Code of Conduct

by Cheyenne Blue

  “We both work on the tour. Okay, we were meeting for coffee which we shouldn’t have done, but it was coffee. Not an orgy. We picked that café as it is tiny and unfashionable. Who the hell took the photo?”

  Irene shrugged. “It does not say.”

  Gabriela picked up the paper and scanned the columns. “¡Dios mío! I’m named. ‘Alluring Spanish official Gabriela Mendaro may be the real reason that Aussie tennis great Genevieve Jones has announced her retirement. This love match—’” Gabriela snorted “‘—is forbidden under player-official fraternisation rules. Maybe Genevieve will be moving to Spain with her lover.’” She threw the paper down again. “I may as well take the next flight out of Australia as I doubt I’ll be umpiring any more matches.”

  “Not Viva Jones’s anyway.”

  “I haven’t been. I already had to tell them that… Oh, never mind.” She pressed the heels of her hands into her eye sockets.

  Irene clasped her fingers around Gabriela’s wrists and lowered them. “It will blow over. Viva’s retiring, is she not? They will have nothing on you, then.”

  “It’s the perception that I don’t adhere to the rules. More than a perception—this makes it clear I haven’t. You know how difficult it is to move up the accreditation ladder. Well, this means I’ve slid down. I’ll be lucky to retain my silver badge, let alone anything higher.” She heaved a sigh. “I need a drink.”

  Irene’s eyes were kind. “If you are saying that, Viva must be important to you, my friend. I wish you every happiness.” She stood. “But in the meantime, I have a match to umpire. Call me later if you want to talk.” With a final pat to the shoulder, Irene left.

  The worst thing was having to be polite to the press—including the very newspaper that had leaked the photo. Viva smiled sweetly and refrained from ripping the microphone from the reporter’s hand and grinding it under her heel. “Yes, I’ve seen the photo. I don’t know what the big deal is. That’s a coffee shop. We were having coffee.”

  “If it was so innocent, why pick somewhere so out of the way?”

  Viva regarded him steadily. “Don’t you ever leave the office for a change of scenery?”

  Someone tittered, and this time her smile reached her eyes.

  “Is she your girlfriend?” the reporter persisted.

  Viva shrugged. “No. Is she yours?” She directed her attention to a journalist at the front whom she knew to be a serious sports reporter. “Ken, you have a question?”

  “How do you rate your chances against Hitomi Matsuda in the fourth round?”

  “Hitomi’s a tenacious player who’s had a lot of success this year. She’ll be hard to beat.”

  Once the press had departed, she went back to the hotel. Deepak had told her to rest up. She lay on the bed and pressed the buttons on the remote. Nothing held her interest. Her phone was heavy in her hand. She brought up Gabriela’s congratulatory text from the other night. The TV blared some soap opera, and she muted it. Was Gabriela okay? How was she taking the media hounding? Had she been taken to task for fraternising with a player?

  Viva bit her lip and hit Reply. R U OK? Press are hounding. She hit Send. Would Gabriela even see it? She didn’t know if she was working.

  The phone rang, and her heart leapt in anticipation, but the caller ID showed it was her mother.

  “Darl, we’re here. Now, can we have dinner with you tonight?” Her mother’s voice came down the line.

  She sank lower on the mattress. “That would be lovely. As long as I’m home and in bed by nine. I’m the first match tomorrow.”

  “Of course. You pick the restaurant—wherever suits you. Your father and I are staying on the north side of the city—the same hotel as Jack. Most of the closer places are booked out.”

  “How about sushi? There’s a good place near you.”

  “That would be lovely. Mainly, we want to see you.”

  “I’ll text you the details. Thanks for coming down. Will Jack be coming out for dinner with us?”

  “He said he would.”

  “Then I’ll see you later. Six thirty?”

  Viva ended the call, and the phone rang again.

  “Darling, you are on fire!” Shirley’s voice hummed with satisfaction.

  As well it might, Viva thought wryly. She was certainly getting her money’s worth from Viva right now.

  “Fourth round! You’ll make the quarterfinals, won’t you?”

