by Lola Keeley
At least they were slender, tidy hands, with the elegant fingers I’d expect of a surgeon. She looked entirely put together, rather like we’d interrupted her Saturday evening. The shift dress she wore beneath her lab coat was black, elegant enough for any Parisian restaurant. Her coppery hair was pulled back in an elegant bun, diamonds sparkling at her ears.
“Congratulations, mademoiselle, on your record. Do you want the audience?” she asked me with a brisk gesture to my mother and Toni, clearly used to wading through the entourage of professional sportspeople. “I don’t want you moving more than you have to right now, or we’d be having this consult in my office.”
Toni moved ever so slightly, as though to leave, while my mother didn’t so much as flinch.
“They can stay,” I said. “Then I don’t have to repeat every word you say. Saves time. And please, call me Elin.”
“Well, Elin, I don’t know how to coat it in sugar. You’ve really done it this time. You mentioned the pain is different to last time, more intense?”
“Yeah, it feels like it’s coming from somewhere deeper. And it’s making my leg feel weak, like my thigh is trembling when I put weight on it?”
“If you weren’t so fit, with thighs that can, hmm…probably crack rocks, you wouldn’t have been able to walk at all. You see, you have not just injured the muscle this time, you have hip impingement. The ball of the hip isn’t fitting in the socket properly. So you get a lot of pain and much less movement.”
“Told you, you have great thighs,” Toni said, slapping me gently on the one on my uninjured side.
“You really should have come straight in, instead of staying to shake hands and all that. Anyway, your options. I assume that’s what you want to hear most? Skip to the important part?”
“Yes, doc.” This woman I liked. She could slice or dice me any way she wanted. “Hit me.”
“Surgery. Usually for people much older than you, but this kind of damage will only deteriorate. We put some metal in, everything fits again and no bones scraping. Which means no swelling, no pain.”
I huffed out a breath and leaned back against the pillows. Anything surgical meant a recovery time in months, not weeks.
“Will I be able to play at full strength after that?”
Dr Huppert lifted her shoulders in a gesture too elegant to be a shrug. “It is possible, but not likely. You’ll regain full range of motion and stop the pain, but high-impact sport like this? It could be too much for the joint to sustain. You could hit around with friends. I don’t think you could play a two-hour match.”
That landed like a bomb in the silence of the room. I had been expecting some damage, maybe a lecture about not playing like I was still in my early twenties, but not anything quite so bleak.
“Is that it? Surgery or nothing? You did say options.”
“I did,” Dr Huppert continued. “I know your schedule, that Wimbledon is barely weeks away and that you might have been counting on it. With plenty of rest, some permitted steroids and painkillers and a lot of physiotherapy, you could make it through to, say, August. But ideally, you would take up surgical treatment right after the tournament ends.”
“What about doing that until the end of the season?” I didn’t want all the pressure resting on Wimbledon, not if I’d be at less than full fitness. “Through the US Open, at least. Maybe not all the way to end of year finals?”
Dr Huppert shook her head. “No, your body won’t hold you up for that long. Not with the damage increasing by the day. Of course you will have complete discretion from us here. How you manage it is your business, but I can’t promise you beyond August. Even then you’ll be playing through the pain.”
“Thank you.” Was that the right thing to say? What did you say to someone who’d thrown your grand plan for happiness into disarray? I’d been ready to walk away for so long that I hadn’t realised how much I wanted the damn record in my own right. To know that even surgery might not mean I could come back? I felt like throwing up.
“I’ll leave you to think, but the staff will put your call through to me if you have more questions tonight. If not, we’ll keep on with the treatment plan and have a meeting Monday morning.”
“So,” my mother said as the doctor left the three of us with our bombshell. “Elin, what the hell are you going to do?”
Staying in the hospital drove me nuts, but it was definitely less of a threat to my privacy. Checking out of the hotel, all the chaos, I didn’t miss that one bit. Mostly, I wanted the time alone. Ezi came by to check on my treatment plan so she could make her own arrangements, but we were used to working in companionable silence. I got to watch the men’s final on Sunday from the couch in my room with her—I had to move periodically, but not too far. She sipped at some mint tea and left as soon as she was confident I had been looked after.
Toni came back to join me after I insisted she use her ticket to see the match in person.
“Hey, you look about five minutes from breaking out of this place,” she said as I eased myself back onto the bed. “You pack your bag, and I’ll carry you on my back.”
I pulled her closer for a kiss. “What’s the hospital equivalent of the Mile-High Club? Want to join?”
“That would be so cute, if you could actually move.” She was still dressed up from the final, in a nice dress and blazer that I told myself I’d borrow next time I had to go to something formal.
“Cute, huh?” Always so ready with the compliments, even the silly ones. “I’m legally high right now; I could probably do the splits if I wanted.”
“Tempting, but you would pay for it later. I can be patient, and so can you,” Toni said. “Also, I think this flirting is a way not to talk about your plans.”
“I’ve planned not to make any more plans,” I replied. “Do you think it’s karma? I’ve spent all this time bitching about having to keep playing, and now the universe is punishing me?”
