by Lola Keeley
She needed a break after the sheer volume of travel she’d done while I’d been bumming around the Stockholm with my dad. Not for the first time, I wondered how nice it might be to stay in one place for weeks on end, to have a routine that wasn’t punctuated by ever-changing airline reservations depending on whether I was fit to play in the next tournament or not. It sounded pretty damn pleasant, and those seven days we’d had together in the south of Spain were more precious than either of us wanted to admit.
All too soon it was back to business. I needed one slam to equal the record and a second to break it. Three left this year, otherwise I’d be chasing again in Australia come January. For me, that meant I had to play in the French Open, and it was just over a week away. Smaller tournaments were running, and Toni had gone to play in Strasbourg.
“I think Paris was the right choice for the press conference,” Parisa said for the third time that morning, as we drove to the hotel. She was right. Checking in a week early made it look like I was especially committed to the tournament, and with so many tennis fans converging on one place, it would tap into both the fan and media attention perfectly.
“I just want to get it over with,” I admitted, smoothing down my blazer, a smart black one that seemed serious enough for the occasion. I’d opted for a pale blue shirt underneath and jeans to calm things down a little. No point looking like a court defendant with a full suit.
The hotel function room was much like every other I’d ever given a press conference in. No matter how fancy the frescoes or expensive the hanging art, the rooms always had that temporary feel to them. Something about rearranging the furniture into so many different events made it feel like it couldn’t be one particular thing.
I saw many friendly faces in the gathered press. Parisa’s monitoring of the online debate said most people were on my side, but it was always preferable to be talking to the nicer journalists in this kind of situation. I’d seen one too many comments telling me to sit down and shut up, because if there was one thing every woman could look forward to, even at the top of her game, it was that she’d be treated like she had no idea what she was talking about.
I called on Ulrika for the first question. She got right to the point. “Elin, have you paid the fine? And are you currently suspended?”
“I haven’t paid, no. Turns out they don’t take PayPal.” I got a mild ripple of laughter. “As far as I know I can’t play this week, or next week, which of course is here at Roland-Garros. I’m here and ready to play, but I’ve been banned for asking a question.”
A French journalist spoke up next, and although I could mostly follow, I waited for the translation to filter through to be sure. “Elin, have you broken the rules? Are you sorry?”
“No, I haven’t broken any rules. My players’ representative and my lawyers are very sure about that. It’s why we want to appeal, but because there was no process followed, it’s hard to do that.”
A woman from the BBC next, who looked about twelve. Her question was long and rambling, but I found my answer quickly enough.
“The body in charge of tennis has a racist, unfair policy. Instead of taking this chance to fix it, they’re punishing me. The reason I spoke up was to protect my fellow players, women of colour, who would likely have been punished more harshly. I have a certain profile, and I want to use it to help their cause. As soon as they’re safe from retaliation, I will step aside because it’s not my place to talk over these women. Once this is resolved, please direct all questions to my friend and colleague, Celeste Rutherford.”
A few cameras were still flashing, and the overheard lights were starting to feel hot. I didn’t envy people who had to be on television every day.
Ulrika chimed in again. “Elin, is it true that you’re doing this because you’re in a romantic relationship with Antonia Cortes Ruiz? Until recently, she was coached by someone who has been suspended for drugs violations. Isn’t it possible any targeted testing was based on that information, and not on race?”
Well. Here it was, the golden opportunity of an opening. I wiped my palms on the tablecloth, shocked at how quickly they’d started to sweat. My mouth was dry, and every thought I tried to form was drowned out by the thundering of my heartbeat, which seemed to fill my whole head. I thought I’d been nervous in my first professional match, in my first final. Those had nothing on the moment right in front of me.
“I didn’t come here to discuss my personal life.” The room’s anticipation deflated a little, along with my own. I really thought I could do it that time, just open my mouth and have the words come out. I glanced down at my phone, saw a message from Toni had lit up the screen just before I said it. Was she watching? Was anywhere carrying it live? “And the patterns go back four years, in both the men’s and women’s competitions. The information has been released widely now, so you’ll just have to look for yourselves. I’m a tennis player, not a journalist.”
The BBC journalist jumped back in and tried to ask another question, but I shook my head. “No, sorry. I want to add something to that answer.”
The murmurs went round. It was usually effort enough to get me to answer a question once, never mind twice. I smiled, and from somewhere the peace slipped over me, the same way it had after telling my parents, after the first time I kissed another girl. The sense of rightness, that I knew exactly who I was, and more importantly who I wanted to be to the world.
“I wasn’t deflecting before, about my relationship with Toni. We are together, although she’s playing today in Strasbourg. I just wanted to be clear that it isn’t why I’m asking these questions or taking this position on the unfair testing procedures.”
A hundred questions came at me then: How long and how did we meet? Did I identify as a lesbian? I just sat there, letting it bubble over and over until it finally died down.
“Elin, what do you want the GTA to do now?” Ulrika asked, giving me a discreet thumbs up that I was more than grateful for.