  “If I could predict that with any certainty, I’d be rich.”

  “You are rich, darling. Don’t forget this contract that I set up for you. Which you are executing wonderfully. The press is all over you. A secret lover and the fourth round.”

  Viva took a calming breath. “Consider reversing the order of those phrases, Shirley. I’m a tennis player. And I don’t have a lover, secret or otherwise.”

  “You might want to reconsider that. You’re getting good headlines with that angle.”

  “She’s a friend.” Was that even true anymore?

  “With benefits?”

  “Drop it, will you?”

  A beat, then Shirley answered, “Sure. I was actually calling about a potential new sponsorship deal I have lined up for you. Right up your alley. It would’ve been a better match if you’d a girlfriend, but—”

  “Shirley, I said drop it.”

  “Okay, okay. It’s jewellery. Unfussy jewellery for the active woman. Because sporty does not equal unfeminine.”

  Viva studied her fingernails. “I’m not really the sort for bling.”

  “I think you’ll like this. Take a look at their range and let me know. It’s a good deal. Now, this evening, what are your dinner plans?”

  “Are you asking me out? Why, Shirley, I never knew you cared.”

  “You’re not my type, darling. I like them a little more hirsute than you. I ask because I heard your parents were in town. I’ll ensure there’s a photographer at the restaurant for just a couple of casual shots.”

  “I really don’t think my parents would like that.”

  “I’ll send him early so that you’re left in peace afterwards. After all, if you’re knocked out tomorrow, it’ll be all over.”

  “And you just told me I was sure to win tomorrow.”

  “I’m an optimist. But you’ll win, won’t you? That little Japanese girl can’t hold a candle to you.”

  “Don’t rule Hitomi out. I’m certainly not.”

  “Tell me which restaurant, and then I’ll leave you in peace.”

  “Rose Sushi on Brunswick Street. No later than seven please. I’d like to enjoy my dinner.”

  “Thank you. I’ll see you tomorrow. We’ve a corporate box. It’d be good if you could swing by to say hello after the match.”

  “I’ll see what I can do. It would be brief, five minutes, no more.”

  “Good enough. Well, all the luck in the world tomorrow and we’ll see you in the quarters.”

  “Let’s hope so.” Viva threw the phone down. She was too restless to read or do anything that qualified as “resting up” in Deepak’s vocabulary. Instead she swung her legs off the bed. A gentle run. No more than five kilometres max, maybe a circuit of The Tan. That would suffice.

  It was hot in the middle of the day, with few people out. She ran at a steady pace, letting the run clear the mishmash of thoughts in her head. But as she slowed at the end of the circuit, getting ready to walk back to the hotel, one thought popped into her head: Who had leaked the photo of her and Gabriela to the press? Was it a random stranger, or was it someone out to make waves?

  Viva draped a towel over her legs and sipped from her sports drink. She jiggled her legs to keep her muscles warm. Hitomi’s medical timeout was taking a while—and it was the second one of the match. She’d had a long slog of a match the day before on an outside court where temperatures had reached fo
rty degrees Celsius. Hitomi was a tough veteran player, but even the toughest could be felled by Australia’s punishing heat. It seemed she was cramping badly, barely able to move, let alone run and stretch for the shots.

  Viva had taken the first set 6-1 and was now 4-0 up in the second. She switched to her water bottle, took a sip, and then left the chair for a slow jog up the court and back.

  A burst of applause signalled that Hitomi was back. The Japanese woman looked drawn, and her face was pinched, but she nodded at Viva and took her place at the service line.

  But Hitomi was barely able to hang on. As she hobbled from side to side, letting balls pass her without even trying to return them unless they were close to her, it was obvious she was in severe pain. Viva took the next two games without dropping a point to win the match.

  At the net, Hitomi hugged her. “I did not wish to retire from this match. This is your final tournament, yes? It would have taken the credit you are due had I retired. This way, you have won your way through to the next round.”

  Viva hugged her back hard. Hitomi’s gesture touched her; it was a sign of respect from the older player, one that came at some cost to her. “Thank you. It’s always an honour to play you.”

