by Lola Keeley
Some of the players groused about it, but I liked looking so spotless. At least until the first lunge to return a low net shot, and then all bets were off. Grass stains didn’t look good on anybody.
Even if I hadn’t done this for a living, I’d probably still be into my trainers just as much. They’ve always been the biggest perk of the job, and these brand-new ones that I’d only worn for an hour or two to break in were practically moulded to my feet. I knew it was stupid to think they made me any lighter or faster, but it felt like they did. Sometimes silly little psychological edges like that made all the difference, like wings on my heels. I was Hermes or maybe Nike, but the shoes were all Adidas.
The wardrobe varied a lot over the season, but I relished being back in all white with the famous three lines down the side in black. It was a flattering look in the full-length mirrors. Moments like these, I actually got to confront my appearance. Most of the time, my body was more of a machine to me, something to push and prod at, to find out what more it could do. I knew I looked okay, even good sometimes. I just didn’t let myself think about it once I was out in front of the crowd. I pushed the white sweatband into place on my forehead and snapped the matching wristbands. That and wearing sliders until changing into my match shoes was as close as I came to any kind of ritual.
After what seemed like an eternity, an usher came to knock on the door. “We’re ready for you, Miss Larsson.” Oh yeah, no Ms at Wimbledon. And the married women got changed to Mrs even if they hadn’t changed their surnames. We’d only recently gotten them to stop calling married women by their husband’s names on the scoreboards, and sometimes it really did feel like another century there.
Speaking of married women, I came face-to-face with Celeste who was waiting with her usher in the narrow hallway. I froze for a moment, unsure how to greet her. She took the lead, coming over to shake my hand and pulling me into a hug right after.
“It’s been a while,” she said, like we hadn’t done a bunch of events together this year. So many of the smaller tournaments like a pre-event shoot with all the top seeds, and we still had one of our favourite charities in common. Oh, and did I mention I’d dumped her out in the quarterfinals in the Australian Open? Well, that too. It still hadn’t evaporated the lingering awkwardness between us. If most groups of lesbian friends were incestuous, then double that for tennis.
“Best of luck out there,” I replied, as we followed the head usher who would lead us out onto the hallowed ground of Centre Court. Behind us another pair of ushers carried our kit bags, stuffed full of racquets and tape, spare shoes and socks and a spare replica of this outfit in case I tore anything. I would have had drinks and towels, but we had our own fridges stocked on court, and using the provided regulation towels was required. As revenge, all the players liked to steal them as souvenirs. I’d left tournaments with an entire bag of contraband towels in the past.
As we made our way through the cream-coloured corridors, lined with tennis-themed art and various dignitaries, I nodded to each of the armed services personnel who manned each new stretch of floor. It felt like the least we could all do, invite them for a nice day out and some tennis—another stark reminder of my privileged existence.
Down a small, open staircase and the line of umpires and officials stood waiting for us. I was top seed, so I got to go out first. That also meant I was first to shake the Chairman’s hand, and Celeste did the same right after me.
Even still, tucked in the belly of the building, I could feel the buzz of the crowd. It was more than a feeling, almost a tangible thing. The sheer presence of them seemed to resonate through the bricks and wood, though they were only restless and not even cheering yet.
Then the final stretch—which was apparently the right time to give us giant bouquets to carry out on court. Another tradition I’d never understood; they were taken off us moments later when we sat down, and most times I don’t think I ever saw the bouquet again.
Exiting the door into the last little tunnel created by screens that shielded us from public view, I felt a familiar spike of panic. Nothing obvious, just my heart seemed to clench and I briefly tasted metal on my tongue. I glanced back at Celeste before we emerged into the crowd’s hungry gaze, but she already had her game face on. I no longer existed to her as Elin the person, the one-time girlfriend. Now I was just The Opponent, that walking, talking obstacle between her and the prize she wanted.
Walking onto the grass brought a deafening roar from the first step, the dragon of anticipation yanked to life by the first person in thousands to react. Unlike after matches, I raised no hand in acknowledgement, and I didn’t look around for familiar faces either. I did the required turn and curtsy to the Royal Box, populated by my own royal family as well as the younger members of the British one. Not a bad turnout, considering the men’s final would pull a lot of focus the following day.
Just like Celeste had already done, I let my world shrink down to the challenge ahead. The grass felt springy beneath my feet, despite the dry sandy patches from two solid weeks of action. The sky above wasn’t promising, a dull shade of grey that threatened rain before the afternoon was out. I hoped we’d be done before delays and the closing of the roof came into play.
I took my seat on the far side of the umpire’s tower, nodding as my bags were set down, reaching for my first racquet as soon as someone whisked the flowers away. People liked to think we had a lucky one or some superstition like that. We didn’t get the chance to get attached, not with how hard the modern game was on the kit. The strings were different almost every match, and when the strain started to show on a frame, it would be instantly and effortlessly replaced. I couldn’t count how many I got through per season, but I wouldn’t bet below fifty.
