“Not like you to be sending midnight texts, but yes. Darren in the box office is a sweetheart, totally in love with me, you know how it is. It helps that this woman already has security clearance as a player.”
I don’t know why I was so invested in Toni being there, not when there was still a good chance she’d think I was joking and not even show. Who’d brave the crowds on the last weekend of Wimbledon unless they were sure of a ticket? I should have asked for her number. Or maybe I should have learned how to flirt at least ten years ago.
With carefully timed lingering over my smoothie and a cowardly dash to the front door, I managed to get in the first car with Parisa and avoid my mother until we reached the Wimbledon grounds. From the moment we stepped out of the cars after the short drive, it was controlled chaos. Designated press areas allowed for photographs of each player’s arrival, but there was also a gauntlet of VIPs and staff who all wanted to wish me luck, grab a quick picture, or generally say hello.
Although it didn’t help my icy reputation, I kept the smiles polite and my earbuds firmly in place. Parisa and my mother ran interference on all the requests, and as silly as it sounded, I specifically had to refuse handshakes. Four years ago an overly enthusiastic billionaire sponsor had tried to shake my hand with both of his massive ones. He’d practically crushed bones in the attempt, and I still grumbled sometimes that he was the reason I hadn’t won that particular US Open.
Lars, my fitness trainer, and Eziamaka, my physio, set to work getting my equipment and general area prepared once we entered the shared ladies’ locker rooms. At that point I could avoid my mother no longer, and she pounced.
“Elin.”
“Mamma? You know, Ezi looks almost ready to do some stretches with me…”
One glance from her shut that down fast. “Nice evening?” She switched to Swedish as soon as Lars left the room, a sure sign that she didn’t want to be overheard or understood. “I’m sure I heard wrong about you looking for silly distractions before a final.”
I rarely got to speak in my native tongue other than with my parents and the occasional meeting with old friends, but it was probably good to take a refresher. One way or another, I’d be meeting with the King and Queen of Sweden later today. They didn’t always travel to my finals, but Wimbledon they had a soft spot for. Maybe they just liked the short flight.
“I was just stretching my legs,” I said, finding a euphemism. “No harm, no pictures.”
“There better not be. Just make sure you win today, then anything that might show up will only be a detail. They’ll say it’s impressive that you could be so irresponsible and still the best in the world.”
“You know, Mamma, your compliments are a little hard to find sometimes.”
She snorted, moving back to English effortlessly. “Elin, be serious. You’re in touching distance of the all-time Slam record. Do you really want to lose your appetite for winning now?”
“Well, I’m thirty-two,” I answered. “And some would say I’ve already won plenty. Maybe it’s time to give someone else a chance.”
“I don’t think so. Even if it was, don’t start today. I can’t bear the thought of you losing to that woman.”
That woman being Celeste Rutherford, ranked number three in the world and second seed for this tournament. Which, in case it wasn’t obvious from those numbers, meant we spent a lot of time breathing down each other’s necks. The reason for my mother’s animosity wasn’t rooted in that, though. No, we Larsson women respect a fellow competitor, and we understood that it wasn’t personal when we were on court.
No, Celeste had the almost unique honour of being my ex-girlfriend, and though we’d never officially been outed or talked seriously about coming out as a couple, it had been a poorly kept secret for two years. Then she broke my heart, which turned out to be pretty easy to do, and we’ve been friendly rivals ever since. Which was a really short way of describing something that involved quite so much crying.
In our upcoming match, I was competing against her for what could be my twentieth Grand Slam title, or her fifth. A whole head taller than me, Celeste had a strength on top of her athleticism that my own frame would never be able to match. Our styles contrasted wildly, but it usually made for an entertaining spectacle.
Wimbledon crowds had claimed us both as their own at different points, even though I’m from Stockholm and Celeste is from Detroit. Maybe they just liked our attitude, but I was glad for both of us, especially after Celeste’s first French Open win had been marred by a few racist shouts. She had risen above, classy as ever, but I had wanted to march into the stands and set about them with my racquet.
Like I said—wildly different styles.
Ezi approached with her exercise bands, ready to check on my now quite-recovered calf muscle that had bugged me through the Australian Open and almost until Paris. Despite my mother mellowing a little, physio was still preferable. I checked my kit was laid out and went over to start Ezi’s exercises.
“What have you been up to?” she asked as soon as we were alone. “You know your mother blames us when you go off the rails.”
“One drink is off the rails now? I was restless; I wanted to relax.” It was hard to maintain dignified outrage
