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?”
I nodded, before jumping in to correct. “Just injuries, I think.” I’d looked her up that morning when fighting boredom and mild jitters. “She’s cracked the top one hundred again quickly enough, but no. No doubles, not at this stage of my career. The only way I’ll go back to doubles is if—”
“You can’t keep up in singles anymore. That’s what I thought.” Celeste leaned in to kiss me on the cheek. It had real tenderness, not the brisk continental both-cheeks kiss we’d exchanged over the net. “Come on, get back out and bask in your glory, woman.”
“I had the good part; the only fun left for me now is the cheque. And we don’t even get those anymore, just a nice soulless bank transfer.”
“Your entire career is basically just torturing your introvert self for being amazing at something you can’t do in private, isn’t it?”
I laughed. Celeste always had been able to cut through the bullshit. She certainly could see right through me. “Save that quote for next time they want to make an inspirational montage about me, hmm?”
“Oh, they’re probably cutting some right now. Dollars to donuts they’re already showing it on the BBC, but it’ll take ESPN an hour or so. I can’t wait to never watch them.”
“Will I see you in Cincinnati?”
“And the shoot for the… Wait, what’s the next one? Watches, maybe? Or some kind of sports deodorant?”
Enough to make me groan. Endorsements were big money, but an even bigger pain in the ass. “I’ll ask Parisa. She keeps all that stuff straight.”
“Well done, seriously. See you out there.”
I liked that about Celeste. Other people would retreat into solitary after losing, holed up in a hotel room
