Then the final stretch—which was apparently the right time to give us giant bouquets to carry out on court. Another tradition I’d never understood; they were taken off us moments later when we sat down, and most times I don’t think I ever saw the bouquet again.
Exiting the door into the last little tunnel created by screens that shielded us from public view, I felt a familiar spike of panic. Nothing obvious, just my heart seemed to clench and I briefly tasted metal on my tongue. I glanced back at Celeste before we emerged into the crowd’s hungry gaze, but she already had her game face on. I no longer existed to her as Elin the person, the one-time girlfriend. Now I was just The Opponent, that walking, talking obstacle between her and the prize she wanted.
Walking onto the grass brought a deafening roar from the first step, the dragon of anticipation yanked to life by the first person in thousands to react. Unlike after matches, I raised no hand in acknowledgement, and I didn’t look around for familiar faces either. I did the required turn and curtsy to the Royal Box, populated by my own royal family as well as the younger members of the British one. Not a bad turnout, considering the men’s final would pull a lot of focus the following day.
Just like Celeste had already done, I let my world shrink down to the challenge ahead. The grass felt springy beneath my feet, despite the dry sandy patches from two solid weeks of action. The sky above wasn’t promising, a dull shade of grey that threatened rain before the afternoon was out. I hoped we’d be done before delays and the closing of the roof came into play.
I took my seat on the far side of the umpire’s tower, nodding as my bags were set down, reaching for my first racquet as soon as someone whisked the flowers away. People liked to think we had a lucky one or some superstition like that. We didn’t get the chance to get attached, not with how hard the modern game was on the kit. The strings were different almost every match, and when the strain started to show on a frame, it would be instantly and effortlessly replaced. I couldn’t count how many I got through per season, but I wouldn’t bet below fifty.
Finals were always slow to get started thanks to all the extra ceremony, so I got back on my feet and kept my weight shifting from one foot to the other, minimal activity so I didn’t start to cool back down. The usual announcements rang out, and the crowd began to settle into their seats. Just the coin toss to come, a simple matter of which end to start and who would serve first. I’d long since stopped minding which of those I got. Winning meant starting strong regardless.
The umpire called us both to the net, where we earnestly shook hands again. The call was mine as the bronze coin flipped and twisted in the air.
Game on.
Chapter Four
Okay, so it wasn’t supposed to go down that way. Forty-five minutes played and I was one set down, almost broken in the second game of the second set. Which in tennis terms was a polite way of saying I hadn’t really got started and had somehow become even worse from there.
Not exactly the play expected from a champion.
Celeste, though, I had to give it to her. She’d always known my game well, but this time she’d come equipped to thwart me at every turn. Along with staying in close for every drop shot that barely cleared the net, she was somehow back on the baseline whenever I tried to drive a hard ball right past her. The one consolation was that her tactics had to be draining, and elite athlete or not, she’d be tiring if I could keep myself alive through this second set.
Which meant not letting her break me now, with 40 points to my 30. Serving had always been one of my strong points, but she seemed determined to return everything I hurled at her, like the concept of a nonreturnable ace hadn’t been invented yet.
I realised in that moment, plucking the offered fresh ball from the ball girl’s outstretched hand, that for all I’d claimed to be fatigued of winning, I really didn’t enjoy the alternative very much. Everyone lost games, sets, and matches, no matter how strong or steady. But in a year where I hadn’t gone all the way in either Australia or France, I was putting extra pressure on myself to win in London and New York. There was no point blaming that niggling calf injury either. At any given time, most of us were playing through some kind of pain or recovering from it.
My next mistake was glancing towards the boxes. Most attention in the ground and on television while there was a lull in play would be on the Royal box. I had met the King and Queen of Sweden countless times before, but it was always a polite, reserved conversation with them. They seemed happy in the company of the younger British royals, the ones who had famous weddings and very photogenic offspring. None of that was particularly distracting or unusual.
No, the mistake was making eye contact with my mother. She looked halfway out of her mind about how badly I was playing, her usually smooth blonde hair clutched until it was all out of place. When I met her gaze, she frowned, before hiding her face behind her hands. Great. It could be commitment to not illegally coaching me during the match, but I was pretty sure she was just pissed off.
But then came unexpected redemption. In the row behind her sat Toni,
