24
“Luna Aldridge Returns to Claim Her Sixth Consecutive Wimbledon Win, but Will She Succeed?”
—Tennis Daily
EVERY YEAR THAT I entered Wimbledon, the oldest of the Grand Slam tournaments, and walked through its historical brown doors, stepped onto its freshly cut grass court, and saw the hundreds of spectators waiting outside, everything else in my life became second.
There was no personal life, no moral battles, no free time.
Last night’s events and this morning’s proceedings—waking up in bed with Kieran, slipping out from under the sheets before he woke up, and driving past the hundreds of rolling hills with my chin on the car window trying to forget Kieran’s lips and Jeremiah’s words—didn’t exist here.
All those things were child’s play, because this was Wimbledon.
The Cathedral of Tennis.
I stared straight ahead as I crossed the space between my car and the entrance to the arena, photographers shouting and snapping photos. It was a flurry of noise that approached like a stampede.
I didn’t consume their questions or comments. I could write tomorrow’s headlines backward with my left hand:
“Aldridge Arrives at Wimbledon Despite Almost Year-Long Grand Slam Break”
“Aldridge Looks Optimistic for Sixth Consecutive Wimbledon Grand Slam Entering London Arena”
“Aldridge Is Last Player to Arrive at Wimbledon”
“Will We See Aldridge and Evans Cross Paths for the First Time Since Their Divorce?”
I nudged my sunglasses up the bridge of my nose and walked straight ahead, a tennis bag in each hand, as staff greeted me and shut the doors on the flashes.
I had the next twenty-four hours to try to squeeze every hour out of the practice courts without interfering with the schedule of other players. Then, the next fourteen days would be robust daily diets of Wimbledon and its limelight.
Sixty-four women’s singles competitors.
Half a million in-person spectators.
Hundreds of celebrity sightings and royal appearances.
Four rounds of matches. Then quarterfinals. Semifinals. And finally, the final.
I’d practically be sleeping standing up on the court, a tennis racket in hand and a familiar sweat building around my chest.
In two weeks, I’d have another Wimbledon win, even if it killed me.
“And Aldridge is moving on to the final!” Ed Meriden, one of the tennis commentators who spoke during my semifinal match yesterday, cheered.
“What a match. Aldridge managed to avoid moving into a third set by the skin of her teeth,” Lou Harris, the other commentator, wowed.
“You know what, Lou?” Ed asked.
I listened closely as I watched the replay of yesterday’s win in the locker room.
The camera panned to me on the court after I served, winning the last point I needed.
My knees hit the grass with exhaustion and relief.
I watched myself stand back up and walk to the net, shaking my competitor Jeolt’s hand.
The footage cut to Lou and Ed in the commentator box, each wearing a pastel button-down shirt, sport coat, and headset.
“What?” Lou responded.
“I have to admit, I didn’t anticipate Aldridge being a frontrunner this week.
She’s only played in one other tournament this year, and before that, Wimbledon, a year ago.
These other players have done fifteen, maybe twenty tournaments, since then.
It’s unheard of for an unseeded player to do this well after such a break, with her ranking dropping from six to seventy-four at the start of the year.
Frankly, the odds are stacked against her. ”
“I don’t disagree, Ed. I definitely wasn’t originally betting on her.
But I’ve never seen her this focused, even more than her first Wimbledon, with the exception of the slip-up toward the end of the second set, of course.
When Jeolt shot that ball past her in the first serve of the second set, Aldridge didn’t let it bother her.
Her first four rounds flew by last week, each of them won in straight sets.
She’s giving these players a run for their money. ” Lou whistled.
“She’s won five consecutive Wimbledon titles during her career, which only four other women in history have done.
But despite that, she’s really become the underdog of the tournament.
I don’t think many of us expected her to come back this year after everything.
I may be in the minority saying this, but I’m rooting for her,” Ed finished.
Shutting off my phone, I grabbed my bag and jogged out of the locker room to the practice courts.
There were eighteen courts at Wimbledon, all grass, and all accessible to reporters and a limited number of fans.
They existed outside of the main arena in a grid format, each stacked beside and above one another, a fence dividing them all.
“Hello!” I waved to the group of girls standing outside the fence as I walked out to the set of courts, the sun instantly striking my shoulders like a heat lamp. Most of them looked young, teens maybe. You didn’t see many men unless the male tennis players were practicing.
“How are you all?” I shouted as I stepped across the court, cupping my hands around my mouth. “It’s too hot for you to be waiting out here!”
“We’re fine!” and “No!” blended together as they argued back with smiles.
“Will you sign my ball!” a girl shouted from the far end of the fence.
“Only if you’ll go somewhere with AC or shade after!
” I finally reached the fence, close enough now to see blushes on their cheeks, bright colors on their nails, and logos on their hats.
It was a sharp contrast from the mature, sophisticated adults sitting in the stands with their matching linen sets watching me sweat on the court for two hours.
“I will, I will!” the young girl, maybe sixteen, promised.
“Deal,” I said, accepting the ball and running my signature over it with a marker. “What’s your name?”
“Lucy.” She smiled as I returned the ball.
“It was lovely to meet you, Lucy. And I’m sorry for making you wait in this horrible heat,” I said, accepting another ball.
“Wait! I have some questions! I’m doing a school project on you, and I’ll absolutely fail if I don’t get your answers,” she spoke up as I moved farther down the line.
“Well, I must know these questions, then!” I signed another ball, another hat, as they were pushed in front of me. I felt like my father when he’d spend hours signing off on (allegedly) important documents for work.
