by Lola Keeley
“Trust me, the more you get to know me, the more you’ll see I’m just not very emotional about this stuff. It’s nothing to worry about.”
She didn’t look like she wanted to drop it, but she startled me by leaning in for a hug.
“I meant to do that on court, but it’s nicer when we’re not all sweaty.”
“And without twenty thousand people watching,” I added, patting her back and hoping the hug wouldn’t end too soon. Of course, it did, and she was back on her side of the table in a blink.
“Well, so long as you know how lucky you are.” Toni went back to her original point seamlessly. “Boy, what I’d give to lift even one of those trophies, and you’re on what, twenty? Twenty-one, if you go on and win next week.”
I blinked at her. I didn’t need my stats read back to me.
“Not to mention all the smaller ones in between. And two Olympic golds. I’m kind of geeking out here, sorry.”
“They all count,” I said. “Each and every one has been amazing, and I’ve worked really hard for them.” I felt my back straighten, right into interview posture. I’d said these lines before, and I didn’t have any fresh way left to sell them.
“Oh, I wasn’t—”
“I know, everyone makes excuses. I didn’t have a real rival until Celeste; it’s been too easy for me. I’ve heard it all.”
Toni leaned in again, her dark eyes drawing me in just as surely as her careful smile.
“Elin, I wasn’t insulting you. Believe me, I see how hard you work. I just wanted to be sure you were enjoying it. You deserve that too.”
I nodded, taking a long sip of my drink. The usual doubts and insecurities were trying to set me down a negative path again. As I watched Toni, she gave me an even sweeter smile, one I wanted to return.
“Let’s change the subject,” she decided. “You said you had a strange day. So what exactly happened after you escaped the reporters?”
“Well.” I sighed, leaning back a little. “You’re not gonna believe how my massage went…”
CHAPTER TWELVE
I was pleased when Toni accepted my invitation to the US Open final, sitting in the box alongside my family again. The few times I glanced up there, I was both thrilled and terrified to see her and Alice getting on like a house on fire. Or at least talking in an animated sort of way.
I had learned not to look at specific parts of the crowd over the years, since coaching during the game is against the rules. With my mother being my coach, that meant I often had to ignore my own guests beyond a brief wave or nod here and there. The penalties were harsh, and it tended to ruin my mood when I got told off by the umpires.
So, anyway. I won.
Which Toni would probably say was another unenthusiastic reaction, but I really yanked at my healed hip muscles in the last game, so that took the fun right out of the whole thing. For a blinding moment I thought I was going to have to retire right before I pushed through three more serves and finished the damn thing.
Mira was waiting after the presentation for the exclusive ESPN interview, microphone shoved in my face.
“Elin, you’ve done it again. This is your twenty-first Grand Slam title, leaving you one away from equalling the all-time record.” The crowd was going wild. I waved to them again, buying myself some time and a few deep breaths so I didn’t talk through gritted teeth.
“Yes, wow!” I tried for enthusiasm. My smile was genuine, that much I could say for myself. The endorphins were fighting the shooting pain up my side, almost as effective as ibuprofen. “I can’t quite believe it, but here we are.”
“It took you the three sets again, just like Wimbledon. Was it slipping in the second set?” Something in the way Mira smiled felt almost shark-like. Had her teeth always been so big and white?
“No, sometimes against a very good opponent you have to take it to the wire. That’s how it should be, no? As close as possible until someone breaks and wins.”
I had seen Celeste off in the semi-finals, and my opponent that day was the number-three seed, Fatima, who happened to hate my breathing guts on a good day. She hadn’t shown it on court, the consummate professional. I owed her the courtesy of recognising her achievement, and the match really could have gone to either of us at various points.
“Now our viewers at home may have missed it, but as you served for the match there, you pulled up on the second point.” Fuck, Mira. Couldn’t she have kept her observations to herself?
“Well, everyone knows I was out for a few weeks before the tournament. I’ve had to adjust some of my most routine moves to prevent aggravating that injury. When I forget, my body lets me know about it. No big deal.”
“Yes, but—”
“I mean, I served after that and it seemed to work okay, right?” I laughed, forcing her to fake laugh along with me. I thought about Toni’s accusation again, how she’d basically said I didn’t want this enough anymore. Spiting Mira might be the motivation to get me over the line and through at least another season.
“Well, let’s hope you enjoy your big win here today, and celebrate with the best New York City has to offer,” Mira said, wrapping up. She sounded like she was working for the Tourist Office, but I was relieved to get the hell away from her and back to the locker room.
Parisa and my mother were waiting there, no sign of my sister or Toni. They’d be off in search of the buffet and free champagne in the official reception no doubt. Where I’d be expected to show my face pretty soon.
“Get Ezi?” I asked Parisa as soon as the door was closed. Fatima had apparently already raided her locker and hit the showers. I sat heavily on the wooden bench that ran down the middle of the room, hiking up my white presentation jacket and the tight tee beneath it. My muscles showed no sign of which one had betrayed me, maybe a faint hint of redness where the pain was worst. It felt like I’d torn something vital, and my brain expected to see blood or bruising, some reflection of its own pain receptors currently doing the mambo.