“I want them to admit they’re wrong to punish me, just for pointing out a problem. I want them to investigate that problem, and I want women of colour to be treated equally to white women when we play tennis. Anytime, anywhere. I want those women who have been unfairly treated to be listened to and apologised to.”
They dutifully nodded along.
“And I want to play in the damn French Open!” I added, grinning as I thumped the table for emphasis. “Thank you, everyone.”
I was sort of amazed my legs worked when I stood up, and that I made it out of there step by step without just dropping to the floor. The moment I was in the anteroom, I tapped on Toni’s name until the phone started ringing.
“Oh my God!” she greeted me, her voice in a register that could make ears bleed. “Did you know that was going out live, like, everywhere? BBC, Eurosport, ESPN? Babe, you just came out to the world. Are you okay?”
Well, when she put it like that… “You know what? I am. I really am. I should have done that a long time ago. But actually, no. This was the right time for me. I got to confirm it, got to tell people, because I have you in my life. I got to tell people I’m gay because it’s also the reason that I’m happy. That’s all thanks to you.”
Toni was quiet for a long moment. “Yeah, I’m pretty great.”
We both cracked up laughing, and the last of my tension ebbed away. “Thank you,” I told her. “For everything.”
“Don’t thank me yet—do you think they’ll let you play?”
“We’ll see,” I replied, looking around to see if Parisa had followed me out. No sign yet. “You sure you don’t mind us being outed in the media? I know your family know about us, but this could be a big deal for a while.”
“I’ll say,” Parisa agreed, appearing out of nowhere in her smart grey pantsuit. “You two could be the Ellen and Portia of tennis, if you play your cards right.”
I groaned and slid down th
e wall a little way bracing at the knees to hold myself up. “I should have known you already have a marketing strategy.”
“Wait until the first time you’re drawn against each other. The ‘love match’ headlines will be insane,” Parisa said. “Now come on, we have places to be, Elin.”
“Gotta go,” I told Toni. “I look forward to our next love match.”
“Me too,” she replied, voice warm and welcoming as ever in my ear. “Love you, bye.”
I heard the stuttering little breath after she said it, felt her panic like a palpable thing.
“Just as well,” I whispered. “Since I love you too.”
Too soon? To hell with it. I’d spent my life waiting for someone I couldn’t wait to say it to, and there she was in the form of Toni. I already knew how I felt, and I was officially over hiding how I felt. It was too important.
We’d talk later; I already knew that much. Parisa had some new endorsement deal lined up for me, and we were going to sign the paperwork at their Paris office. After that? Well, the TGV train took less than two hours to Strasbourg, I’d already checked.
Maybe next time I said ‘I love you’ it would be in person.
Toni was still on court when I arrived, but she’d told reception to get me a key card. I let myself into her room, trying not to laugh at the post-hurricane levels of mess she left lying around when she was on her own. Maybe I really was lovesick, but I liked her chaos more than my own sterile overly organised life. It felt like part of her personality was coming at me from every direction, and who wouldn’t like that?
I dropped my overnight bag on a chair and considered my options. The adrenaline of the day was starting to wear off, and the bed itself looked all too inviting. I’d never been one for taking naps, but the pillows were practically calling out to me.
When I woke up, the room was much darker and someone was stroking my cheek with the back of their fingers. “I really hope that’s you, but if not, then housekeeping is getting a big tip for friendliness.”
“You look good like this, very peaceful,” Toni said. “You wouldn’t know you just did a very brave thing.”
“Brave, sure,” I said, opening one eye. “Some would say stupid, but I like that you think it was brave.”
“I’m proud of you, you know?”
“Why?” I woke up properly at that, wriggling up into a sitting position. “I mean, thank you, but why specifically?”
“I suppose it could be because you’re so good at tennis,” Toni began, her tone as serious as her face was grinning. “And there’s all those things you do for charity. Starting up your own, even. I suppose I could be proud of you being gorgeous, and funny, and really kind even though you don’t want anyone to know it.”
“Toni…”
“But no, I’m proud that you told the world today that I’m the lucky woman who gets to date you. That was a really nice moment for me.”
I bent forward a little, kissing her soundly. “It was pretty nice for me too. Well, when the panic attack calmed down, anyway.”
“Did you—”
I shouldn’t have made light of it. I’d explained a lot over the past week together, about anxiety and how I’d been dealing with it. “No, just an expression. You’re sweet to worry, though. I have to say, being with you and all this happiness has helped with it a lot. It won’t ever go away, but my head is full of positive things, so it’s easier.”
Her phone beeped. “Sorry, let me just… Oh, we should put the news on.”
She went looking for the remote, and the screen blinked into life. We cuddled up and watched the TV-5 coverage of my press conference. I had to put my hands over my eyes. I could just about handle watching myself on court when my mother pointed out mistakes as part of her coaching, but promos and interviews, I never even looked at.
“You following?” Toni asked, her arm around my shoulders. “My French is lousy.”
