Code of Conduct

by Cheyenne Blue

  But what if the ITF didn’t see it that way? What if it came down to her doubles career or Gabriela? What then? Could she do as Jelena had done and put love first? The chance of love, she amended.

  She gripped her bad wrist with her other hand. It was holding up surprisingly well, way better than her doctors had led her to believe. Yes, there was pain, but she was used to it. Any professional athlete was. But the pain wasn’t as bad as before. She could keep playing doubles. Her pulse quickened. Yes, she could still be a part of this life, an active part, not just a passive commentator. She could still experience the adrenaline of match play, the thrill of victory. Still lift a major trophy if she was lucky.

  Could she give that up for love?

  Chapter 23

  Michi lost her semifinal. Viva’s match followed on, so she saw Michi’s final netted shot and heard her anguished cry over the TV monitors. On-screen, Meghan threw her racquet in the air and ran to her player’s box to hug everyone in it.

  Viva left the locker room and went out into the corridor for a final warm-up. Jelena was already there, intent on her own preparation. They nodded at each other, then returned to their own space, their own routine and mental exercises.

  Viva knew she was in trouble from the first point in the first game, when Jelena’s serve thundered down the T and her legs just wouldn’t get her there in time. She spun on her heel and moved to the other side of the base line. She got a racquet to the next serve, but the ball hit the frame and shot high in the air.

  “30-0,” the chair umpire called.

  Viva bounced lightly on her toes, encouraging her sluggish muscles to react. The serve touched the outside line, and she managed to get it back, but Jelena came in on the short ball and slammed it down for a winner. In only a couple of minutes, Jelena had won the first game to love.

  As Viva changed ends, she glanced at her player’s box. Her parents applauded politely, and Deepak sat with his customary stony face, arms folded over his chest. Jack waved a sign: C’mon, Jelena!

  She snorted softly. Jack had said he’d throw his support behind Jelena. She couldn’t fault him for that.

  Viva held her first service game—barely. When she looked over at her box again, Jack waved a different sign: Viva Jones—Champion!

  She hung on grimly. Her legs were heavy, as if glued to the court, and her footwork was terrible. Panic swelled. She pushed an imaginary wisp of hair from her face and fought for mental fortitude. This was not how it would be. She would not lose her final match like this, playing like an amateur and missing easy shots. There was a way through this, and she would find it. She set her jaw and swept the next point with a precision-perfect shot that clipped the line.

  The home crowd applauded wildly, trying, it seemed, to spur her on with their enthusiasm.

  Gradually, her muscles responded, her mind honed to a sharper point, and the balls that flew off her racquet started landing where she wanted. With the rise in her game, the enthusiasm of the home crowd fired up even more. Her parents started yelling encouragement, and Jack waved both of his signs at the same time.

  But as good as Viva became, Jelena was better. The youngster had found an extra level in her game, and her deadly accuracy and incredible angles found the mark.

  Viva’s injured wrist bloomed with pain; the constant dull ache she’d grown accustomed to became a twisting knife of agony. The first set went to Jelena. Viva closed her eyes momentarily. Jelena was the future of the game, and she was… She lifted her chin. No. She was not past it. She could still win this. Summoning a look of cool collectedness, she went back out for the start of the second set.

  Focus. Her mind honed to a point where all that mattered was each individual shot. Her tired muscles and throbbing wrist receded. It was only the here and now.

  Somehow, Viva scraped a break in the second set, but two games later her foot landed awkwardly as she ran for one of Jelena’s drop shots, and she crashed to the court.

  She sat for a moment, head drooping, feeling her ankle with cautious fingers and catching her breath. The ankle seemed fine, but she now had to cope with an aching hip from hitting the hard court as well as a wrist that seemed strung with tendons of fire.

  When she levered herself to her feet, the crowd’s applause surrounded her. She bent to pick up her racquet and smiled a thanks at Jelena, who stood at the net, a concerned expression on her face. Viva acknowledged the applause of the crowd and jogged slowly back to the baseline.

