He took my hand, all reassurance and gruff affection. “You’ll never disappoint me, Elin. Now, I’m going to browse the stores downstairs. Why don’t you call this lady friend of yours and make things a little less distant, hmm?”
“That might not be enough.”
“No way my girl gives up that easily,” he insisted. “Now, don’t come downstairs until you feel better about it all.”
What choice did I have?
I called Toni without second guessing or checking her playing schedule. I just tapped her name and made it happen. Direct action—that was the right idea. What had taken me so long?
It rang for almost too long, but just before I gave up the line clicked into life.
“Toni, hi, I know it’s going to be a while before I see you, but I was just thinking—”
“Antonia is in for her sports massage,” Mira responded. “And she’s trying very hard to improve her ranking before May, so if you care for her Elin, you’ll keep it to minimum contact.
“Did she ask you to field calls from me?” I would rather the call had just gone to voicemail.
“Yes, we’re developing a good system, just the two of us. She just wants to focus on tennis, nothing else too serious.”
Wow. That had to be a reaction to my stupid rambling about the future and my plans. Toni had been so freaked out she had Mira running interference between us.
“It’s just a chat, Mira.” I tried to brush it off. “Wish her luck from me and I’ll…see her whenever.”
Making my way downstairs, I saw my father waiting by the doors. Only then did I notice that he’d aged, that the tall stocky man I was used to had begun to stoop a little, his shoulders seemed a little less broad. When he noticed me, I forced myself to plaster a smile on my face and gave him a thumbs up. No need to disappoint him the way I’d ruined things for myself.
The call came on the Friday, the day before I left for the Madrid Open.
“Miss Larsson, we have you scheduled for your press conference on Monday at 11 a.m.,” the man from the GTA told me. “We’d appreciate if you could issue that apology before your first match commences.”
They had realised how little tennis I was playing, despite being fit. Madrid was going to be my last warmup for the French Open too, so they’d have a limited window to get a punishment approved. Sink or swim time.
Which didn’t mean I had to let them in on my plans.
“Of course, that would be a perfect venue for my statement,” I agreed. Not that I had decided what that statement might be. Parisa was on the trail of some kind of e-mail or memo that confirmed the extra testing of players who weren’t white. “Thanks for the reminder.”
“We really would like to put all this behind us. I’m sure you understand.” I understood all too well. Their office politics also didn’t bother me anywhere near as much as the prospect of being around Toni again.
“Oh, I understand completely. Do watch for my comments.”
It wasn’t career suicide if I did it for good reasons, surely?
Chapter Twenty-Four
I went into a kind of hibernation mode, insisting on no visitors once I checked in to my Madrid hotel, and I booked private sessions as early as possible on the practice courts. My mother was thrilled, but Parisa pulled me aside on the Sunday.
“You know Toni left messages for you at reception. Something about changing her number.”
Well, that was something. Not exactly an explanation for why I’d heard nothing since Mira picked up, but close enough. I shrugged off Toni’s concerns, ignored the messages, and threw myself into a daily routine of exercise, meditation, and shutting the world out with my headphones. Lonely, sure, but I’d never felt more focused on the task ahead.
It was fun to be back on clay. Most of the courts year-round were hard like at the US and Australian Opens, but the distinctive red dirt gave a bounce and a way of playing that challenged all of us. There were specialists who kicked ass every year in France and Spain, only to wilt on grass at Wimbledon soon after. I was lucky enough to be an all-surface kind of player, but I couldn’t rely on speed here like I usually did. I had to be much more strategic, and even then, weird things would still happen that I couldn’t account for.
More than the tennis, I was keyed up for the press conference. Others would talk before and after me, the first glimpse of the top seeds before we launched into a fast and furious week where winning meant playing a full match every day.
I kept the music playing in my ears until the last possible moment, removing my headphones only once I was seated. The same inane questions started us off: How was I playing, was I fit, did I think I could win the tournament? I gave routine answers that didn’t require much thought. I wondered how far the GTA would go in forcing me to talk about the drug-testing problem. I hadn’t discussed anything even close to it, and my allocated time was ticking down.
Sure enough, a man I didn’t recognise shot his hand up and asked his question even though I was calling on someone in front of him. I watched him, the camera flashes and noise of the crowd fading out for me.
“Miss Larsson, before you took some time off you raised some questions about the tour’s drug testing. Is there anything else you want to say on that?”
There was the engineered opportunity, and all I had to do was take it.
“I did mention that, because the women affected by unfair and biased testing were right to fear that they
