Shit. The last thing I expected was an actual journalist. Maybe a fan with a mobile phone, but everyone in the bar seemed far too cool for that sort of thing. Never mind that players went out before big matches all the time, but with my public reputation as the quiet one, the resident good girl of tennis, they’d have a field day.
And that was before you considered the reaction from my mother.
As the bartender passed, I fished some cash from my purse. Plucking another twenty on top of the bar bill and tip, I risked leaning in to ask, “Is there a back way out of here? Maybe a staff entrance I could use?”
He took the extra money and nodded to the opposite end of the bar from my unwelcome journalist. “That way. Anyone stops you, just say Jimmy sent you. Leads right out into the side street.”
“You’re a lifesaver.”
I suppose I shouldn’t have been surprised that when I stepped down from the stool and headed that way, Toni followed right along. She actually took me by the elbow and steered me towards the barely visible door on the far side of the bar, apparently concerned I wasn’t moving fast enough. I could keep up with Olympic runners on sprints, but that evening I was sluggish, almost slow. I blamed the heels.
The door opened into a space with duller blue lights, like something out of a bad sci-fi movie. We jogged down the corridor, her hand never leaving my arm, and as we reached the first turn, normal fluorescent light greeted us at last.
We never got a chance to explain our presence, because nobody intercepted us between there and the door out into what was an alleyway at best. Calling it a side street suggested it was somewhere people might willingly walk down or that cars could drive down. This was a horrid place, full of industrial bins and cobbles shiny with rain. At least the wet pavement could be explained by the damp weather and not what it distinctly smelled like.
By that point I was definitely moving fast enough. I practically dragged Toni out of there, to the safety of the main street and the potential of flagging down one of those iconic black London taxis.
“Thank you,” I said, trying not to be disappointed that she finally let go once we were on the pavement. “I hope I didn’t interrupt your evening. I just have a big day tomorrow and thought a little time to myself might be nice…”
“I get it. I didn’t get a chance to say back there, but I’m on the tour again this year.” Oh. Implying that previously she hadn’t been? I was caught completely off guard. Maybe that was why she looked so familiar at second glance. I hadn’t just been staring because she was so damn pretty with those high cheekbones and expressive dark eyes that seemed to play a news ticker of her feelings as she silently worked through them. I envied her the transparency. Lately I only expressed emotion over missed points and bad line calls.
“So when we met in Paris…?” I asked, suspecting at least part of the answer.
“You put me out in the second round at Roland Garros. Straight sets, 6-1, 6-0. I suppose you do that so often that it’s just a statistic, but it was a big day for me. Thanks for letting me win that first game, by the way. Saved a little bit of my pride.”
“Let you?” I couldn’t help but scoff. “I never let anyone win anything. It’s possible it took me until the second game to be fully warmed up. But, uh, sorry about that. Also for not recognising you tonight. You must think I’m some arrogant bitch.”
“With a career like yours, I don’t think you’d have the storage space to remember every poor girl you ever sent crying back to the locker room. At least I got a kiss on the cheek at the net when you were done demolishing me. I’d have been even more bummed to just get a handshake.”
There was that sparkle in her eyes again. Maybe saving me from the press hadn’t been her only motivation. I hardly dared entertain the idea. Tennis I could do. Flirting? There wouldn’t be trophies for that any time soon.
“So since you know where I’ll be tomorrow,” I began, because once the idea had struck me, I had to speak up instantly or lose the nerve, “any chance you might be in the same place?”
Toni laughed. “You mean will I be on Centre Court at Wimbledon? It’s funny, but they don’t give out tickets to the people dumped out in the second round.”
“I have one to spare,” I said, because I did. Three, in fact. “As long as you don’t mind sitting in the box. The cameras can be…” I was going to say too much, but I didn’t want to sound spoiled about all the attention. “But the Royals will be in. My Swedish ones and the local ones. That will pull focus.”
“Well, I’d be an idiot to turn down a free ticket, right?” Toni stepped closer, and just when I began to think a kiss might be in my future, she stuck her hand out instead. She hailed a taxi, and miraculously for a Friday night, the first one with a light on actually stopped.
“Just go to the collection window at the ticket office, I’ll put one under your name.” It occurred to me then I had only a vague grasp of her surname. “Actually, could you just remind me…”
“Antonia Cortes Ruiz,” she said, close to my ear, and the soft S with the rolled R’s made for a very pleasant sensation. “Now get some rest. I don’t want to come all the way to watch you lose tomorrow because you were too tired from choking on martinis.”
“Deal.” I didn’t say that I felt
