“You did it,” she told me. “You damn near killed yourself to do it, but you’re through.”
“My future involves a lot of ice and anti-inflammatories, doesn’t it?”
Ezi guided me into the medical suite, having commandeered it already. I wouldn’t be able to hide out for long. The press speculation about me playing through injury had reached a fever pitch, and they wanted details, yesterday. I still wasn’t sure how much to tell them, but I’d worry about that when there was a press conference in front of me.
Toni wasn’t playing until tomorrow, so she was hanging around in the locker room once I’d had my shots and had ice packs strapped around me again. They’d have dunked me in an ice bath, if the motion of getting in and out wouldn’t cause more stretching damage.
“You’re pushing too hard,” Toni said, coming to sit beside me, helping me get out of my tennis dress, the zipper coming in handy on that particular style. Even the sports bra underneath had one in front. What next, Velcro for my shoes? “Can you promise me something?”
“You mean other than to marry you? God, Toni, you’re getting pretty demanding these days.”
She kissed me, mostly in exasperation as far as I could tell. “If it gets any worse than this, you’ll retire. And please use your in-match medical treatment better. No more toughing it out until the end.”
“She happens to be right, this almost-wife of yours,” Ezi joined in, standing over me with her arms crossed, face as stern as ever. “They don’t give out extra medals for being a martyr. And I would think you have enough of the regular kind as it is.”
“Just one more,” I promised. “Get me through two more matches, okay?”
“Come along, Elin.” My mother interrupted our bonding moment, clapping her hands in that brisk way of hers. For the first time, I realised she looked like a woman old enough to have a daughter in her thirties. When had that sneaked up on us? If I closed my eyes and had to recall her, I’d picture my mother much as she always was. My memory didn’t take into account that she wasn’t in her forties anymore, that time had marched on for everyone, not just me and all these years on the courts under my belt.
“Let’s get the press done. Mamma, you want to come face them with me? You know that always makes them happy.” It happened to be true. My mother, who had patience for almost no one, was somehow the darling of the touring press who followed us around for most of the year.
“Fine, but if their questions are stupid, I will tell them so.”
I almost felt sorry for the journalists.
I spent my off day at the doctor’s office instead of watching Toni play, and I didn’t make for the most cooperative patient. Eventually, one of the brusque nurses took pity on me and handed me a tablet with the match live-streaming. Celeste put up a good fight, and on another day, she’d have had the strength and stamina advantage, but Toni was playing like a woman possessed. I suspected I knew why: She wanted to get to the final so she could give me an easier time of it than anyone else might.
I still had a semi-final against Keiko to get through, but apparently Toni and I had to talk. Before I could start to plot about how to handle telling her to go out there and still attempt to kick my ass like anyone else would, I was being called in to see the doctor.
To my surprise, Dr Huppert sat there with her British counterpart, both of them frowning over the scans I’d just had taken.
“Twice the doctors, half the bad news?” I tried for weak jokes, opting not to leverage myself down into the bucket chairs set out for patients. I wondered how an orthopaedic specialist got by with such low, impractical chairs. Instead, I stood, leaning over and gripping the back of the ugly leather thing.
“Elin, it’s good to see you again. Dr Sattar asked me to come in today and consult since I was in town anyway.” Dr Huppert looked as runway ready as ever in her chic sky-blue dress, the glossy red hair down over her shoulders today. “Congratulations on making the semi-finals.”
“Your achievement so far hasn’t been without its costs,” Dr Sattar jumped right in, every bit as stylish in his monogrammed white shirt and silk tie. “As you can see here, the damage to the socket has increased compared to your last check-up in Paris.”
“I’m playing through it, though? I mean, it’s not ideal but the temporary measures have dragged me this far. You’re not going to try and tell me to quit now, are you?”
They exchanged a look. That was exactly what they had intended. I was glad I hadn’t sat down.
“I would like to revise my earlier advice,” Dr Huppert began. “The deterioration we’ve seen, it seems I underestimated just what you put yourself through in just a handful of matches.”
“It’s Wimbledon,” I said with a shrug. “It’s a particularly good year. I’m doing everything I can to play smart instead of hard, and I plan to do it right through Saturday afternoon. But I don’t want to wait any longer on the surgery—can we get it booked for Monday? Or if you can refer me to someone in LA, I’ll take Tuesday. Just…done. We’ll get it done.”
“The recovery period means Los Angeles might make things more comfortable for you, to be at your home base,” Dr Sattar said. He’d treated me in previous years for calf strains and a shoulder issue that dogged me in my early twenties. I trusted him and was sure he understood the demands and my schedule. It would be so easy to tell them I knew I wasn’t coming
