Chapter 23
Rori
NEW YEARS: I’m off ! I’ll be home in time to talk tonight.
NEW YEARS: Have a good practice
My head falls back to my pillow, and I close my eyes, taking a minute to think through everything that happened yesterday.
When I showed up at his door last night still a little freaked out about the blog, Landon had repeated the earlier advice that Maggie and he had given. Focus on your game and don’t worry about the story—they have nothing to go on.
And that wasn’t wrong. The article is based solely on a few spare words from Landon.
“Every time I worry about a random news story or podcaster comment, it ends up being forgotten within a few days,” Landon had said. “This is no different. There’s nothing for them to use to make it a bigger story.”
As far as they know, anyway.
I just hate being the center of attention for anything other than my tennis.
I come out of my memories of last night when my phone beeps. I open my eyes and check the notification, noting that Taylor has written me.
TAYLOR: Wanted to acknowledge that I’m tuned into that Social Scoops “article” from last night.
I subtly checked with a couple of the network reporters to see if they are running with it on mainstream shows, and the answer is no.
Everyone seems to think it’s an absurd clickbait story by Social Scoops.
TAYLOR: So my recommendation is to ignore the article. Let it have its 24-48 hour social media blip and then it’ll go away.
I put a thumbs up emoji on the messages, ignoring the slight twinge of guilt I feel for not sharing the truth with her.
That guilt fades quickly, though. What’s left in its place is a wash of relief. If the story isn’t going anywhere, I’m ready to think about nothing but winning my next match.
Time to ignore all the outside noise.
The remainder of the day follows a familiar pattern for my “off” days during a tournament—a practice hit, media time, and strategy talk with Julie.
The only distinction is the level of press attention. It’s wild. Taylor is getting a ton of requests, which she’s navigating from her base in New York City. And the tournament media lead grabs Julie and my cell phone numbers as she organizes all the in-person asks from the press.
“I probably should be there,” Taylor says. “Lesson for next time.”
Otherwise, it all feels normal. I feel ready. Especially when I get home and the whole group gathers around the back deck of the house to relax as the sun sets, with a view of our rental house’s gorgeous backyard.
“How was sight-seeing?” Maggie asks my dad and Julie as we all cluster around in the wooden chairs.
I flash her a look. They’d gone off together during my morning training session, which Julie usually skips. Maggie loves being an instigator of drama.
“We had fun,” Dad replies. “We went to Westminster Abbey and some museums.”
“That’s so cool,” Malcolm says. “I hope I can find time to see more of London.”
“Hey, not having time to play tourist means the tournament is going well for you,” Peter responds to him, with everyone chuckling at that.
While they keep chattering, I stand up and walk to the end of the deck, rolling my right shoulder. I tweaked it a bit during my practice session, doing a few more serves than I probably should have. Not a big deal, just the typical aches and pains of a pro tennis player.
I hear footsteps behind me and turn slightly. It’s Malcolm, looking concerned.
“You okay? Your shoulder hurt?”
Even though we didn’t know each other well before this grass court season, Malcolm has fit into the mix at the house really well. He’s easy going and genuine off the court, if ultra-competitive once on the court. So I appreciate his question, knowing it’s coming from a good place.
“Nothing major. Served a few more times than I should have today.”
He nods. It’s a pretty typical thing for a tennis player to wrestle with.
“Hey, I told Peter this earlier, and I wanted to catch you up on something,” he shares. “My girlfriend plays for the Orlando Surge, did you know that?”
The Orlando Surge is our pro women’s basketball team in Florida.
“No,” I reply. “But that’s awesome. I’ve been to a couple of games. What’s her name?”
“It’s Sarah Hartbright.” Oh wow, she’s the star forward. “Things are pretty serious with us, so I’ve been looking to move my training from California to Florida. It seems like a no-brainer to come train with you all at Pinnacle.”
Malcolm would click well with our group, and I know the guys would love having him there to raise the level of their games.
“That’d be really great,” I say.
“I’m pumped to come check it out after Wimbledon,” he says. “It’s been hard being on opposite coasts from Sarah, on top of traveling for the tour.”
“Yeah, I can imagine.” More than he knows. “How have you guys made it work?”
“Well, lots of time on our phone,” he says, laughing a little. “And an insane amount of schedule planning. But she’s worth it, you know?”
I smile at him and don’t pry harder for now, our friendship still new. It’s reassuring, though, to hear that things can work with situations similar to Landon and mine.
Soon we all head inside, going our separate ways. At bedtime, I FaceTime with Landon, whose flight home was uneventful. When he comes into view, I see Grover snuggled against him on the couch.
“He missed you, I’m guessing?” I ask, appreciating the feeling. I’m in my PJs and ready for sleep, with the lights dim. I wish Landon was here with me.
“Yeah, he hasn’t left my side,” Landon says quietly, so as not to wake the pup.
I tell him more about the media chaos following my every move, and then he shares a bit about everything back home. The last thing I remember as my eyes close is his words to me, signing off on our call.