  Hitomi received a standing ovation as she left the court.

  Andrew waited for Viva for the on-court interview. “What a legend,” he said. “Hitomi Matsuda is one of the greats of tennis. Do you know this is her twentieth year on the tour?”

  The crowd roared their approval.

  “So, Viva,” Andrew continued. “You’re in the quarterfinals. Tell me honestly, on the back of that Sydney first-round loss—”

  Viva covered her eyes in mock despair.

  “—did you think you had a chance to make it this far?”

  “I knew I had a chance. Every player does. You have to believe in yourself. That said, it hasn’t been an easy road here.”

  “Your next opponent is Paige Westermeier. Any thoughts on that match-up?” Andrew tilted the microphone in Viva’s direction.

  “Paige and I have a pretty even head-to-head. I’ll just have to do my best and hope I come out on top.”

  “Thank you. Genevieve Jones, ladies and gentlemen.”

  With a wave to the crowd and a particular wave to her parents siting with Deepak in her player’s box, Viva left the arena.

  “Darling, well done!” Shirley’s plummy tones came clearly over the phone. “I knew you’d make the quarterfinals. Now all you have to do is beat Paige and you’re in the semis. What are your chances, do you think?”

  Viva slung a towel around her neck, glad of the distraction from her work-out. The gym was quiet, with only a few people running on treadmills or working out, but she took the phone to a quiet corner. The plate glass window overlooked train tracks, and a commuter train rattled its way past. “Your guess is as good as mine. You never know with Paige.”

  “She’s the girl who knocked you out of the US Open two years ago, isn’t she?” Shirley’s voice sharpened. “Think we could promote it as a grudge match?”

  “No way. Paige is a friend; she doesn’t deserve negative publicity.”

  “A pity.” Shirley’s sigh was long. “I have one other thing to ask you, Viva.”

  “Only one?” Viva propped her butt against a rowing machine. “You usually have a list.”

  “It’s about the commentating. Now, I know the deal was that you would commentate after you got knocked out of the Open, but here we are at the quarterfinal stage and you’re still going. Tennis Australia have asked if you could commentate on one of the other quarterfinals. It’s great publicity.”

  “For them or for me?”

  “Both, darling. Try to see it that way. I thought you could commentate on Michi’s match. It’s the day after yours; that should give you enough time to recover.”

  “I’ll do it.” Shirley was right; if she wanted exposure as a commentator, she’d need to get more involved.

  “Good girl.” Shirley didn’t sound surprised. “Now, don’t forget you’re on breakfast TV tomorrow, before your match in the evening.”

  “I haven’t forgotten. Thanks, Shirley. I know how hard you’ve worked to set all this up.”

  “Appreciation is a wonderful thing, darling. Thank you for your kind words.”

  Viva hung up and pocketed her phone. Her work-out was over. Time for physio.

  Chapter 22

  Gabriela woke later than usual. Her match the previous evening had dragged on, and it had been past midnight before she got to bed. She made a coffee and checked her email, scanning her inbox in dread of a message from the ITF, another slap on the wrist—or worse—because of the photo of her and Viva.

  Nothing. Was that good or bad?

  She turned on the TV as she dressed. The breakfast program was on, the host standing outside the Melbourne tennis centre. Gabriela found her Fitbit and stuffed her room key into her waist belt. A run would take her mind away from worry about her career. She was turning to leave when the breakfast host cut to the studio. Viva sat in one of the interview chairs, smiling slightly towards the camera.

  Gabriela hesitated, then, closing her eyes at her own weakness, she raised the volume and sat on the bed.

  “—I am very pleased to make the quarterfinal. Tennis is an unpredictable sport.” Viva held up her wrist, which was heavily taped. “It’s hard on the body, especially the hard and fast game played today.”

  “I enjoyed your commentary from the Sydney and Brisbane tournaments,” the host said. “Will you be doing any commentating for the remainder of the Open?”

