by Lola Keeley
I was surprised when Toni came up to the net, glaring at my mini racquet bag that only held two.
“I want to try yours,” she said. “Maybe that’s what gives you the edge.”
“Help yourself,” I said. Sure, they were custom-made racquets that only I had in this exact colour. They weren’t on sale anywhere. The big signature, again in gold, across the racquet cover made me feel sort of mortified as Toni looked it over.
“Why gold?” she asked. “Everything I see is gold, against black and white? Don’t you get sick of it?”
“I didn’t ask for it,” I said, crossing my arms over my chest, bag dropped at my feet. “I guess the people who make the racquets at Wilson decided it, since I started winning stuff?”
“Actually, since your Golden Slam year,” Toni corrected, pointing at me like a disappointed teacher. “It makes me nuts sometimes, that you don’t keep track of all these amazing things you’ve done. It’s almost ungrateful.”
“Hey!”
“Well, it is,” she said. “You realise you’re the only woman to ever do a calendar year Grand Slam and top it off with the Olympic medal? But if anyone mentions that kind of thing, you act like they’re insulting your ancestors.”
“I’m not comfortable with compliments,” I replied, which was painfully true. I shifted my weight from foot to foot. “Maybe I could learn to be more gracious. I thought I was being humble.”
Toni was testing her grip on my racquet, so I pulled out the other and unzipped it. We matched.
“Humble is for people who win by accident, who only do it once. Anyway, what do I know?”
“More than me, apparently. You try doing the same thing, essentially, twenty times, and see if you have gracious words available. Or would you like to try finding paparazzi hiding in your garden? Outing your sister without her permission? I mean, I could go on.”
“It’s not like there’s no good side. Like all the coaches wanting to throw over their people to come work for you.”
“Which is also kinda shitty, since it costs you friends,” I pointed out. “I know which I’d rather have, and now I have the same coach I always wanted and no friend. I’m not saying it’s not privileged as hell, but that doesn’t always make it fair. Or easy.”
“Come on, let’s get hitting,” Toni said, bouncing from foot to foot to keep warm. The space was a little cool, but we’d be glad of that in ten minutes when we were sweating. “I mean, if you can handle it.”
“Oh, I can handle schooling you again, yeah.” I took my place at the baseline, posture bowing and bending to a natural receiving position. I shifted my weight from my heels to the balls of my feet, the tension moving to my calves, ready to propel me in the right direction. It was all so automatic, but the way Toni watched me, I felt conscious of every move and flex.
She plucked a ball from her pocket, palmed it and bounced it once, twice against the hard ground with its almost plastic veneer. God, I hated indoor courts. Why did I come looking for one?
Serving was an art form in its own right, and I always knew from my own initial toss of the ball whether it would be a good one or not. I could spot the signs in others too. If the height and weight of the ball in the air was just right, if the arm arcing up to meet it was fluid enough in its movement, and if the whoosh of air was just loud enough.
The tell, though, as a poker player might call it, was in the moment of contact. I’d been around my fellow pros in other sports for long enough to know the same was true in baseball, in cricket, in any sport requiring the application of a solid object to some kind of projectile.
When it hits right, you hear it.
Unfortunately, I was so busy paying attention to the sweet kiss of ball against racquet that I didn’t leave myself time to react. Not that it would have mattered, because the cheeky little shit served an ace at me. It went whizzing past me like it had been launched by NASA. Who started a rally with an unreturnable strike across the bows?
Antonia Cortes Ruiz, apparently.
“Very funny,” I called across the net. “For that, I’m taking next serve.”
Toni shrugged, but she was grinning. She’d dressed with some thought, despite the late hour. I had thrown on the first shorts and tee I could find, nothing matching. Her runner’s vest was a deep teal, cut away to show off those impressive arms and shoulders. She was lanky for a female player; the most successful were usually more compact and able to centre their power. Hers was more of a runner’s build, but with glossy black hair pulled up in a high ponytail and cycling shorts to round out the look. She definitely looked more ready for a track event than a tennis court.
Leading by example, I rolled right into a friendlier serve, already in motion as Toni met it with a double-handed backhand that packed one hell of a punch.
We were off to the races then, hitting big and hard, making each other run for it. The huge room echoed with each smack of the ball, each solid bounce against the smooth floor overlapping with the squeak of our rubber soles as we darted around and slid to make the next shot.
Toni almost caught me out with a hefty shot to my weak side, one that a less nimble player would have no hope of getting to. But I had been in motion since the ball was hit, seeing the trajectory as though marked by neon lines through the air between us. I launched myself at the ball, connecting on the backhand well enough to drop the shot barely an inch over the net, leaving Toni stranded at the back of the court.
“Not bad,” she called across, picking herself up. “And Elin?”
“Yeah?”
“You didn’t lose a friend.”
I picked myself up as Toni picked up another couple of tennis balls, shoving one in the waistband of her shorts since there were no pockets. It exposed a flash of sculpted hipbone that gave me a considerable moment to pause and let my gaze linger. I was no stranger to fit, toned women on a daily basis, but every so often, something exceptional knocked me out. Toni noticed me staring, and I forced myself not to look away.