She shook her head. “I don’t think that’s how it works. You don’t deserve that, just for feeling stuck.”
“I don’t know if this will be much of a surprise, but I want to try. I want to do the injections and the physio, see if I can get over the line in London. And if I don’t, I’ll have the surgery and try to come back next season. I did some reading this morning, and with some changes to my game it should be possible.”
“Elin, if this is just panic because they said it’s a bad injury, don’t do it to yourself. You can walk away today, now. You’re a champion; you matched the record. Part of you wants to be done already. I’ll support you whatever you decide. Just don’t put yourself through agony for the sake of it.”
Toni sat on the side of my bed, taking my hand. “You know how much I respect you, how much I would kill for your stats. But I love you, Elin. I can’t stand watching you in pain, especially if you don’t have to be.”
“It won’t be so bad, with the plan they have. I’ll stop if the painkillers stop working, but I want it. I need it, I think. Otherwise I’ll spend the rest of my life wondering ‘what if’ about playing one more slam.”
“I get it,” she said, and for the first time in my life, it felt like someone truly did. “I was planning on making Wimbledon my first slam, but hey, I can let you play.”
“Very kind of you.”
“That’s me,” Toni said. “Listen, I told Mira I’m out of Nottingham this week. I don’t think I can get out of Mallorca, but I’ll be back for Eastbourne. Did they say whether you can do that as part of your Wimbledon plan?”
I shook my head. “Rest and targeted workouts until the tournament starts. Anything else is too hard on the hip joint.” I’d woken up to a comprehensive report from Dr Huppert with the specifics of each option. “There’s no way I can win this fucked up, is there?”
“Don’t say that,” she replied. “You carrying an injury is worth most players at full strength
. I’d drag you across the line myself if I could.” She took my hand up to her lips and kissed it. “And I know what all this is like, so talk to me okay? When you want to cry, or scream, or throw things, I’ll be right here.”
“At least with you I got lucky.” I moved over to kiss her again, resting my forehead against Toni’s. “They’re letting me out of here tomorrow after my meeting, where do you want to spend the week? You’ll have to keep your practice up for Mallorca.”
“Here? London? I don’t mind. I just want to make sure you’re okay.”
“You know they pay people to do that, right? Actually, I pay people to do that. The last thing I want is to get in the way of your career, especially now.”
“Oh, shut up and accept that I’m not going anywhere. Not this week, anyway.”
“I just had to fall for the stubborn one, didn’t I?”
“Yes, you did,” my mother added from the doorway. “Are you two behaving or do I have to go away again?”
“You’re fine, Britta,” Toni said, moving a few inches down the bed from me. “Should I go get coffees?”
“No need,” my mother produced a tray of takeaway cups. “I see Jürgen lost. You must be happy about that, Elin.”
“Mamma, I’m going with the shots. I need to try, for Wimbledon. Can we do it?”
She set the coffees on the table by my bed and took the hand that Toni wasn’t holding. For a horrifying moment I thought she was going to cry, something I couldn’t remember ever seeing before.
“We can do anything you want. You can, äskling. Tell us what you want and we’ll get you there.”
“Do you think Pappa and Alice will come to Wimbledon? Just in case it’s my last one?”
She nodded. “Of course. We’ll arrange everything; just focus on getting better. Ezi will tell me what we can work on, but I’m not going easy on you now.”
“Didn’t expect anything less. Do you think Parisa can find us somewhere to stay in London until the tournament? Dr Huppert recommended a specialist there, and there’s a leaflet for some physio place too.”
We got lost in the chatter of travel arrangements and plans, but Toni held my hand through the whole conversation. The longer she stayed, the more sure I felt that I could do it.
I just hoped that gut feeling was right.
The apartment in London was a perfect hideaway. Minutes from the Harley Street specialists watching over me, close to everything in the city I usually missed when in town for Wimbledon. With Toni heading off to Mallorca on the Sunday, I was determined to make the most of Saturday night.
Heels were out of the question, so I picked out a black suit with a crisp white shirt.
“You’re really not going to tell me where we’re going?” Toni asked for the hundredth time. She was dressed to kill in a little black dress. We looked good together, I couldn’t deny it. “You know, what if I had plans for us tonight?”
“Let me do this,” I said, kissing the side of her neck. “And come on, there’s a car waiting for us downstairs.”
I worried the whole journey that my idea was cheesy, maybe even too childish. Then the car rolled to a stop outside the hotel where we met almost a year before, and Toni turned to me with that killer smile.
“Elin Larsson, you’re a closet romantic.”
“I thought it would be a nice way to see you off. I know it’s only for a week, but I do find that I miss you more each time.”
We walked into the bar arm-in-arm, taking up a table with a great view of the room. For once, I didn’t care what view everyone else had of us.
“So here’s the thing,” Toni said as I sipped the one martini I could allow myself on the painkiller cocktail that was getting me through the physio. “I actually did have a little plan for us tonight. Or I started to make one.”