  “That’s the idea. Tomorrow, I’m commentating on the quarterfinal match between my doubles partner, Michi Cleaver, and Maria Lucashenko.” Her smile reached her eyes. “A commentator is unbiased, of course, and Maria is a fine player, but I admit to hoping this is Michi’s year.”

  “Will you be continuing your doubles partnership?”

  “There will need to be a break while I have treatment on my wrist,” Viva said, “but I hope to be playing again by the time the US season rolls around.”

  The commentator’s eyes were sympathetic. “You’ve just said how hard tennis is on the body. At thirty-two, did you ever think of quitting completely?”

  Viva paused. “Yes. When I first decided to retire, I thought a clean break was the way to go. But it didn’t take me long to realise I couldn’t walk away completely. Quite simply, I love tennis too much. The thought of not competing, of not being a part of the life on tour was not something I could consider. Not yet, anyway. Tennis isn’t just my career; it’s my passion.”

  There was a burst of applause from the studio audience.

  Gabriela pressed her lips together. There were Viva’s intentions, clearly spelt out. Did the ITF know this? Would Viva’s lack of singles play be enough for them? Her stomach felt leaden and the thought of breakfast off-putting. She sipped her coffee.

  “There are some very good up-and-coming players at the moment,” the commentator said. “Apart from Michi, do you have anyone you’ll be watching out for?”

  “Jelena Kovic is high on my list,” Viva said. “She’s playing her first quarterfinal of a major event tomorrow. I doubt it will be her last. Jelena is—”

  The host held up a hand. “I think you should say these words to Jelena herself. Ladies and gentlemen, Australian Open quarterfinalist Jelena Kovic and her partner, Jack Jones.”

  The camera caught Viva’s stunned expression, but she regrouped and stood, hugged Jelena, and pretended to pummel her brother.

  After the pleasantries, the interviewer leant forward in her chair. “Jelena, when we contacted you to come on this program, you agreed on the proviso that Jack came with you. Does this mean you have an announcement?”

  Gabriela snorted softly. The interviewer’s arch smile made it obvious what she expected that ann
ouncement to be.

  Jelena’s smile was strained, but she leant closer to Jack and took his hand.

  Alarm bells rang in Gabriela’s head. What is going on?

  “Life is hard on the tour for an up-and-coming player,” Jelena said. “You have to play a lot of smaller tournaments where a first-round loss might only get you a couple of hundred dollars. Even a later stage is often only a few thousand. If you’re a top-ten player, life is very different, and one day I hope that will be me. But right now, it’s tough for me to pay my way to the next tournament, pay expenses, my coach, physio, even racquets and tennis shoes. Players rely on sponsorship.” Her chest heaved, and she continued with a seeming effort.

  “Until today, I had one sponsor. They provided my clothing, gave me money in exchange for using my face to advertise their products. I did a few appearances. I’m not well known, so that sponsorship was important to me. So, when they said ‘jump’, my response was always ‘how high?’ At the start of the year my sponsor said if I was publicly linked with my girlfriend, they would withdraw their sponsorship.”

  The camera cut to the interviewer. Her brow wrinkled, and her gaze flicked over Jelena’s and Jack’s linked hands. “Girlfriend? As in—?”

  “Girlfriend. My partner. I couldn’t afford to lose my only sponsor. Jack is my friend, my very good, supportive friend, and he agreed to help me out and pretend to be my boyfriend. But I’m here today to say enough is enough. I will not live a lie. I will not encourage the idea that being a lesbian is something to be hidden. I will not support the message that this sends to young people.”

  “Why did you pick today?” the interviewer asked.

  Jelena reached out her free hand to Viva, who took it and held it. The camera cut to a close-up of Jelena’s fingers trembling in Viva’s grasp. “Viva is an inspiration to me. Not only as a player—a strong, fearless player with a tennis career I hope to one day emulate, but she’s also an inspiration in her private life. She’s never hidden her sexuality. She’s never—that I know of—come out on breakfast television, but then she’s never needed to. She’s a lesbian, but it’s as much a part of her as her smile, her gestures, the way she dominates a tennis court. And while she understood my need for the deception, I know she wishes it hadn’t been necessary.”