Slammed

by Lola Keeley

  Table Of Contents

  Other Books by Lola Keeley

  Dedication

  Introduction

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Acknowledgments

  About Lola Keeley

  Other Books from Ylva Publishing

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  www.ylva-publishing.com

  OTHER BOOKS BY LOLA KEELEY

  Major Surgery

  The Music and the Mirror

  DEDICATION

  For Lisa-Marie,

  Two decades as bezzers; consider this me signing up for at least another two.

  INTRODUCTION

  This novel is set in the world of women’s professional tennis, but a few details have been changed along the way.

  First of all, instead of the real-world overlap of the International Tennis Federation and the Women’s Tennis Association working together, the governing body for tennis in this book is simply the Global Tennis Association (GTA). Think of them as Big Tennis, and you’ll have the right idea.

  As for real players, I’ve tried as far as possible to leave them out. Some of the fictional players are clearly influenced by careers you might recognise, though. The record Elin is attempting to beat is set at the number of slams Steffi Graf won in her career, which is twenty-two. Although Margaret Court won more (twenty-four), she didn’t win all of those in the Open era, and I wasn’t comfortable using a public and unapologetic homophobe as a point of reference. So please, if you can, forgive that slight fudging of the numbers.

  Hopefully most of the terminology is explained or contextualised, but the main thing you need to know as a tennis newbie is that the grand slam tournaments are four held every year: Australian, French and US Opens, and Wimbledon. Winning these is amongst the very highest honours for pro players.

  For most tournaments, the players are also seeded. The most on-form player coming into the tournament will be the number-one seed. The rest are ranked below that according to their recent record. Only a certain number are seeded, and the unseeded players can end up anywhere in the draw. The reasoning behind this is to spread the best players across the bracket, so that the very best don’t meet each other in the first couple of rounds. If they all played in the first couple of days and half of them went out, it would reduce excitement and viewing for the rest of the tournament. That’s why it’s a big deal if an unseeded player makes it further in the tournament—they’ve usually done it the hard way!

  CHAPTER ONE

  Fifteen thousand people made a lot of noise.

  The simple fact of their existence made it so: breathing, hearts beating, the soft-squashed gasp a person made when sitting down too heavily, or the squeak of their rubber-soled shoes against the concrete floor. Plastic chairs groaned on their hinges, throats were cleared, and that was before a single conversation, from the mutters between close friends to the shouts from one corner of the space to another.

  But on Centre Court at Wimbledon, when the umpire called for, “Quiet, please,” that was exactly what they got.

  That quiet closed in around me, serving in the semi-final as the clock ticked over from afternoon to evening. The match had already been delayed by warm summer rain, the kind that appeared out of a faintly grey sky and soaked people to the bone without them realising. At the first drop, we had been postponed. Covers rolled out over the grass so quickly it seemed they were protecting from something far more dangerous than a little rainwater.

  Then the roof closed, slow and mechanical like a spaceship in some clunky sci-fi show I’d watched growing up. With it sealed, with the weather shut out, everything sounded different. Echoes bounced in strange ways, and suddenly all those people at a safe remove seemed to be right on top of me.

  I shook my head. Focus, Elin. What did a little change or two matter? I took a steadying breath and reminded myself that the tennis stayed the same.

  The previous point had been decided with a furious rally, and I’d won when a last desperate lunge was backhanded into the net. I’d waited politely for my opponent to pick herself up and dust herself off. Her once-pristine white T-shirt, mostly sweated through like my own, bore green marks and sandy smears from where she’d hit the ground. I wiped at my own shirt in sympathy, ball for my next serve already in my hand.

  I only had twenty-five seconds to make the serve, so I bounced the ball straight down at my feet. One. Two. The weight of it felt familiar against my palm, fresh from its precisely chilled can, in peak condition for being hammered against the ground just as hard as either one of us could hit it.

  I closed my eyes for just a second and waited for the feeling to settle over me. Sure enough, it came rolling in just like the tide. I’d done this before, maybe a million times. I released the ball upwards, no blue sky above it that time, just the industrial surface of the closed roof. No matter, my other arm was already in motion, the movement as natural as breathing.

  With the kiss of contact, my serve was unleashed. Not my hardest or fastest, but the women’s game wasn’t dominated by serve prowess in the same way as the men’s. I could have risked serving an ace, effectively a shot that no mortal player should have been able to return. Aiming exclusively for those could lead to double faults though, and so it was a calculated choice each time.