“Night, beautiful.”
I sleep well after that.
Semifinal day feels different, though. I’ve never been as nervous as I’m before the semis. With good reason—if I win this match, I will be in the finals of a Slam for the first time.
As I change into my all-white match outfit in the women’s locker room, the quiet echoes of every movement ring across the large room. During most of the tournament, the locker room and practice fields are teeming with players. At this stage though, most of those players have lost and headed home.
My opponent is a twenty-five-year-old Spaniard, Marta Lopez.
We’ve faced each other many times, so I try to lean into that familiarity to ease my nerves.
Also helping is the fact that Marta’s one of the kindest players on the women’s tour.
She plays clean and never brings mind games into the mix on the court.
I look up as she walks in to get ready, planting her bag at a locker on the opposite end of the otherwise empty room. She gives me a half-smile and a nod.
Dying to find a way to keep myself from feeling my nerves, I throw in some earbuds and put on my favorite pump-up music.
Within five minutes, I feel a tap on my back. Turning around, it’s Julie, who I couldn’t hear come in with my music playing. I take out my earbuds, and she launches into coach mode.
“I feel positive about the strategy, Rori. It’s going to play to your strengths out there,” Julie says in vague terms, just in case Marta is listening. “Remember what I said about her inside-out forehand?”
I nod, taking a sip of my water and eating some of my pre-workout snack. I double-check in my bag that I have everything I want for the match and look back up at her.
“How long until we go out there?” I ask.
“The Princess of Wales is here to watch, so it’s taking a bit longer, as she traditionally greets all the staff,” Julie explains. Oh good, that information is really going to calm my nerves. “She’s taking her seat now.”
On cue, one of the tournament senior staff comes into the locker to lead us out.
Once we get to Centre Court and they announce our names, we both walk out to a large cheer. The court’s capacity is around 15,000, and it looks like every seat is taken as I glance around. The buzz I felt at Heathrow around four weeks ago has nothing on the energy emanating from the crowd here.
I look to the Royal Box, and yes, there she is. The Princess, looking sharp in a pale yellow suit, chatting politely with her seat neighbors, a couple of retired past champions.
My anxiousness spikes. This is a lot.
I sit down on my allotted chair after putting my bag down next to it. Closing my eyes, there’s no denying how overwhelmed I feel right now. With my eyes shut, I start working to re-channel the nerves, the energy, the stimulation, the anticipation into a laser focused need to win this match.
I’m winning this match. I’m winning this match, I repeat in my head over and over, eyes staying closed.
Sixty seconds of affirmations does the trick. When I open my eyes, there is no doubt.
I’m winning this match.
We trade the first two sets, but it feels like I’m controlling the play.
My nervous energy repurposed and recalibrated into precise focus and sharpened anticipation of the balls’ every bounce, Marta’s every movement.
I have her on the run most of the time and lose the second set only based on some badly timed errors on my part.
I’m winning this match.
Three hours in, I’m actually on the brink.
It’s 5-3 in the third set, 40-15 in the game. I win this last point—I win the match.
The crowd noise is at a new level now. The excitement over this critical point bleeds across the buzz of the stadium. Imagine thousands of people yelling, chattering, cheering, while you’re down on the court, encircled by their presence, as the object of their attention.
This is the moment I’ve been working towards since I picked up a racquet at six years old, but I don’t let myself think about it. With a herculean effort to focus, I center my vision on watching Marta’s movements, so I can predict exactly where she’s serving.
Right down the middle of the service box, it turns out. A flat, hard serve. One that I pound right back at her.
She shifts her position so that Julie’s strategy about using her inside-out forehand against her works perfectly.
When Marta returns the shot, she is off the side of the court.
When the ball next goes off my racquet, I aim for the exact place I want—the opposite part of the court from where she’s standing.
She has no chance.
Point for me.
Game, set, match for me.
I’m headed to the Wimbledon finals.
I let out a scream of joy, relief, and satisfaction, and fall to my knees.
Fifteen minutes later, a bonafide symphony of sounds is coming from my phone as I get to the locker room. Notification upon notification dings on my phone, across various apps. Everyone I’ve ever met is congratulating me, it seems.
Including messages from Landon, of course.
NEW YEARS: YOU’RE SUCH A BADASS! WIMBLEDON FINALS!
NEW YEARS: Congrats babe. So fucking excited for you.
Julie comes racing into the locker room and gives me the biggest hug that I’ve ever received from her. Who knew she was so strong? I can feel the elation coming off of her, and I start to cry from all the emotion.
I’m not a crier, but it’s all so much to take in.
“This is where you’re meant to be, Rori. The Wimbledon finals. You deserve every minute of it,” Julie says, ignoring my tears.
“Thank you so much for everything,” I choke out to her as the tears start to subside. We’re still hugging.
Her next words would ring through my head for the rest of the night.
“You did this. You did this.”