Finals were always slow to get started thanks to all the extra ceremony, so I got back on my feet and kept my weight shifting from one foot to the other, minimal activity so I didn’t start to cool back down. The usual announcements rang out, and the crowd began to settle into their seats. Just the coin toss to come, a simple matter of which end to start and who would serve first. I’d long since stopped minding which of those I got. Winning meant starting strong regardless.
The umpire called us both to the net, where we earnestly shook hands again. The call was mine as the bronze coin flipped and twisted in the air.
Game on.
CHAPTER FOUR
Okay, so it wasn’t supposed to go down that way. Forty-five minutes played and I was one set down, almost broken in the second game of the second set. Which in tennis terms was a polite way of saying I hadn’t really got started and had somehow become even worse from there.
Not exactly the play expected from a champion.
Celeste, though, I had to give it to her. She’d always known my game well, but this time she’d come equipped to thwart me at every turn. Along with staying in close for every drop shot that barely cleared the net, she was somehow back on the baseline whenever I tried to drive a hard ball right past her. The one consolation was that her tactics had to be draining, and elite athlete or not, she’d be tiring if I could keep myself alive through this second set.
Which meant not letting her break me now, with 40 points to my 30. Serving had always been one of my strong points, but she seemed determined to return everything I hurled at her, like the concept of a nonreturnable ace hadn’t been invented yet.
I realised in that moment, plucking the offered fresh ball from the ball girl’s outstretched hand, that for all I’d claimed to be fatigued of winning, I really didn’t enjoy the alternative very much. Everyone lost games, sets, and matches, no matter how strong or steady. But in a year where I hadn’t gone all the way in either Australia or France, I was putting extra pressure on myself to win in London and New York. There was no point blaming that niggling calf injury either. At any given time, most of us were playing through some kind of pain or recovering from it.
M
y next mistake was glancing towards the boxes. Most attention in the ground and on television while there was a lull in play would be on the Royal box. I had met the King and Queen of Sweden countless times before, but it was always a polite, reserved conversation with them. They seemed happy in the company of the younger British royals, the ones who had famous weddings and very photogenic offspring. None of that was particularly distracting or unusual.
No, the mistake was making eye contact with my mother. She looked halfway out of her mind about how badly I was playing, her usually smooth blonde hair clutched until it was all out of place. When I met her gaze, she frowned, before hiding her face behind her hands. Great. It could be commitment to not illegally coaching me during the match, but I was pretty sure she was just pissed off.
But then came unexpected redemption. In the row behind her sat Toni, who was clearly in the middle of arguing some point of tennis with my father. Only when she saw me did she stop, making a gesture by pointing to the side of her head that basically translated to ‘get your head in the game.’ It wasn’t expert-level coaching by any means, but it was enough to calm the rising sick feeling of panic that was sloshing around inside me.
Concentrate. Focus. All those useful words that had gotten me through every other time. I’d been distracted all week, in truth, and it was coming back to bite me on the butt.
Not anymore. Not with a pretty girl to impress. I mean, did anyone ever have better motivation than that? Other than a crushing will to win at all costs, but mine seemed to have taken the day off. In its place, I’d take anything that might work.
Celeste didn’t see it coming. She seemed to think I was getting nervous about serving, since she was coming back so strong. Instead of my usual precise, calculated approach that some critics said belonged more to chess than tennis, I reverted to a style I hadn’t played much since my first few years after breaking out.
An all-out assault, basically. I served like I was trying to put the ball into the Earth’s crust, and I launched myself into leaps to hit forehands with deadly force. I had won intermittently by playing that way in my teens and twenties, overwhelming other players with force and speed. Having become so disciplined, it felt like being a kid again to just go for it.
It worked too. Celeste could play that way herself, but countering it wasn’t easy. I’d switched to a more controlled style to minimise the toll it took on my body, reducing injuries and making matches quicker and more predictable. Then came this Saturday in July, and suddenly it was “anything goes.”
My hair kept coming loose, and I was red in the face from exerting myself so recklessly, but as each muscle group burned and stretched that little bit harder, I only felt more alive.
Changing ends felt like a needless distraction, and so did every line call dispute or extra bounce between serves. I chugged down vitamin drinks at the appointed times and let that replenish my body as best it could. Turning the second set around finally pushed Celeste to abandon her game plan, but we were deep into the third and final set before she could get any traction on me again. Once or twice I caught her looking at me like we’d never met. She had never played me like this. Being a few years my junior, our paths hadn’t crossed until I was well on my way to being the “Ice Princess,” who was only ever cool.
I didn’t look at anyone else until I heard the umpire call 40-love in the last game I needed to win in order to clinch the thing. Championship point, it would say on screens all around the world. Three championship points, in fact, meaning I could still afford to mess it up once or twice.
I could feel the air cooling. I wasn’t waiting around again to get caught in the rain— not with the trophy almost in my grasp.
When I looked to my box, I saw Toni practically falling into the row in front, she was watching so intently. My mother had rescued herself from her slump and sat there with fists clenched, willing me across that final line.