  I could barely feel my racquet in my hand. It was an extension of my arm by now, no matter how many different ones passed through my bag and my palm every day, every week. The custom grip I’d been using since I was fourteen and still playing in the juniors was moulded to the exact bends of my fingers, and the calluses I developed always fit within its grooves. Like a wedding ring worn for years but still felt after it had been removed, so too did I have my own phantom accessory, the slight heft of the graphite frame always with me even when I was far from the court or a kit bag.

  We hit another long, hard rally, and I felt a twinge of complaint in my right calf as I stopped short to win the point. Damn, that would have to be looked at to make sure it didn’t develop into a proper strain, or worse, an actual muscle tear.

  For a moment, as I moved to serve again, I realised that I didn’t actually have to. Somehow, in all the years I’d been playing, it never occurred to me that the entire act of playing in a match was voluntary. If I set my racquet down right then, in that moment, and walked off court, no one could have stopped me.

  Fortunately for my wandering thoughts, I had been drilled too well by my coach over the seasons. Countless sessions with my therapist had focused on moments like these. Now in that final stretch of a match, I knew I had the stamina and technique to win almost by default. How hard that was usuall
y came down to my opponent, and that was when I realised my real advantage.

  It was bad form to admit it, to even think it in the first place, but ask anyone who ever won a tennis match and they would nod in recognition. The two of you were out there, alone in effect despite the umpire and the line judges and the kids who chased the loose balls around. That was what the world shrunk down to: one person competing against another, with only one winner possible. What any winner could have admitted—confessed, really—was that at some point on the road to victory, they could see their opponent settle for defeat.

  That moment? Seeing the loss in their eyes even as they stared defiantly back over the net? That was what kept me going, made me want to compete and bring home as many trophies as they could throw at me. Maybe I should have said something humble, about playing for the love of the game, but it would only have been a lie. That look, the one I saw radiating back at me in that moment, said that yet again I’d won. Now all that remained was to clinch those last two points and let the umpire confirm what we both already knew on court.

  I had won, and on Saturday afternoon I would be playing in front of royalty, celebrities, and millions of people all around the world, for a chance at yet another Wimbledon Ladies’ Singles title. Taking a moment, I smoothed down my white skirt and plucked the white T-shirt away from my skin where sweat was making it stick uncomfortably.

  I unleashed the ball again, ready to finish the formalities and be declared the winner for all on Centre Court to hear. The crowd watched on in silence as I wore the woman on the other side of the net down, stroke by stroke, sliced backhand by sliced backhand.

  By the time the umpire called it—“Game, set, match, Miss Larsson”—I was already at the net, arm extended for the handshake of congratulations and commiseration. Mostly I just wanted to get back under cover of the locker room, out of sight of the roaring crowd who somehow seemed closer than ever.

  One more match, I told myself. Then I could rest, then some things would be optional again. I just had to behave myself for two more days. What could be easier than that?

  CHAPTER TWO

  All I wanted to do was to have one drink in peace.

  Not too much to ask, surely? But it certainly seemed to be an impossible quest that Friday night. I’d been careful in my choices, taking a cab into the centre of London, a bustling city where anyone could get lost without really trying. I picked a hotel with a famous bar but excellent security, frequented by people who ended up in the morning papers, but the paparazzi shots were always out on the street, never inside.

  Like I said, careful.

  I suppose I had to be, since technically my face was recognisable. So people liked to tell me, anyway. I had found that like most people in this world, a hood pulled low made people gloss over you when they looked. Much better than baseball caps and sunglasses. That passed for a disguise back in LA, which I mostly called home, but in London it was a neon sign screaming, Look at me!

  Instead, I dressed like any other woman in her thirties hitting the town. Little black dress, killer heels—not the hoodie that I would have preferred at all. I could always hide my face behind my hair, just about. One of the few perks of letting all that blonde hair grow out, even though I’d been longing to cut it short since my teens.

  The bar was everything I remembered from my previous, less-incognito trip there. Dark in all the right corners, the blueish glow from the bar enough to get you served, but the strange colours meant nobody really looked like themselves. That’s why I thought I was safe to perch on a stool there, to stay in the thick of things instead of retreating to a lonely corner. After all, that was why I’d come out in the first place: to drown out the maddening quiet of my rented room.

  Of course, being in a bar meant men hit on me. Not because I was anything special, trust me. Blonde, female, with a pulse was basically a bat signal to a lot of guys who couldn’t read the signs—like the fact that I had checked out more women than they had. Still, it was almost good practice to keep knocking them back. I backhanded their approaches like I returned serves over the net.

  Which is to say, I did it really well. Just like I return serves really well. Because that recognisable face I mentioned? Might have something to do with the whole professional tennis player thing. Not that I bought into it, but London during Wimbledon fortnight was tuned into the world of racquets and balls in a particular way, making my trip out on the town particularly risky, since my goal was not to be noticed.

