“Well, you bring it over here and we’ll show you.”
Mai darted off, liberating the Prince racquet in its slip holder from her dad’s shoulder. He followed her over, seemingly resigned to another incident of her chatting to strangers. He stopped short when he saw us, which was pretty gratifying given the circumstances.
“Here.” Mai offered the racquet to Celeste, watching like a hawk. “What are you going to do?”
“Well, my friend Elin here is the best player in the whole wide world. So if she signs her name, right here on your cover, then you’ll play the best tennis you’ve ever played. It’s like magic.”
“Really?” Mai crossed her arms and gave me an appraising look. “You’re very good, but magic isn’t real. Also—” She asked her dad something in Chinese, and he replied with what sounded like a mild warning.
“You’re my favourite,” she said to Celeste. “Can you do magic too?”
“We’ll both sign,” I said, glancing around to make sure nobody else was getting ideas. I had the press gauntlet in twenty minutes, meeting my mother there. I didn’t want to get stuck in an autograph line, but the rest of the customers remained oblivious. “Is that okay, Mai?”
“Yes, please!”
Celeste had unearthed a Sharpie, which would show up great on the white leather of the racquet’s cover. We took our turns to sign, she with a My favorite, Mai and me with Hit hard. There, that should inspire the next generation, surely.
We extricated ourselves after the requisite family selfie, slipping our sunglasses back on and walking the short distance around to the arena entrance.
“Guess it’s back to competitor mode now,” Celeste said. “Keep track of the official peeing, though!”
I hugged her, even though we didn’t do much of that anymore. “See you out there at some point.”
“Ms Larsson?”
I looked up from fixing my laces. With a half hour still to kill before my match, I was only thinking about keeping warm, keeping my muscles loose and ready for a real workout. I had Keiko in the first round, the draw not so staggered here with only the top section of the rankings qualifying. Toni had scraped in second-last, mostly thanks to some injuries, but it would start off next season perfectly for her.
Of all the people I expected to see in the doorway, Toni’s coach and boyfriend wasn’t one of them.
“Xavi, right?”
“Yes, ma’am. I wondered if you had a minute to talk?” His accent was much thicker than Toni’s, but his English just as impeccable. He had the build more of a wrestler than a former tennis pro, but we all settled differently in retirement.
“What about? Usually I don’t see anyone right before a match.”
“Of course. It’s just… I figured if I don’t ask now, maybe I never will. Are you happy with your coaching setup?”
I gave him a long, appraising look. “You mean with my mother? Who’s coached me my entire career?”
“Lots of people change their coaches when they need a fresh approach. You’ve had some injuries too, that makes for big changes. I’ve been watching your progress closely this year, and I have some suggestions. If you were open to a change. I could work with Britta, or if she wanted a rest after getting you this far…”
“This far is twenty-one Grand Slams, yes?” I didn’t like his brazenness, no matter how polite. I knew this sort of thing went on; some other players had a different coach every two seasons. I’d been tempted once or twice, when someone whose game I admired retired and went into coaching, but ultimately, success as a player had no bearing on what made a great coach. My mother deserved credit for my achievements, especially when she’d learned so much on the job in those early years.
“And with my plan, you could not just grab the Open-era record, but hopefully smash it. You could easily have four, five more years, managed correctly.”
And somehow that did it. It wasn’t the disloyalty, not really. It was partly the realisation that coming to coach me would effectively be abandoning Toni, just when she was getting back on track. Much more than that, though, the length of time Xavi was talking about filled me with instant dread.
Five years? I’d barely talked myself into next season. Of course, I’d never really worked out how I would retire, outside of random dreams where I had to announce it on a cooking show or choose between retiring and doing a bungee jump from some impossibly tall building. My subconscious wasn’t subtle and for many years had been doing my mother’s work for her.
In that moment, though, I was sure of one thing: I didn’t have five more years of this in me. Maybe the needle for my tank hadn’t quite ticked over to empty, but it was in the range where any sane person would divert to the nearest petrol station. It was freeing, in a way. I didn’t have an exact number, but the horizon was no longer endless.
“Thank you, Xavi, I’m flattered. But I’m perfectly happy with my current plan. You must be proud Toni made it here this year?”
“Antonia is very good,” he said graciously. “For a while, I thought she wouldn’t come back, but she proved us all wrong. Still, there are levels.”
“And given the chance—given some expert coaching—she could reach the highest levels,” I replied. “I’m no coach, but I know ability when it’s hitting across the net from me. You should invest in her. I suspect she’ll pay off.”
“Right, but there’s a difference—”
“She wants a slam like other people want to be able to breathe,” I reminded him. “Pour your effort into that, not someone cruising for the nearest exit, okay?”
“Are you saying—”
It was tempting to say yes. To confirm it here first and hope word would spread. How long would it take me to extricate myself? Could my next muscle twang or joint creak be an excuse to finally walk?
“I’m saying I’m on the