I started the play again, because the world couldn’t be allowed to intrude when I was lost in the rhythm of a rally. I hit with everything I had, and Toni returned with the same vigour. We were warming up properly, showing off when we could. Every time a ball flew outside the lines or bounced off a wall, a new one was fired across the net in its place. Relentless, and a hell of a lot of fun.
When was the last time I had played like this? Like tennis was just a game and the world didn’t hinge on the outcome of a particular point? I was ashamed to admit I couldn’t remember. Not that I got a chance to dwell, with Toni aiming a pile driver of a forehand almost directly at my chest. Reshaping myself, I enjoyed the fluid way my body reacted without any conscious thought on my part. Instead of twinging with aches and pains, I returned the shot with vicious relish.
If we had been playing for points, that one was worthy of winning a championship.
The rally continued, both of us working up a sweat. No more chatter was exchanged over the squeal of sliding feet on the smooth surface, and we were hitting hard enough for the grunts of exertion to hit levels that people tut at and call unladylike. Toni was much louder, including her exasperation when she missed a net shot or didn’t get to the ball quite quickly enough. Her raw power was astounding up close, but it was her precision that impressed me most of all. More often than not, the ball was placed within millimetres of going out, but Toni never looked worried that she may have miscalculated.
She had been training hard, and it showed. A good showing over the next two weeks and she’d be seeded for the French Open.
I called mercy after a good half hour, in need of a drink. The vending machine spat out an energy something-or-other in orange, and I gulped it down while Toni fetched a drink from her bag. Her visit here had been planned, then.
“Is this how you always get ready?” Toni asked as we drained our drinks, sitting on
opposite ends of a bench like we had to leave room for an umpire’s chair between us. “I thought it would be all spa treatments and yoga chants today.”
“Well, you know my track record on massages lately,” I reminded her. “I’ll take it easy this week, use the matches for most of my working out. The real work is next week, or if I get an easy draw, the week after.”
“Must be cool, to just assume you’ll see the second week every time,” Toni said, her voice still a little tight. “When’s the last time someone dumped your ass out before middle Sunday?”
“The way you’re playing now, you could do it,” I admitted. “I’ll be hoping to avoid you and Celeste in the draw this time.”
“You don’t have to kiss up; I already forgave you,” Toni scoffed.
“Toni, listen to me.” I got up and walked the short distance to her. “There’s no kissing up, I swear. You’ve upped your game, and if I wasn’t as good as I am, I’d be worried you were coming for me. I’ll let everyone else work it out on their own time. But you’re going to play your way back into being seeded before long. From there, it’s all yours.”
She waved me off, but I saw the glint in her eye. Part of her, at least, believed me.
“Got another half hour in you, old timer?” she teased.
“I’ve only got six years on you, and if I can point out that I just won the last two slams?” I tried for arrogant and was surprised that I didn’t entirely hate it.
“That’s more like it,” she said, patting me on the ass with her—my—racquet as she got back on court. “Will you tell me how you have this strung? I like how it hits.”
“Sure,” I said. “I need to hit the stringers soon anyway. I’m running out of ready-strung ones. Berti travels with the tour—make sure you always go to him.”
“Okay, and while we’re sharing, I’m splitting with Xavi. My new coach is signed, but we don’t announce until the weekend.”
I stopped short of the baseline and turned back to face her. Instead of letting Xavi embarrass her, Toni had cleaned house. I smiled. It was hard not to like that about her.
“Who?” I asked. Any number of retired pros would be eligible, strong choices in every direction.
She hesitated on the other side of the court. Maybe we weren’t friends again after all, not quite. “Oh hell, who would you tell? It’s Mira.”
“Mira? As in Mira Sobotka? Who hates me?”
“I told you, she doesn’t. She’s a bit bored with just commentating. So she wants to get back into coaching. Apparently I have potential.”
It was a smart choice, and Mira wouldn’t give up television money for just anyone. She had to see real promise in Toni, which meant I officially wasn’t the only one.
“Congratulations,” I said, picking up a couple of discarded balls. “That’s a big move. One that might make the difference when it comes to the trophies.”
“Hope so,” Toni said. “Now come on, I want to finish destroying you out here.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
I didn’t avoid Celeste for long at the Australian Open, and she promptly demolished me in the quarterfinals, playing some of the best tennis of her career. I didn’t mind on balance; the Australian heat always sapped my energy in a way no other tournament did.
More importantly, her opponent in the semi-finals was none other than Toni. After the initial niggle of I could have played her instead, I re-dedicated myself to cheering Toni on. Sure, it was a little disloyal, but our newly repaired relationship deserved that much. Celeste and I had always been more traditional rivals, even when we’d been together. She’d never expect me to cheer for her success at the expense of my own. We just didn’t work that way.
Toni took Celeste to three sets, which nobody saw coming. The talk of the arena was the difference Mira had already made to Toni’s match management and how she played much more strategically. I might not have liked the woman, but I sure as hell respected her craft. I tried not to be jealous when I saw her hugging Toni as soon as she came off court.