“Mmm, they’re saying something about me being defiant. Oh, and also the shock news that I’m in a lesbian relationship. Okay, so…”
The footage cut to the GTA European headquarters in London. Some senior executive, not one of the three suits who’d been on my case, was being asked something while the French newscaster talked over it. Only when he spoke did she shut up long enough to let me hear the English.
“We’re very concerned that this has become a public matter, but of course the GTA has nothing to hide and we welcome questions and scrutiny. Especially from the world number one and one of the finest players the women’s game has ever seen.”
Another off-camera question I didn’t catch.
“No, absolutely, and aside from injuries it’s very important to us that the best players play in our most prestigious competitions. Elin Larsson will be very welcome at Roland-Garros, and at Wimbledon in late June, for that matter.”
Oh, the relief almost knocked me back against the headboard. Taking a stand had mattered so much, but the punishment had been weighing on me more than I could tell anyone. Beside me, Toni punched the air before kissing me on the cheek.
“You did it!” she said. “They were bluffing and you called them on it.”
“They still need to actually investigate now,” I replied, but even my pessimism couldn’t spoil the winning feeling. “What time do you play tomorrow?”
“Ah.” Toni looked a little sheepish. “My head wasn’t really in it today, and it was a rough draw—that angry little Canadian? Anyway, I kind of got dumped out in the first round.”
“So what you’re saying is you’re free to come back to Paris with me? And we can train for the Open together?”
Toni nodded in confirmation, and I wrangled her into my lap for a celebratory kiss.
“Yes to all of that,” she said. “I love you. Sorry for letting that slip on the phone.”
“I love you too,” I told her. “On the phone, in person, anywhere…”
“Good,” Toni said, pulling the sheets out of our way. “Now let me show you just how much.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
It would have been a little easier if we could have stayed in our bubble, but the arrival of the French Open proper meant an avalanche of press for both of us.
“Do you want to do a joint interview?” Parisa asked over lunch, on the Sunday before the first round began. “It won’t sound like you, which means it’ll pull focus from the actual tennis. On the other hand, it’s a lot of press coverage.”
“Not all of the reaction will be positive,” I pointed out over my plate of pasta. “I don’t want to end up with protests and boycotts, not after I just made a big deal about how I need to play and the tournament needs me. Us.”
Toni smirked a little from across the table. We had been intending to eat alone, but Parisa had tracked us down easily enough, with my mother and Mira in tow. They’d just pulled chairs over, much to the waitstaff’s horror.
“It might be a good thing, then, that you can’t meet each other before the semi-finals. If you do cross paths, I’ll handle the headlines, but it’s going to mean at least one sit-down with TV. That work?” Parisa had her planner out, various plans and contacts sketched out all over the page. Not for the first time, I was in awe of how she kept track of it all.
“So now we can focus on tennis?” my mother asked, getting an approving nod from Mira. Great, those two joining forces could only spell disaster for me. Retirement suddenly looked like a great option all over again.
But first: two more slams.
Winning the early rounds wasn’t too strenuous, which was its own kind of relief. Everyone at the top of the field had improved in the few weeks I’d taken off, and between them, Celeste, Toni, and Keiko were playing some phenomenal tennis. So too were Fatima and even the young upstart Sarah, who seemed to be keeping her temper in check. Her presence came in handy too: The longer she stayed in the competition
, the more headlines focused on her and kept some of the heat from Toni and me.
There was definitely something to be said for having every other day without a match in Paris, even if we were mostly confined to the hotel and the practice facility. We would come back with reddish smudges of clay in all sorts of places, clean up, and spend our evenings together back in that bubble the outside world hadn’t quite popped yet.
“This is nice,” Toni said, from where she was already soaking in the bathtub. She’d called down to have some fancy bath oils and rose petals sent up, only to beat me into the tub because I was taking too long over my evening Pilates. By the time I slipped into the water, facing her across the steaming water, she was grumbling that the oils just made the flowers stick to her skin.
There was nowhere in the world I’d rather be, and I supposed it was only fair I tell her that.
“Me too,” she agreed. “I wish it could always be like this. We’re both playing well, you seem happier on court than you were when we met, maybe longer than that.”
“Mmm. There’ll be some times where it doesn’t line up, but with your ranking climbing like this you’ll be qualifying for everything that I am. It’s just…”
“Yeah?”
“If I can wrap it up with two out of the three left this season, I think that might be it for me.”
She sat up, splashing her hands and making the water surge up on my chest like a warm wave.
“Seriously? I thought that was about being unhappy. So soon? Elin, really?”
“I am happy, with you. I don’t need the tennis, even though you’re right, it has been coming easier for me. But I think I can enjoy it more because it doesn’t feel like forever now. It feels like the exit might finally be in sight.”
“Wow.” Toni shimmied forward, causing more little waves. She was tucked snugly between my thighs at that point. “I mean, it would be insane. Going out on top like that. You could win all three, you know that, don’t you?”