“But now you’re drinking Lagvulin, you don’t mind?” I tried, hoping I hadn’t steamrollered her whole evening.
“Well, mostly. Anyway, I know you shouldn’t be walking long distances, but will you come somewhere with me? I had to improvise a little.”
“Sure.” I took her hand and followed her towards the bar. She leaned across to the bartender and he nodded to the door disguised in the wall, the same one we’d made our escape through last summer.
This time we didn’t run down the corridor, but Toni led me instead to a service elevator. I had a hundred questions, but I stuck to my default of keeping quiet and letting Toni show me whatever she was up to. From the elevator we took a turn towards an open fire exit, propped open by a crate of some wine or other. The floor didn’t seem to be one with guests, but when we went through the fire exit, we found ourselves on the roof.
“Okay,” Toni said, gesturing vaguely to the London skyline. “I kind of guessed what you had in mind when you were so fixed on choosing our date tonight. So I called ahead and asked a little favour.”
We walked along the roof, edged by a stone balcony and punctuated by old-fashioned chimneys. Around the second one, a little table and two chairs had been set up, candles lit and flowers decorating the little scene. I swallowed around a sudden lump in my throat. This was romance, and I’d never been happier to be bested.
“Antonia, what are you up to?”
“Come over here and find out,” she said, beckoning with one finger. “God, I’m so nervous… Sorry.”
“Don’t be.” I kissed her softly on the mouth. I could hear the faint sounds of the street below: the car horns, the shouts, the bustle of London at its most vibrant. Compared to that, being alone with Toni was an oasis, so much calm and contentment just from standing there in front of her. I hoped I made her feel the same way. “There’s nothing you can’t say to me.”
“You’re going through so much, and I know we haven’t been together so very long, but Elin… I’m crazy about you. I don’t want to drift in different directions all year, all over the world. I want to have a plan, that’s about both of us. I want to be there, with you, for everything that comes next.”
In that moment, as I started to realise that this conversation was about much more than a quick drink on the rooftop, I felt elation far beyond even my first big win had given me. The painkillers I’d been relying on had nothing on that pure surge of happiness, and it felt like I’d never been in pain at all.
“Toni, are you…” I couldn’t finish the thought; the tears were suddenly welling up and my throat wouldn’t let the words come out. I wanted to hear it from her. Nothing else could compare.
“Will you be my wife?” Toni asked with a sudden certainty, taking my hands in hers and looking me straight in the eye. She’d never looked more beautiful than she did in that moment, the twilight and the candles making her almost glow with loveliness. “I love you so much, and it’s okay if you don’t want to, not yet, but I just had to ask and—”
“Yes,” I said, with another kiss to silence the rambling, however much I enjoyed it. “Yes, Toni. Of course I will. I was going to ask you to move in with me, make your base in LA. But this is even better.”
“We can do both,” she said, kissing me again. “It’s pretty nice up here, right?”
“You picked the perfect spot,” I told her, pulling the two chairs together so we could sit and watch the city start to light up for the evening. “Wait, did you get a ring?”
“Oh God, yes!” She plucked the little velvet box from her cleavage, which cracked me up laughing.
“You’re lucky I didn’t find it before you had a chance to ask,” I said. “I was getting a little handsy in the car earlier.”
“Yes, I noticed,” Toni replied, totally deadpan. “It’s almost like it’s hard to surprise you.”
“I’m going to miss you this week, did I tell you that?” I leaned into Toni as she put her arm around me.
“Of course you are,” she replied. “But now we’re going to be in the same place when
ever we get the chance. Pretty nice, right?”
“Right,” I agreed, that sweet contented feeling I was almost getting used to slipping right into place again.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Hiding my injury proved impossible by the end of the first week at Wimbledon. I’d had to disclose everything I was taking, none of it illegal by the game’s standards. I checked in with the drug-testing staff if they’d had any change in procedures, but all I got in response was a glare. Good.
Shots before the game, shots after the game—it affected me in the strangest ways. Sometimes my body didn’t feel like my own, and my usual precision was shot to hell. In a weird way, the early matches became more fun. I got to rely on my killer forehand, which always made me feel powerful. I had weakness, or maybe just a lack of confidence, on my serve and on the backhand, but people tended to target that anyway.
I tried desperately not to view everything about the tournament as some heavy milestone, but it did weigh on me. Smiling through interviews and press conferences had become second nature, but this time I hung on every word, considered every answer like it might be the last time I was ever quoted.
Not having to face Mira in front of a camera certainly helped, and her replacement at the BBC was much kinder in her questioning. A former champion in her own right, she’d wrapped up her career in the early nineties, long before I ever burst on the scene. When she asked me about equalling the record that had stood for thirty years, I found myself opening up in a way I hadn’t before.
“It’s not the only important thing, I know that. But every time you get closer, when you win the fifteenth slam and then the sixteenth and you still have years left to play, it becomes an obsession,” I admitted. “I realised this year I’ve let it define my career, and that was wrong. Maybe the next person to equal it, to break it even, is already playing today. There’s so much talent out there.”
