“I really thought you’d have taken the hint by now, Elin. Your presence is only going to hold her back.”
“She’s in her second final in a matter of weeks, how am I holding her back? She just beat me, for God’s sake.” I gripped the free chair on my other side, not wanting my temper to flare too high. “Which is still pretty hard, even if I’m not nineteen anymore.” Okay, that was a cheap dig about how she never again beat me after I took that final from her, but Mira had irritated me into it.
“So this week you want to have a girlfriend, you want to be out. Then it’ll get tricky and you’ll get right back in the closet. How much time will Toni lose to a broken heart, hmm? While you’re pretending you never had anything to do with her.”
“Is this before or after the GTA ban me for questioning their drug-testing policy? I have enough problems without ruining my relationship.”
“Then break it off now, while it’s still barely a relationship. You two almost managed it after Miami, hardly talking. Just let that happen again and let her have a real shot at winning some slams.”
I put it together then. Toni’s confusion about missing my calls. Mira’s reputation as a control freak. I almost smacked my forehead as it all fell into place. Hadn’t Toni herself told me Mira was batting for our team? Despite the anger rising in my chest, I forced myself to stay neutral. Well, the icy side of neutral anyway. “When you answered the phone that time…was that the only time you kept us apart? Or what, deleted a few messages here and there? Didn’t pass along the notes from reception? Is that how it is?”
Mira just watched the court, saying nothing.
“Nobody is that invested in their client’s success, not really. Even my mother has never sabotaged a relationship of mine, and she literally gave me the life I’m using to play this game with. So it begs the question, Mira… Do you want me gone because I’m a distraction? Or because you want to take a run at Toni yourself?”
“Oh please,” Mira made a scoffing sound. “You think very highly of yourself. Always have. That’s why you get those nicknames, isn’t it? But if I wanted Antonia in that way, well. You wouldn’t stop me. All you’ve done is confirm she’ll date an older woman.”
Mira had ten years on me, maybe more. If she’d ever been nice to me, I’m sure I would have developed a raging crush, and she’d definitely been the object of my fascination before I’d ever joined the tour. How sad to think we might still be competing after all this time. Only one thing was for sure: Toni was worth it, so in any contest I’d make sure to win.
Then the judges and the umpire came out, followed soon after by the players. Gabriela slipped into her seat, but I didn’t notice at first, too intent on watching Toni come out on court. When she looked up and waved, the eye contact unmistakably just for me, I realised I had already won.
Now she just needed to do the same on court, and to hell with Mira either way.
The GTA, or at least a small clutch of people in power there, had decided to go on an all-out offensive. As concerned as I was about the prospect of missing the French Open, I also had something much more pressing to deal with: a whole week off that Toni wasn’t playing either.
She needed a break after the sheer volume of travel she’d done while I’d been bumming around the Stockholm with my dad. Not for the first time, I wondered how nice it might be to stay in one place for weeks on end, to have a routine that wasn’t punctuated by ever-changing airline reservations depending on whether I was fit to play in the next tournament or not. It sounded pretty damn pleasant, and those seven days we’d had together in the south of Spain were more precious than either of us wanted to admit.
All too soon it was back to business. I needed one slam to equal the record and a second to break it. Three left this year, otherwise I’d be chasing again in Australia come January. For me, that meant I had to play in the French Open, and it was just over a week away. Smaller tournaments were running, and Toni had gone to play in Strasbourg.
“I think Paris was the right choice for the press conference,” Parisa said for the third time that morning, as we drove to the hotel. She was right. Checking in a week early made it look like I was especially committed to the tournament, and with so many tennis fans converging on one place, it would tap into both the fan and media attention perfectly.
“I just want to get it over with,” I admitted, smoothing down my blazer, a smart black one that seemed serious enough for the occasion. I’d opted for a pale blue shirt underneath and jeans to calm things down a little. No point looking like a court defendant with a full suit.
The hotel function room was much like every other I’d ever given a press conference in. No matter how fancy the frescoes or expensive the hanging art, the rooms always had that temporary feel to them. Something about rearranging the furniture into so many different events made it feel like it couldn’t be one particular thing.
I saw many friendly faces in the gathered press. Parisa’s monitoring of the online debate said most people were on my side, but it was always preferable to be talking to the nicer journalists in this kind of situation. I’d seen one too many comments telling me to sit down