  “You okay?” the chair umpire asked.

  She nodded and settled into the receiver’s crouch. This might be my final singles match. She focussed on Jelena’s swing, the racquet coming up, the explosion of the ball over the net. Make it good. She was in place; her return was deep. Make it memorable. Her point.

  But despite everything she flung at it, three games later, she was staring down the barrel of two match points to Jelena.

  Viva closed her eyes for a second, wrapped the weak ankle and painful hip in mental cottonwool, and pushed them into a corner of her mind. Her wrist was harder to dismiss, but she managed it. Make it memorable. Everything she had went into the serve. Her heart and mind, the culmination of her long career, the power and gratitude of every point, every game, every set, and every match she’d won in her life. The serve was an ace. She’d known it would be.

  She dropped to a crouch on the service line. One point saved. One to go. She needed one more perfect serve. This point matters. Only this one.

  Viva’s serve was good, but not good enough. Jelena returned, and for a minute they rallied back and forth. Jelena’s strokes were almost tentative, and Viva pushed forward, taking advantage of the more inexperienced player’s match point nerves. Heart pounding in time with the throb in her wrist, Viva saw the opportunity and advanced. Her drive felt good coming off the racquet, low and hard. In horror, she saw the ball tip the net cord, balance precariously for a moment before falling to the court on Viva’s side of the net.

  The crowd groaned with one voice.

  She had lost. She bit her lip. Disappointment crashed through her, and suddenly, the aches she had pushed aside surged anew as the adrenaline of the match receded. She walked to the net to congratulate Jelena.

  Jelena’s smile beamed like a beacon, and her eyes sparkled. She dropped her racquet and drew Viva into a hug. “I’m sorry it had to be you,” Jelena said into her ear.

  Viva clasped Jelena’s damp back and hugged her hard. “You were the better player. Keep going; you deserve the trophy.”

  “Your final match?” Jelena asked, although she surely must have known.

  Viva nodded, stupid tears pricking at the back of her eyes.

  “Don’t leave the court. Wait for me.”

  They shook the chair umpire’s hand, and Viva packed up her bag, taking the towel from her chair and pushing it into a corner of her bag. A souvenir from her last match. Standing, she waved to the crowd and took a long, slow look around Rod Laver Arena. The blue surface, the ballkids standing to attention, the linesmen and women, and of course the crowd, on their feet, cheers and applause lifting up into the air.

  Jelena came towards her. “We’ll go together.”

  “No,” Viva said. “The loser leaves first. This is your moment. Your first semifinal win. You’ll need to do an on-court interview.”

  In answer, Jelena slung an arm around Viva’s waist. “Walk with me.”

  Viva put her own arm around Jelena, and the two of them walked slowly towards the entrance, surrounded by the roar of the crowd.

  Viva glanced to her player’s box. Deepak, her parents, and Jack were on their feet. Her mum had tears streaming down her cheeks. She caught Deepak’s eye, and he smiled back at her and gave her a deep, formal bow.

  With her arm around Jelena, Viva left the arena.

  Chapter 24

  The tournament might be over for her, in
deed her singles career was now officially past, but she still had to commentate on the final. Her new career.

  That morning, Viva met Michi in the locker room. Michi had just emerged from the shower after her work-out. Now, in the second week of the Open, the locker rooms were quiet. There was only one other shower still running. Viva sat on the bench while Michi towelled dry.

  “I thought Brett would take it easy on me today,” she grumbled. “He made me do ladder drills and sprints for hours. Then I had a hit with him. It’s not the same as hitting with you. I miss you on the other side of the net.”

  Viva looked down at her hands. When would she next grip a racquet in competitive play? Months maybe? “I miss you too. But I must rest my wrist for longer. I hope to be back playing doubles with you in time for Indian Wells in March.”