“How long do you practice on a daily basis?” She didn’t have to shout, because everyone quieted, waiting with curiosity.
“About six hours.”
A pause passed as she scribbled down my answer in a small notebook.
“Do you have any pre-match rituals?”
“Hm. I don’t do this on purpose, but I love to listen to the Spice Girls before I go out, pretending I’m Sporty Spice preparing for a performance.
That sounds embarrassing now that I’m saying it aloud.
Don’t share that one,” I responded, scrunching up my nose.
“Just write stretching!” They all giggled, many of them sharing their love for Sporty Spice.
“Okay, and lastly, what is your biggest goal for this tennis season?”
“To have fun.” I shrugged my shoulders with a smile. “And to win a few tournaments, of course.”
“Wait, I have a question!” another girl shouted from the back.
“Go ahead!”
She smiled brightly before asking, “Are you dating Kieran Alexander?”
Everyone vibrated with excitement, turning to one another with whispers. I returned another signed hat, running the back of my hand over my forehead.
“Is this the BBC? My publicist will kill me if I answer that! No comment.” They were all giddy now, comfortable.
“Can you at least tell us if you like him, then?” a different girl piped in.
I wiped away the memory of him drunkenly looking down at me after we kissed.
“Isn’t that the same question?” I argued.
“We just want to know if you like him.” A small girl in front of me with pigtails pouted persuasively.
“Mr. Alexander is a very handsome, talented man. It’s hard not to like him.
Now,” I said before they could keep me there all day with questions, “I must practice.” Audible sighs were released, but they expressed their gratitude with enthusiastic waves and smiles, many walking away, while others found a place to sit in the shade and watch.
I dropped my bag, pulled out my racket, and put my headphones in.
I collected all the balls I had in my bag and ran through serving, one by one.
Tossing the ball high in the air, I reared the racket back and hit it with a satisfying thwack at the last second to spike it across the court.
Again. And again. And again. It was this perfect fluid movement: My arm and the racket were one entity, and as they captured the ball, that became part of us too.
I craved hitting it harder each time, testing my strength and adrenaline.
I definitely wasn’t originally betting on her. Thwack. She’s giving these players a run for their money. Thwack. I’ve never seen her this focused. The odds are stacked against her. Thwack, thwack, thwack.
Each of the balls bounced off the court at the same rate that my heart hammered against my chest. I let my head tip back and accepted the sweltering heat on my face, succumbing to the rivers of sweat running down the sides of my hair.
I scratched the skin on my hip. A heat rash was already forming.
As much as I loved the summer, it sure had a vendetta against me.
What was taking Coach so long? I know I showed up early, but for him to be late was unlike—
Thump, thump, thump.
A ball rolled by. I quickly stepped forward to stop it, picking it up and returning it to whoever was jogging up behind me.
“Hey, you dropped—”
“Luna.”
If my nervous system was composed of porcelain, it would’ve had a vein on the verge of splitting running through each nerve.
“Jeremiah.”
“I should have suspected you were the one with all the waiting fans,” he said, a smile in his voice.
I turned my gaze, noticing many of them standing with interest. Some even opened their phones and began filming. I pressed my nails into my palm.
“Here’s your ball,” I said with a closed-lip smile—a friendly smile, nothing that implied feelings—handing it back.
He grasped both my hand and the ball. The muscle in my forearm twitched. “Can’t we at least practice together?”
I pulled my hand away. “I was very clear the last time we spoke.”
“You can’t be serious.” He shook his head like I was a child trying to venture into high tide. “Come on. I let you yell at me, we both aired out our sides, now it’s only right that you give me my fair chance.”
“Please leave me alone, Jeremiah,” I said, picking my racket back up. His name tasted like metal in my mouth.
He tried again. “I saw you play yesterday. You’ve really improved. I knew if you dedicated more time to practicing you could do better.”
Of course it was him yesterday. He was a blur in the stands at the end of the second set, causing me to lose momentum on my dive for the ball.
The rubber around the racket’s handle pinched the skin under my palm. I knew what he wanted me to say: You distracted me. He wanted to know that I still thought about him—more ammunition in his quest to remind me of everything I lost. “I need to get back to practice.”
He wrapped his hand around my wrist with a stern grip. “I apologized.”
“What?” My voice was frigid.
“I’ve apologized, I’ve called, I’ve left voicemails, I’ve written letters. What more do you want from me? There’s nothing left I can do. Everything that’s happened since then is your doing now. You have to put in the effort now,” he argued.
Everything that’s happened since then is your doing now. As if he no longer wanted to claim his mistake. God forbid I wanted a real explanation. To hear that he regretted my heartbreak. It felt like I was pulling at strings where a spool of thread no longer existed.
Why did I always feel high maintenance when asking for more?
I held still. Pulling my wrist out of my ex-husband’s grip wouldn’t look great on camera.
“Just because you’ve caught me in public doesn’t mean I have to be nice. I told you how I felt last weekend. I showed up like you wanted and we talked long enough. So let go of my wrist and let me finish my drills,” I whispered.
“Tell me you don’t miss me. Tell me you don’t miss our home.”
“Stop.” I pressed my eyes shut.
“I miss you. And I know you miss me. We need each other. You need me,” he said softly.
Did I need him? He said it like he could see inside me, behind the fear clouding my eyes and the blood in my cheeks and the charade I’d been playing the past year.
“Luna,” he said quietly.
Luna, Luna, Luna.
Your needs matter too.
What was I thinking?
“I don’t need you, Jeremiah. You’ll see that when I’m holding the Venus Rosewater Dish in my hands tomorrow.”