We hit another long, hard rally, and I felt a twinge of complaint in my right calf as I stopped short to win the point. Damn, that would have to be looked at to make sure it didn’t develop into a proper strain, or worse, an actual muscle tear.
For a moment, as I moved to serve again, I realised that I didn’t actually have to. Somehow, in all the years I’d been playing, it never occurred to me that the entire act of playing in a match was voluntary. If I set my racquet down right then, in that moment, and walked off court, no one could have stopped me.
Fortunately for my wandering thoughts, I had been drilled too well by my coach over the seasons. Countless sessions with my therapist had focused on moments like these. Now in that final stretch of a match, I knew I had the stamina and technique to win almost by default. How hard that was usually came down to my opponent, and that was when I realised my real advantage.
It was bad form to admit it, to even think it in the first place, but ask anyone who ever won a tennis match and they would nod in recognition. The two of you were out there, alone in effect despite the umpire and the line judges and the kids who chased the loose balls around. That was what the world shrunk down to: one person competing against another, with only one winner possible. What any winner could have admitted—confessed, really—was that at some point on the road to victory, they could see their opponent settle for defeat.
That moment? Seeing the loss in their eyes even as they stared defiantly back over the net? That was what kept me going, made me want to compete and bring home as many trophies as they could throw at me. Maybe I should have said something humble, about playing for the love of the game, but it would only have been a lie. That look, the one I saw radiating back at me in that moment, said that yet again I’d won. Now all that remained was to clinch those last two points and let the umpire confirm what we both already knew on court.
I had won, and on Saturday afternoon I would be playing in front of royalty, celebrities, and millions of people all around the world, for a chance at yet another Wimbledon Ladies’ Singles title. Taking a moment, I smoothed down my white skirt and plucked the white T-shirt away from my skin where sweat was making it stick uncomfortably.
I unleashed the ball again, ready to finish the formalities and be declared the winner for all on Centre Court to hear. The crowd watched on in silence as I wore the woman on the other side of the net down, stroke by stroke, sliced backhand by sliced backhand.
By the time the umpire called it—“Game, set, match, Miss Larsson”—I was already at the net, arm extended for the handshake of congratulations and commiseration. Mostly I just wanted to get back under cover of the locker room, out of sight of the roaring crowd who somehow seemed closer than ever.
One more match, I told myself. Then I could rest, then some things would be optional again. I just had to behave myself for two more days. What could be easier than that?
Chapter Two
All I wanted to do was to have one drink in peace.
Not too much to ask, surely? But it certainly seemed to be an impossible quest that Friday night. I’d been careful in my choices, taking a cab into the centre of London, a bustling city where anyone could get lost without really trying. I picked a hotel with a famous bar but excellent security, frequented by people who ended up in the morning papers, but the paparazzi shots were always out on the street, never inside.
Like I said, careful.
I suppose I had to be, since technically my face was recognisable. So people liked to tell me, anyway. I had found that like most people in this world, a hood pulled low made people gloss over you when they looked. Much better than baseball caps and sunglasses. That passed for a disguise back in LA, which I mostly called home, but in London it was a neon sign screaming, Look at me!
Instead, I dressed like any other woman in her thirties hitting the town. Little black dress, killer heels—not the hoodie that I would have preferred at all. I could always hide my face behind my hair, just about. One of the few perks of letting all that blonde hair grow out, even though I’d been longing to cut it short since my teens.
The bar was everything I remembered from my previous, less-incognito trip there. Dark in all the right corners, the blueish glow from the bar enough to get you served, but the strange colours meant nobody really looked like themselves. That’s why I thought I was safe to perch on a stool there, to stay in the thick of things instead of retreating to a lonely corner. After all, that was why I’d come out in the first place: to drown out the maddening quiet of my rented room.
Of course, being in a bar meant men hit on me. Not because I was anything special, trust me. Blonde, female, with a pulse was basically a bat signal to a lot of guys who couldn’t read the signs—like the fact that I had checked out more women than they had. Still, it was almost good practice to keep knocking them back. I backhanded their approaches like I returned
