t have to hit it. She blinked away the haze that threatened her vision. Hold on.
The next serve would have blistered paint. She didn’t have a chance. Game Alina.
She called for the physio at the change of ends, taking advantage of a medical timeout for him to restrap her wrist. She flexed it experimentally, senses alert for the twinge of pain. It would have to do. If she didn’t win her service game, the match was lost, and she would have played her final game of professional singles.
She shot a glance at her box. Deepak sat in his customary pose, leaning back, arms folded, no expression on his face. Next to him, Michi leant forward, her pink hair loose.
Viva rose and walked to the service line. A piercing wolf-whistle rang out, and Viva glanced across in time to see Michi lower her two fingers from her mouth and high-five Jack, who sat next to her. Her brother and her best friend. And her parents had promised to fly down from Queensland if she made it to the fourth round.
Viva squared her shoulders and prepared to serve.
Viva waited, her heart in her mouth, staring at the screen that showed the Hawk-Eye replay. If her shot had clipped the line, she was into the fourth round. If it was out, the score was deuce, and they would battle on. As the screen showed the ball’s arc slowly moving towards the line, the crowd gave their customary slow clap.
Viva stared unblinking, and then as the screen zoomed in and she saw that the ball had clipped the line by no more than a millimetre, she sank to her knees.
“Game, set, and match Miss Jones,” the chair umpire intoned.
Viva took a second, then rose to her feet and jogged to the net for the customary handshake and hug. One glance at Alina’s stormy face told her this would be brusque and brief. She held a hand out to Alina. “Well played. I thought you had me there.”
&nbs
p; Alina didn’t reply, and her fingertips brushed Viva’s palm before withdrawing. No hug, no double cheek kiss. No exchange of words as was customary in a close-fought match. Alina shook the chair umpire’s hand, gathered her things, and marched off court, ignoring the hopeful autograph hunters clustered around the exit.
Fourth round. She was through. Viva waved and tossed her wristbands and a towel into the crowd. Fourth round. Her eyes closed momentarily as the buzz settled into a warm glow.
Chapter 21
“Have you seen the papers?” Irene jogged up alongside as Gabriela entered the official’s locker room.
Gabriela shrugged. “No. Has some politician been caught coming out of a strip club, or has Kim Kardashian got a new dog for her handbag?”
“Tsk. You know me better than that.” Irene grabbed Gabriela’s arm and pulled her to one of the benches. “Page five.”
Gabriela opened the paper. She didn’t have to look far. The photo was blurry, as if taken from a distance or the photographer had moved, but it was clearly Gabriela. And it was clearly Viva. The two of them, leaning forward, intent on conversation. They were sitting in the booth at the little Greek café in Clifton Hill—the one she’d suggested as it was quiet and out of the way and no one would know them.
Genevieve Jones and Her Secret Lover! the headline screamed.
“What the fuck!” Gabriela flung the paper down. “Who prints this crap!”
Irene regarded her steadily. “When you swear like that, my friend, that means there must be something to it. Otherwise, you would have laughed and ignored it.”
“Two people having coffee. That’s what the photo is.” Her hands clenched into fists on her thighs. Coffee. And more.
“Two people who stare into each other’s eyes and whose body language screams sexual tension. Whether it’s unresolved sexual tension is the issue.”
Code of Conduct Page 21