“Same muscle?” My mother came to sit beside me, touching gently but firmly with both hands. Despite her briskness, it didn’t actually hurt more. She’d been a nurse before she’d quit to become my full-time coach. For a moment, I was back in our house in Stockholm, sitting on the stairs with a scraped knee and trying not to cry.
I nodded, and she started rooting around in her purse for something. A moment later, I hissed at the cold swipe of ibuprofen gel.
“Tack,” I said, thanking her as it soaked in. The stuff worked fast. I was going to be fit for the winner’s walkthrough then, with all the handshakes and polite cheek kisses that came with it. Less royalty this time, but still some pretty fancy names and the faces to go with them. The editor of Vogue, a couple of Oscar winners; I hadn’t really been paying attention. No doubt a politician or two.
“It’s okay,” my mother insisted as I pulled my shirt and the light windbreaker-type jacket back into place. “Just get through this and you can have some time off. Nothing matters until Singapore.”
“Right,” I said through gritted teeth. “Singapore.” She meant the end-of-year finals. The GTA held them at the end of every season to confirm the rankings that had been racked up and dropped over the calendar year. They used to make us go right through to the start of December, leaving us about two actual weeks off all year with no tournaments to play. Thankfully, some smart and organised female players had banded together and requested a shorter season; the men were still working on it, since their tournaments were a whole separate organisation.
In that moment, Singapore seemed a hundred years away, but I got myself back on my feet just as Ezi arrived.
“You want me to take a look now?”
“No, but as soon as I can get out of the glad-handing?”
Ezi gave me a quick hug and went to collect her things.
“Come on, Mamma, let’s go do the ro
unds,” I said. “Look, we made it to twenty-one.”
I had taken my phone from the depths of my kit bag and it vibrated in my pocket as we walked over to the big reception in the stadium’s impressive event space.
Congrats. You were great out there. Sorry for ever suggesting you don’t want it enough. Guess that makes me the asshole.
I smiled. I had worked my ass off for it out there, it was true. The pain in my side had dampened the high of winning but not entirely.
Not such an asshole, but I forgive you anyway. I’ll call you later when I’m done with the posing and the ass-kissing. They’re all lined up and waiting.
I didn’t get a chance to check the replies for a while after that, swept into the compliments and the room packed with VIPs waiting their turn and their exclusive snap for their social media. When I finally grabbed a drink and a seat later, I was a little concerned at how tired my legs felt just from the extra standing around. I really wasn’t getting any younger, and these new aches and pains would keep cropping up when I went this hard.
“Good match,” Fatima said as she breezed past, her handsome movie-star boyfriend, David, on her arm. I liked him a lot, and despite his own busy career where he headlined hundred-million-dollar movies, he made it to a lot of tournaments to support his woman. I owed David a reply about playing in a charity tournament for their foundation back in Trinidad.
I waved at them both in acknowledgement, hoping nobody else would notice my quiet corner. As I sat back in my chair, my pocket vibrated again.
So you have to get in line for that? Good to know.
Wait. Was that some kind of flirting? I mean, I’d been talking about my ass. Technically. I drank my glass of champagne in one gulp, and the bubbles tickled my nose.
Where are you? I asked, realising I hadn’t seen her once in the chaos.
No immediate reply. I scanned the room as discreetly as I could without standing, but it was too packed to tell much.
I had to go, my flight is actually in a few hours but I couldn’t miss the final. Your sis is lovely, she came out and got me a car and everything. She’ll be back in now.
Sure enough, I looked up and saw Alice approaching with her own glass of champagne and a whole tray of canapés.
“Your little girlfriend is off to JFK.”
“She’s not my—”
“You sure about that?” Alice took the seat next to me, giving me the once over before extending the platter of crab puffs in my direction. “I was getting chapter and verse on how great you are, and how lucky she was to be there. And she’s right, even I know you kicked seven kinds of ass out there. So what’s up with you?”
I took my time stuffing the little puffs of pastry in my mouth so I didn’t have to answer. I know, very classy for the tournament winner to be pulling faces with her cheeks full of crab, but sometimes Alice brought out the kid in me.
“Who’s says anything’s up?”
“You’ve got that pinched look, like you’re sitting on broken glass but you don’t want to cause a fuss.” Always with the cute turn of phrase, my sister.
“Hip being a little bitch again. Nothing to worry about,” I said, wrapped around a sigh. My mother was gesturing from where she was talking to someone who might have been a rock star or just really into leather and eyeliner. I turned just enough on my chair that I could plausibly ignore her. At least having Alice to talk to had stopped some of the hovering people glancing over to see if they could approach.
“Well, if you’ve got some time off to rest, that could work out very nicely.” Alice had that glint in her eye, the one that said I was about to be sorry she’d ever come over. I envied how put together she looked—her eyelids perfectly toned to the pale blue jumpsuit she was wearing, her strappy sandals with heels that would have had me stumbling all over the place.
I stifled the groan. What favour would I be on the hook for?
“I’ll still be training, still doing physio. And if it’s not that bad, I’ll be back on the road before you know it.”