  Michi froze, her towel dropping to the floor. Uncaring of her nakedness, she hugged Viva. “I’m so sorry. So, so sorry. That was an asinine comment.”

  Michi’s damp hair ticked Viva’s nose, and she hugged her friend back before moving away. “Don’t worry about it. You’re not the only one who says things like that. My parents do it too.”

  “But I should know better. I know what tennis means to you. And I can find another hitting partner. It’s not all about me.” Her mouth twisted wryly. “Even though it’s easy to think that it is sometimes.”

  Viva bent to pick up the discarded towel and handed it to Michi who wrapped it around herself once more. The second shower had stopped, and the tiled room echoed their words. “We do think we’re the centre of the universe, don’t we? We have coaches, trainers, physios, fitness professionals. Luxury hotel rooms, red carpets, upgrades to first class.” She closed her eyes momentarily. She didn’t have that anymore. “Well, you do. But I’ll miss hitting with you more than I’ll miss the glamour events.” She turned away so that Michi wouldn’t see her sadness. How long before she got used to being a has-been?

  “I’m me. I’m not a tennis star.” Michi’s voice was low. “If I ever get obnoxious, please tell me. If I ever say I don’t want to hit with a player ranked one hundred and something, because they’re not good enough for me, tell me I’m being an ass. I don’t want to be one of those snobs of the top ten, sashaying past, nose in the air, talking to no one.”

  “You’ll make top ten, I’m sure of that, but there’s not much fear of you becoming too superior.”

  “It happens to others. Exhibit A: Alina Pashin.”

  “You’re no Alina.”

  A shower door at the far end opened, and Alina stepped out, wrapped in a towel. “Michi most definitely is not me. She doesn’t play well enough.” She regarded them coolly across the locker room.

  “I’m sorry you heard that.” Viva managed a rueful smile.

  “You’re mistaken if you believe I care what you think. You’re both irrelevant as far as I’m concerned.”

  “Liar.” Michi’s voice was as cold as a Russian winter. “You obviously cared that Viva beat you. Why else would you want revenge?” Michi stuck her hands on her hips. The towel dropped to the floor again, leaving her naked, but she didn’t even blink.

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about. Jones was no threat to me when she was playing. Retired, she’s a nobody.”

  “Then why did you go to the trouble of having her followed? Why did you get that photo of her and Gabriela and sell it to the papers?”

  “Gabriela?” Alina’s smooth brow creased. “Oh, the official. Do you honestly think I’d go to that trouble?”

  “Someone did.” Michi was short. “And it’s the sort of thing you’d do.”

  Viva’s glance flickered over to Alina. She looked calm, composed; certainly, she didn’t have the guilty expression of someone who had done exactly what Michi was accusing her of. But then Alina wore the same stony face when she was down three match points.

  “Well, obviously, Jones has more enemies than she knows. It wasn’t me.” Alina unwrapped the towel from around her body and began to dry her hair.

  Michi stalked over so that she could stare Alina in the face. “Why should we believe you?”

  Alina shrugged. “I don’t care whether you do or not. But for what it’s worth, I know how hard it is to find happiness with someone on the tour. If two people have found each other, why would I sabotage that?”

  “Because you couldn’t stand being beaten by Viva. Because you were worried Viva would have an unfair advantage in competition.”

  “What competition? Everyone knows she’s retired from singles. And I don’t bother with doubles. Look at the stats. Viva’s beaten me twice. I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve beaten her—and that was when she wasn’t carrying an injury.”

  “Then maybe you’re yet another homophobic person who thinks there are too many lesbians on the tour.” Michi turned away in disdain.

  “Is that what you think?” Alina’s words were so quiet Viva had to strain to hear them. “It’s still tough for lesbians. Look at Jelena and the deception she had to play to keep her sponsorship. If you think I’m homophobic, you’re very much mistaken.” She heaved a breath. “My country’s government is pretty bad. They still harass gay people, but there are other governments that are worse. Much worse. Why would I deny someone their pleasure, just because I can’t have the same thing?”

