The murmurs went around the room.
“It turns out they were right to be worried about that. I’ve already been threatened with fines and a playing ban just for asking the question. Which makes you think, doesn’t it? If there’s no problem, no racist policy, then why would anyone warn me not to talk about it?”
Faking innocence wasn’t going to convince anyone, so I said it about as straight and sarcastic as it felt. The room knew what was up, and I got sympathetic looks from some of the regular journalists who’d been covering me for years.
“So I guess I’d just ask the GTA to release some figures that clear this whole mess up. If there’s no problem, they shouldn’t have any problem. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a match to get warmed up for.”
I left the room with my phone already ringing, vibrating away in my pocket it. I ignored it for the short walk to the practice courts, where I hit the crap out of any ball unlucky enough to get near me. After that, my first-round opponent didn’t know what hit her. She retired in the second set, and it felt like a mercy killing.
I repeated the process on the Tuesday, swapping the press conference for coffee with Celeste and Keiko, the most social I’d been since hanging around Stockholm with my dad.
“They really came for you in Miami?” Celeste asked, frowning at her kale smoothie.
“I’m surprised I wasn’t handcuffed with the trophy still in my hands,” I said. “You know this just means you were right. I’m happy to be the target if it means you get actual justice for this. I didn’t get tested after winning yesterday. You?”
Celeste nodded but Keiko shook her head. “I bet I get pulled in today, though. I can’t tell you the last time I got more than two matches without a test.”
“And I got one test in Miami, despite winning the whole thing. What are they up to?” I wondered out loud.
“You have to figure they’re protecting someone, in this case another one of the white players getting tested as little as you. Or they suspect someone after Xavi, and all they know it’s the coach of one of the women of colour, so they want to flush that out.” Celeste laid out the options nice and clear. “Or it’s a random pattern that’s somehow going wrong, and they don’t want to fix it even though they have to know about it by now.”
“That about sums it up,” Keiko agrees. “I really don’t need this bullshit; my year has already been up and down like a yo-yo. Hey, where’s the plus one? Celeste told me you and Ruiz are a thing now.”
I glanced around the lounge on instinct, but Toni was nowhere to be seen. She wasn’t on until the evening match. At least I thought so; I had deliberately avoided looking at the brackets this time out.
“Yeah, well, we’re not joined at the hip. And it’s… You know, it’s nothing serious so don’t start with me, you two. Shouldn’t we be…saving the sport or something?”
We cracked up laughing at that. “Anyway, I haven’t heard anything since they called about the press conference. No shady suits showing up at my door. Let them investigate and maybe all the extra testing will stop.” Toni appeared then, with Mira at her side. Nobody else had brought their coach into the players’ lounge with them, and I took it as my cue to leave.
And like I said, it was just like the day before. This time we made it through the whole second set, but I was done with the match in less than an hour. It was rare I got the chance to double-bagel someone, but sure enough it finished 6-0, 6-0. Efficiency felt good, and I resigned myself to another quiet night in. It wouldn’t make me particularly happy, but it was going to be great for my ranking points and my bank balance.
Wednesday brought the third round and the chance to watch Sarah Harrow in the match before mine. She kept her temper this time and disposed of Fatima over the full three sets, shocking just about everyone. I was glad to have avoided her so far, and I really didn’t fancy a rematch when the little punk had the wind in her sails. Luckily, we couldn’t meet before the semis on Friday.
I didn’t get such an easy run, but I did get a win. When I was asked to step aside on the way to the locker room, I thought I might finally be getting a drugs test. For a moment I panicked, wondering if someone would falsify my result to get me in real trouble. That was a paranoid thought too far.
Instead of a bored-looking nurse and a plastic cup, I was brought into another sort of storage room where the same three suits from Miami were waiting for me. Clearly the Global Tennis Association let its staff rack up the miles along with the players and umpires.
“You didn’t retract your statement,” the tallest one says, his comb-over a little tragic under the fluorescent lights. “In fact, Miss Larsson, you doubled down.”
“I did.” I pulled myself onto the desk to sit, in the absence of any chairs. “Why? Because nobody has answered the original questions I raised. We want proof the testing is fair, and that women of colour are not being targeted. It’s that simple.”
“You’ll be invited to a meeting next week,” the short, rounder version of Mr Suit interrupted. “At which a fine will be levied. Can we assume you won’t attend?”
I pointed at him and winked, full of confidence I didn’t entirely feel. “You’ve been paying attention.”
“Then we will proceed with further disciplinary action immediately. Regardless