I went to congratulate both women on a great match only to find they’d both been detained for drug testing, again. Unusual that both women from the same match would be called, but I supposed randomness must allow for that sometimes.
Celeste was less than thrilled when she finally got free of them. She almost took the door off its hinges when she stormed in.
“I am so sick of peeing in front of these weirdos in suits,” she announced, scuffing her bag across the floor. “I’m starting to feel lonely when I go to the bathroom alone.”
“Me too,” Toni grumbled, following her in. “They made me redo mine when the first one was, like, a millilitre short. These people need to get a hobby.”
“When did they start testing the person who lost?” I asked, leaning against the side of the lockers. “No offence, Toni.”
“I’ll try not to take any. You’ve never been tested except after a win?” she asked in return, her expression still thunderous.
I held my hands up. I didn’t make the rules.
“Because madam here doesn’t lose all that often,” Celeste filled in the unsaid for us, quirking an eyebrow at me so I’d know she was mostly teasing. “Even so, the law of averages. Which round did you get tested in this time?”
“I, uh… Oh, wait.” I’d done my out-of-competition test right before Brisbane, but nothing else. “I didn’t get tested this time out. Maybe I was scheduled for this, if I’d gone through. Or the final.”
“Keiko and Fatima were both tested after their QF too. Toni and Fatima were both called again, and I know they called Keiko in too, because her match was right before ours, Elin.”
“I’m not really one for noticing patterns,” I said, because someone had to. Toni and Celeste both looked up from where they were rooting around in their lockers. They were clearly waiting for me to say it. “But there’s kind of a common thread here. I’m going through entire tournaments—ones that I’ve won, after publicly taking steroids in my recovery period and declaring it—and nobody is interested in testing me. Everyone who isn’t as pale as me? They’re doing multiple tests per tournament.”
“There it is,” Celeste said on a long exhale, sitting down on the bench. “I don’t know that I’ve got another fight like this in me.”
She had a fair point. As one of the few African-American women in the top of the rankings, and an out lesbian at that, Celeste had more than done her time when it came to winning over hearts and minds. She’d faced injustices that made my blood boil for her, and this felt like one too far.
“You guys really think the GTA… You’re saying their drug-testing policy is racist?”
Celeste turned to Toni, who was clutching her towels. “You can’t tell me the Mexican thing has never been an issue?”
“Of course it has,” Toni replied, her brow furrowed. “I just… That always felt like more of an American problem. Okay, and a Spanish problem. But these big international bodies, they’re supposed to represent us all.”
“And where does the money come from?” Celeste demanded, gesturing with both hands in my direction. “Your Elins, your Jürgens. Look at the president of this and the chairman of that every time there’s an official photo. Not a lot of melanin, is there? When’s the last time you accepted an official handshake from someone who wasn’t an old white dude?”
“There’s Princess Michael of Kent at Wimbledon,” I offered, only able to move the man part of the equation, not the white. “But then she doesn’t even get to use her own name. This setup really is fucked.”
“But if I point it out…” Celeste sounded so weary. I wanted to give her a hug, but I wasn’t sure it would be appreciated. “I’m just another angry black woman. They’ll back off for a couple of months, but nothing will really change. Maybe it’s just the cost of doing business, and I gotta accept it.”
“Cele
ste—” I tried, but she shut me down.
“I don’t know how many wars I can fight in a day, Elin. Any time someone speaks out, they face some kind of punishment. Not to mention the terrible press coverage that suddenly happens.”
“Well, if anyone is going to do anything, we need some figures,” I said. I couldn’t feel their pain, but I could do something to help and take the burden off my friends who had been fighting too much for too long. “With the cold, hard evidence it’s harder to say anyone’s just being some hysterical female.”
“They won’t release more than they already do,” Toni said, nodding at my point. “That crappy scale they use, to make it look like everyone basically gets the same. There’s a big difference between getting the minimum number of tests and the maximum, but they pass it off as all roughly the same. So some of us must be racking up ones that aren’t being counted. Or they’re not being shared, anyway.”
“You both know Parisa, yes? Well one of the few good things about her being straight is that she has a boyfriend somewhere in the GTA. Now I’m sure they won’t just have a pile of dodgy information sitting there, but he could look. I’m sure if I explained to Parisa, she would see how important it is.”
“You mean, she’d get it ‘cause she’s brown too?” Celeste filled in the blanks again, getting up to head for the showers. “Hell, it’s worth a try.”
“Okay, I’ll speak to her.”
“Thanks, Elin. It might not change a thing, but we have to at least try. You hanging around after this?” Celeste asked.
I looked to Toni almost automatically. “No, I’m flying home tonight,” I said. “Good luck for the final, though.”
“See you in Qatar, then?” Toni asked, heading for the showers.
“Ah, you won’t, actually.” They both looked at me. I wasn’t injured, and the big prizes in the Middle Eastern tournaments were always a draw, especially with no more slams until the French in May. “Or Dubai.”