  With shaking fingers, she wrapped the towel into a turban around her head. “Excuse me.” She pushed between Michi and Viva to return to the main locker room.

  Michi frowned. “Did she just say she was gay?” She stared after Alina’s upright back.

  “I think so.” Viva, too, focussed on the lanky player, who faced away from them, rummaging in her locker. Alina is gay? How did she feel, not being able to live her life? Not even having the chance to choose love. At least Viva had the chance to do that.

  Viva followed her into the main locker area and placed a hand on her arm.

  Alina’s head jerked up, her posture instantly becoming tight.

  “Thanks, Alina.”

  Viva turned and left.

  The women’s final was a stinking hot day. Temperatures soared to over forty degrees Celsius, and one of the TV channels filmed an egg sizzling away on the surface of an outside court. Even though the commentary box was air-conditioned, Viva sweated in the muggy heat.

  She hadn’t checked who the chair umpire was, but she knew it wouldn’t be Gabriela. Viva watched as the umpire came down for the coin toss and for a photo with the players. Would this be Gabriela one day? Officiating at one of the world’s most prestigious tennis matches.

  Jelena and Meghan started to warm up, and Viva glanced around the court, at the ballkids distributing balls, the crowd still filtering in, at the lineswomen and men in their green and gold uniforms and wide-brimmed hats.

  Her gaze ran around the court, and she froze. Sitting on a chair at one of the service lines, knees and feet neatly aligned, dark green trousers neatly pressed, was Gabriela. Her short cap of hair was barely visible underneath her hat. Not the umpire for this match, but a lowly linesperson.

  Is this how it will be? Major tournaments, bumping into each other, doubles matches, seeing Gabriela from the commentary box. Funny how for years, she’d barely noticed Gabriela. She’d been just another official, earnest and silent, sitting like a statue in the chair or watching the line.

  With an effort, Viva dragged her gaze away and shot a glance at her co-commentator. She needn’t have worried that he’d seen her staring.

  Robin was expounding at length on the players and their paths to the final. At least he’d got her name right this time, but beyond an initial mention, he was doing a good job of pretending he was the only person in the box.

  The score was tied at 5-5 in the first set when Meghan served. The service action was smooth; the ball thundered over the net.

  “Foot-fault.” Gabriela raised he
r hand.

  “The linesperson has called a foot-fault. Second serve,” Robin said.

  Meghan took her time selecting a ball and returning to the service line. On court, Gabriela sat with her hands in her lap. As Meghan bounced the ball, preparing to serve, Gabriela leant forward again, eyes intent on the line. The serve had barely left Meghan’s racquet when she signalled again. “Foot-fault.”

  The crowd murmured, and Meghan dropped her racquet and jogged over to the chair umpire, gesticulating fiercely. There was a short conversation, then Meghan returned to the service line.

  “Call stands. 30-40,” the chair umpire said.

  Robin shot Viva a look of pure malice. “Seems like a trigger-happy linesperson.”

  “It’s hard to see from this angle, but it looked like a foot-fault to me.” Viva glanced at Gabriela quickly so that Robin didn’t notice her interest.

  Gabriela sat calmly, eyes to the front, no expression on her face, seemingly oblivious to the murmuring of the crowd.

  “I would have thought you’d side with the player,” Robin said. “After all, it was a foot-fault call like this one that stopped your US title defence. If I remember rightly, you didn’t take that well. You had a few choice words for that linesperson.” He peered through the commentary box window. “In fact, isn’t that the same official?”

  As if on cue, the overhead cameras in the arena cut to Gabriela.

  “It was the same line official,” Viva said. “And she was doing her job back then, just as she’s doing it now.”

  Play resumed on court, Meghan smashing two aces to give herself a game point.

  “Let’s look at the replay on that foot-fault.”

  Viva gave a half smile. Robin was obviously trying to rile her.