“I don’t go drinking in fancy hotels, but thanks.”
“I met someone.” I blurted it out, not even sure what I meant. All I knew was that Ezi, who could inflict pain on me daily and still make me like her, was someone I could trust. “I mean, just socially. I don’t know if it was…”
“This was the last-minute ticket? Smooth, Larsson.”
“Hey, I might not have game, but I do get some cool freebies. Besides, she plays too.”
Ezi pushed a little harder, making my hip grumble. “You mean she’s a player?”
“No, literally. Plays tennis. Antonia Cortes…something.”
“Ruiz. You might want to get better with names. Or she’ll find out what a spoiled princess you are.”
I laughed. She never was shy about calling me on my bullshit. “Come on, finish your torture session. I need to go play a warmup game after this.”
All the routine and preparation didn’t get me ready for that last stretch. Alone in the private dressing room with the screens all tuned to anything but tennis, it was always a little like what I thought a confessional would feel like. Would the umpire pull back a little curtain on the wall and ask about my sins? Apparently not.
At least the sponsors had picked out some great outfits for this tournament. Unlike the other slams, Wimbledon still insisted on its all-white dress code, dating back to the foundation of the All England club. While we could have a splash of colour and pattern, we all looked quite immaculate in our tennis whites. They even requested all our medical equipment be white too, if possible. From Band-Aids to knee supports. And the underwear too, of course, just in case we sweated through the top layer, which we almost always did.
Some of the players groused about it, but I liked looking so spotless. At least until the first lunge to return a low net shot, and then all bets were off. Grass stains didn’t look good on anybody.
Even if I hadn’t done this for a living, I’d probably still be into my trainers just as much. They’ve always been the biggest perk of the job, and these brand-new ones that I’d only worn for an hour or two to break in were practically moulded to my feet. I knew it was stupid to think they made me any lighter or faster, but it felt like they did. Sometimes silly little psychological edges like that made all the difference, like wings on my heels. I was Hermes or maybe Nike, but the shoes were all Adidas.
The wardrobe varied a lot over the season, but I relished being back in all white with the famous three lines down the side in black. It was a flattering look in the full-length mirrors. Moments like these, I actually got to confront my appearance. Most of the time, my body was more of a machine to me, something to push and prod at, to find out what more it could do. I knew I looked okay, even good sometimes. I just didn’t let myself think about it once I was out in front of the crowd. I pushed the white sweatband into place on my forehead and snapped the matching wristbands. That and wearing sliders until changing into my match shoes was as close as I came to any kind of ritual.
After what seemed like an eternity, an usher came to knock on the door. “We’re ready for you, Miss Larsson.” Oh yeah, no Ms at Wimbledon. And the married women got changed to Mrs even if they hadn’t changed their surnames. We’d only recently gotten them to stop calling married women by their husband’s names on the scoreboards, and sometimes it really did feel like another century there.
Speaking of married women, I came face-to-face with Celeste who was waiting with her usher in the narrow hallway. I froze for a moment, unsure how to greet her. She took the lead, coming over to shake my hand and pulling me into a hug right after.
“It’s been a while,” she said, like we hadn’t done a bunch of events together this year. So many of the smaller tournaments like a pre-event shoot with all the top seeds, and we still had one of our favourite charities in common. Oh, and did I mention I’d dumped her out in the quarterfinals in the Australian Open? Well, that too. It still hadn’t evaporated the lingering awkwardness between us. If most groups of lesbian friends were incestuous, then double that for tennis.
“Best of luck out there,” I replied, as we followed the head usher who would lead us out onto the hallowed ground of Centre Court. Behind us another pair of ushers carried our kit bags, stuffed full of racquets and tape, spare shoes and socks and a spare replica of this outfit in case I tore anything. I would have had drinks and towels, but we had our own fridges stocked on court, and using the provided regulation towels was required. As revenge, all the players liked to steal them as souvenirs. I’d left tournaments with an entire bag of contraband towels in the past.
As we made our way through the cream-coloured corridors, lined with tennis-themed art and various dignitaries, I nodded to each of the armed services personnel who manned each new stretch of floor. It felt like the least we could all do, invite them for a nice day out and some tennis—another stark reminder of my privileged existence.
Down a small, open staircase and the line of umpires and officials stood waiting for us. I was top seed, so I got to go out first. That also meant I was first to shake the Chairman’s hand, and Celeste did the same right after me.
Even still, tucked in the belly of the building, I could feel the buzz of the crowd. It