  Still, I liked my odds. A city of eight million people, the blurring effects of alcohol, and the fact that nobody in their right mind would expect me to be out on the town the night before playing in the Ladies’ Singles final.

  The main event on the second-last day of the tournament, the final was one of the crown jewels of two weeks of tennis mania tucked into the Southwest corner of the city. A person, particularly an elite athlete with an impressive career behind her, would have to be in an especially strange mood to do something so foolish the night before such a major event.

  Well, hello. I’m Elin Larsson and apparently I’m a fool.

  It didn’t take long for my entourage, by which I mostly meant my coach, Britta, to notice my absence. Instead of hotels, which weren’t plentiful close to the Wimbledon courts, we rented huge luxurious houses for two weeks every year that I played this tournament. All the other players had been doing the same in recent years, preferring the illusion of home comforts over sterile, identikit hotel rooms. Which meant it hadn’t taken Britta very long to discover I wasn’t in fact having an early night with a face mask and some meditation exercises. At least in a hotel, my door would have locked.

  Did I mention that Britta—for all her coaching awards, not to mention the books and videos—was also my mother? Some would say that job came first, but I also wouldn’t have been shocked if she had drills for my backhand worked out while I was still in the womb. I just knew better than to ask questions like that anymore.

  Anyway, there I was in the blissful semi-anonymity of being out in public and ignoring the messages lighting up my phone, when a tall brunette took the last empty barstool, the one next to mine. I suppose I could have ignored her, but hey, only human. I took a long, careful look at her in profile, and I felt that half-click of recognition as I looked at her face. Maybe she was someone famous too.

  And in a very cool, composed sort of way, I choked on the olive from my martini.

  I really was having just the one drink to relax me a little. I planned to stick to sparkling water the rest of the night, a drink so bland and pointless that it felt more like a punishment than anything else. I envied the people around me ordering doubles, or cocktails full of different spirits and a ton of sugar. Even the guy yelling about his rum and Coke had me idly wondering when the last time I’d casually ordered a soft drink was.

  During all that, she caught me staring, of course. Or maybe the choking caught her attention, but I was grateful for the thump between my shoulder blades all the same.

  “Thank you,” I managed to gasp, and her concerned look gave way to a tight smile. “Can I buy you a drink?”

  “Well, I think you just ruined martinis for me.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Just stay away from the nicer Scotches if you’re planning to choke again. Those I would really miss.”

  Her accent was soft, wrapped around her consonants like syrup. I couldn’t claim to know where it came from, though I’d have guessed Italy with a gun to my head.

  “Then at least let me buy you one of those for saving my life. Or more like my dignity, I suppose.”

  “True, it wasn’t very dignified.” She flagged down the bartender. “I’ll take your most expensive single malt. She’s paying.”

  “Make it a double,” I added, because I was not about to be outdone. “And a sparkling water for me.”

  “Scared yourself with the martinis too?
” she asked, turning more towards me. There really was something familiar about her face.

  “I’m not a big drinker,” was answer enough. “I’m Elin, by the way.” Offering a hand was awkward and a little hopeless, but she shook it anyway. It made that smile of hers a little bigger.

  “So formal. Antonia, but please, everyone calls me Toni.”

  Something pinged at that too. A memory half-forgotten, itching at the back of my skull just to irritate me. Did she work for the All England club? Maybe one of the sponsors? They were all in town, having a great time on expenses. These past two weeks I had shaken more hands than ever, posed for more selfies than anyone could ever want to see. I signed giant novelty tennis balls on court and tried to show up for any charities that invited me, matches and training permitting.

  “Have we met?” I’d learned over the years not to prolong the agony. Once, I’d have tried to hang in there and pick up a few clues, but if I didn’t get it from a first name then I knew the blank was never going to fill itself.

  “Just once, in Paris. I don’t expect you’d remember, though.”

  “Sorry, I’m bad with faces. Even worse with names.”

  Our drinks came, and she took a large sip of her drink. “Not bad.”

  I didn’t know one end of a whisky from another, but I knew when I was being teased. “So, Toni…”

  She was saving me from myself by interrupting. “Listen, I was going to string it out a little longer, not let you know that I know who you are. I even had this whole joke about how they call you the Ice Princess and the ice in my drink…but you should know that the guy at the end of the bar is a gossip columnist for a big tabloid here. And he gave you a second glance like he knows you from somewhere.”

  Shit. The last thing I expected was an actual journalist. Maybe a fan with a mobile phone, but everyone in the bar seemed far too cool for that sort of thing. Never mind that players went out before big matches all the time, but with my public reputation as the quiet one, the resident good girl of tennis, they’d have a field day.