I bounced the ball once, twice. Tested its weight in my hand and then gave its final bounce. Then it happened in that slow motion that I could never recapture outside of the moment. The ball, tossed to just the right height. My other arm arcing up to meet it, the sweet kiss of strings against racquet at exactly the position and speed I had asked of them both.
Ask anyone who hits things for a living and they’ll tell you: You hear it when the contact is sweet, that perfect connection, where what happens next seems preordained by forces greater than anything you may or may not have done.
An ace. No return. Celeste’s shoulders drooping as the ball hit the back wall of the court, utterly beyond her. My knees, how they gave way in sheer relief and maybe exhaustion. Falling to the dry, sandy ground, knees and shins barely registering the prickly grass. I let go of my racquet. I remember that much, but I didn’t hear it land over the cheers that went up. If our entrance had been a dragon, this was a whole army of them.
Just one formality left: shaking Celeste’s hand and the umpire’s in turn. I made myself get up, and as soon as we exchanged those pleasantries, I was free to react, to enjoy the chaos around me.
I cried out, something primal and incoherent that wasn’t a word. Just a feeling, the high of winning as potent and new as it had been that very first time. On and on the crowd cheered, and I felt the sudden compulsion to see what I’d seen so many others do over the years—never me, not rule-keeping, well-behaved me.
On shaking legs I got up and jogged towards the stands full of people, seeing the path to my destination as though it had been illuminated in neon. Used to it by now, most people either moved out of my way or tried to help me climb to that first level, over the wooden hoardings to where my family waited. I didn’t feel any of the hands on me, helping and guiding. I was on a mission.
Moments later I reached them, and the little crowd of loved ones surged towards me. My father reached me first, ecstatic to pull me into a bear hug even though I knew he’d have been reading the newspaper on his phone during most of the match. He may not have loved the sport, but I knew he loved me. A kiss on the cheek from Parisa, and so many shouts of congratulations from my friends and colleagues. I’d name them all, but their faces were a blur at that point, and to most people it would just sound like reading an Ikea catalogue out loud anyway.
But somewhere in the clamour—and I needed to get back down on court; there were going to be presentations, and oh wow, this was not a safe place to be standing—Toni pushed her way through. She kissed me on the cheek, and my knees wanted to give out in an entirely different way.
“Well done,” she muttered against my cheek, and it was a miracle I could hear anything at all.
A glance back at the court and I could see the usual presentation ceremony starting to form. With care and some helping hands, I turned around and bounced back down to floor level.
The loser—sorry, runner-up—always got their presentation first. Unlike when I started out, now the ceremony was conducted by the television presenters from the BBC. They had to address the people around the court on an echoing microphone while making the audience on television feel part of it all too. Celeste and I sat back in our chairs as the ball boys and girls formed a guard of honour. That was something that irked me in English—shouldn’t they be ball children? There were countless questions I’d learned not to ask along the way.
Then, like almost all the other times, the adrenaline spiked and events got sort of fuzzy. I waited my turn, I lifted my big gold plate for the few minutes I got to hold it, and I drank in the applause. People say the British are reserved. I think those people have never seen them at a sporting event.
The on-court interview was short, my own voice echoing back at me like a nightmare as I thanked the fans and congratulated Celeste on making it a great final to play in. Then the final round of photos and cheers, signing a few giant tennis balls and posters as I escaped the court.
Not that it was much of an escape. While I had been blushing
and bowing and celebrating, all the people who had paid thousands or been personally invited were waiting for their VIP moment. Any hope of a minute to gather myself or a quick shower was non-existent. I suppose royalty and other athletes were used to it, but I would still get self-conscious that I was shaking hands while wearing clothes partly soaked through with sweat. The neat presentation tracksuit jacket covered the worst of it, but I was relieved when the procession finally ended and I could duck into a bathroom and splash cold water on my face.
Celeste slipped in right behind me, and thanks to the red velvet ropes, not even the VIP guests had access to this players’ area bathroom. Once upon a time this would have been our excuse for a post-match moment of misbehaving, and there was a way she looked at me like she was remembering that too.
“You got me. You got me good out there. I’ve never seen you play that way. Well, outside of watching your early matches online.”
“I always had it in my locker. That’s what they say, right?” Being near-fluent in English always left a few terms feeling strange on my tongue. “We’re okay?”
Celeste gave me a long look in the ornate mirror hanging over the sinks. She took a step closer, placed her hand right next to mine. Not quite touching, but close enough.
“We could be more than okay, Elin. We’ve got this place all to ourselves, if you wanted a different kind of rematch.”
I couldn’t control the way my eyebrows shot up. Without thinking, I took a half-step back. “Uh, Celeste? We broke up. You married someone else. We—”
“Noticed the new girl in your box. You going back to doubles?” Celeste interrupted, changing the subject like she hadn’t suggested anything at all. I sagged just a little in relief. She leaned against the sink next to me, her white wraparound skirt and vest top a perfect contrast against her deeply brown skin. Her muscle definition was as excellent as ever, but the pang of insecurity drowned quickly in my post-win adrenaline. “I thought she quit the circuit. Ruiz, right?”