“Still getting your excuses in early. No, there’s this new charity I’ve been working with. And you know—come on, Elin—you know that celebrity endorsements get the money coming in.”
“Last I checked, Alice, you’re a pretty famous artist in your own right.”
“Oh please. When’s the last time they put two weeks of sculpture on television around the world? Sure, I’m respected. I make money, which is more than a lot of artists can say right now, but I’m not face-on-the-side-of-a-bus famous. Not Adidas-named-sneakers-after-me famous.”
I waved her off. I had a ton of charities I supported, some through the GTA and others because friends were ambassadors. Lately I’d been thinking about starting a foundation of some kind, like Fatima and David’s. It could tackle a real problem out there in the world. Kids going hungry, or homelessness, or landmines maybe. There was no shortage of places looking for money and awareness-raising.
“Flattering me won’t get me on board.”
“Well, what about the fact that maybe it’s time you did something for your community, hmm?” Alice had officially withdrawn her tray of crab puffs. We were down to the serious part now.
“Community?” I tried for a joke. “Tennis players? We make enough, thanks. Okay, we could do more for the semi-pros.”
“Elin, that’s not what I mean.”
“Swedish-Americans? Alice, that’s like double privilege. We might be immigrants but we’re white and have money. Even Republicans like us.”
I thought Alice might hit me over the head with the platter. I couldn’t blame her. Deliberately obtuse was never a good look on anyone, and especially not me. I knew exactly what she was gunning for, and she wasn’t about to miss.
“The project, as I suspect you already know, is aimed at helping LGBTQ youth. Do you want chapter and verse on the extra hardships, the extra risks they face? Bullying, homelessness… Think what it would mean to get someone like you as a patron. And not just the famous thing. You’re a good person, Elin. You work hard. God help me for having to say it, but you’re a role model.”
I squirmed at the unexpected sincerity. “That’s not what I’m… It’s a branding sort of thing.” It sounded hollow even to me. “Listen, I don’t actually decide this stuff. You know Parisa controls my diary, the appearances, all of it. And every single place I show up has to be approved. There are sponsors, there are the GTA rules about regulated charities—”
“Oh please, they have you showing up for Wall Street banks and warmongers. You play exhibition matches in countries where people are still being stoned for being gay. And what’s the only reason you can do that, Elin?”
Our mother must have sensed the rising tension. We’d kept our voices down, but she’d always had a radar for it. She peeled away from her conversation and was bearing down on us fast, in case we made a scene.
“Alice, back off. You know it’s not that simple.”
“No, it’s exactly that simple. Some of us don’t have a choice about when we come out.” I winced. Alice being outed as trans hadn’t been her choice; it had been dug up by tabloids looking for dirt on me. None of my ex-girlfriends would go on the record, but kids we’d been at school with had been too eager to talk about Alice. “So when you have all this power, and fame, and protection and money, to deliberately let people speculate which male player you’re dating…that’s a choice.”
“Alice, please.”
“No.” She shot me right down, standing to leave. “I don’t get to tell you when and how to come out, I know that. But in the meantime, you could at least do something for all the kids you won’t be a role model to. All the people whose lives might be a little bit easier if they had another rich, successful, popular person to point to and say ‘It’s not so bad if she can do all that and still be gay.’”
I stood to continue the argument
, but my mother had reached us by then.
“Whatever has you both in a mood, drop it. There’s a journalist from the New York Times waiting to start the profile that Parisa arranged, and if one word of family trouble makes it in there—”
“Like your divorce, you mean?” I felt bad the moment I said it. My mother flinched ever so slightly, which was the equivalent of a more emotional person being slapped right across the face. “Mamma, I’m sorry.”
“Use that if you have to, but you’re both going to get smiles on your faces now. Or leave,” she added, glaring at Alice. “I don’t know why you can’t learn not to discuss these things in public. You’re the one, Elin, always complaining about the press and the intrusion. I raised you to keep fights out of the public square.”
Poor Mother, all she’d ever wanted was for the two of us to behave. And break the decades-long record for the most Ladies’ Singles Grand Slams in tennis. Other than that, her demands had been really quite reasonable. Oh, if one of us could have managed a successful personal relationship along the way too, she might have liked that. Still, as she liked to tell me in training when I could never quite get that extra bit of topspin on my backhand: We’d call the Vatican when we got a miracle.
“Can you get Parisa to rearrange the chat?” I asked. “Ezi’s waiting.”
“Take the reporter with you,” my mother answered right back. “Obviously play it down, but it will get you some sympathy. Celeste isn’t so far behind, and if your number-one spot slips over the next few weeks, it would be good to have a narrative.”
This time I groaned out loud. Was anything not completely stage-managed?
“Yeah, run along,” Alice said, back to bright and breezy. “Make sure you don’t accidentally tell the journalist you’re gay. Would hate that to become public knowledge.”
“Va’ fan!” My mother cursed under her breath. I knew what the end of her patience looked like and we were fast approaching it. “This is some gay thing? Drop it, both of you. Now.”
I resisted the urge to stick my tongue out at Alice, but I came pretty close. Luckily for all of us, the Times journalist had found himself bored enough to approach our warring group just in that moment.
