Chapter 6
six
While I’m not one for press conferences, talking to Jackson at the Tennis Broadcast desk after a win never feels as stifling or hard to navigate.
He allows me my silences, content to sit beside me until we’re on air, and he does his best not to ask questions that dig a blade between my ribs.
I settle beside him after my third Miami Open win, offering the best imitation of a smile I can muster.
“Hey, Nic,” he greets me quietly, pulling his microphone toward him as the cameraman in front of us holds his hand up to let us know he’s not ready.
Jackson’s hair is gelled back, a curl slipping free across his forehead, and he wears a dark blue quarter-button down with the Tennis Broadcast’s logo on the lapel.
I don’t know much about him other than he grew up in Orlando, training at the Morozov Tennis Academy from a young age with Sahar, Noah, and Harper, who dated his younger brother.
After a few years on the tour, he retired, switching to broadcasting.
“Hello.”
“How come you never seem happy after wins?”
I shrug. “Just my face.” Or maybe it’s the fact that I don’t allow myself to celebrate until I’ve won a tournament.
Or that I haven’t enjoyed myself on court in months.
Jackson chuckles softly. “I’ll try to be as unobtrusive as possible,” he promises with a smile. I nod my thanks, glancing around. Sometimes the desk is indoors, and other times, like today, it’s outside, allowing players to walk around nearby.
The bright Miami sun filters through the open roof of Hard Rock Stadium, casting warm light over the grass of the football field and the broadcast desk.
Behind me, the tunnel to Stadium Court, where a men’s match is being played, yawns open.
To the right, beyond the towering bulk of the court seating, the rest of the arena’s turf stretches out, scattered with players warming up, stretching, and quietly preparing for their matches, headphones over their ears to drown out the noise.
Every few minutes, there’s a loud hum of the crowd getting into the match, and my blood, which fails to recognize that I’m no longer on court, sings along with it, loving the sound of having a crowd behind me.
“Ready in three, two, one, go,” a woman beside the camera calls, nodding for Jackson to begin. Pen, who stands beside her, points to her exaggerated smile as a reminder, and I paste one on.
“We’re back on day eight of the Miami Open, Nicola Vassilakis here with us at our Tennis Broadcast desk. Nic, great to see you.” It’s a relief when he switches to my nickname. Another reason I don’t mind him.
“Thank you,” I respond. “Good to see you too.”
“You always look like it’s no sweat off your back during your matches, and today’s was no different. You had to dig in the second set, but ultimately, you were able to pull out the win in straight sets. Tell me how you felt during the match.”
An easy question, as promised. “Lina is a tough opponent, but I played loose today, and I think that showed in the score.”
“It definitely did. Now, at the end of the match, you didn’t even realize you’d won it. Is that right?” He chuckles. “You walked back to the baseline like you were ready to play another point until you saw Lina at the net.”
I offer an embarrassed nod. “I was focusing on winning one point at a time. After the eighth game in the second set, when we went back and forth at deuce twelve times, I told myself to play each point like I was down a break. I didn’t even know the score during that last rally.”
“I love that. So you’ve been to the quarterfinals here a couple of times before, and you’re into the quarterfinals again this year. What are you hoping to change going into this match?”
“Miami is always hard. It’s the end of a long hard-court season, and it’s a big tournament right after Indian Wells. I’m sure it’s a matter of fitness, and hopefully I’m up to the task this year.”
“Speaking of fitness, you’ve recently had a change in your training. Are you and Karolína planning on bringing in another performance coach, or will you be finishing out the year without one?”
That one isn’t so easy. Because while I’ve spent the last week explaining to my coach why I don’t need to work with Aleksandr, she’s spent the entirety of the week explaining to me why I do.
Namely the fact that over a third of my training comes from working with a performance coach, and that since Nora joined my team, I’ve consistently moved up the ranks. Also the fact that he’s done so much for Anya’s game and that his training in the offseason helped keep me in shape.
All good points, though I never admitted that to her.
If I can keep this run going here in Miami and prove to her that I can do this without a performance coach, at least until we can find someone else, it would make my life a whole lot easier.
“Right now, I’m trying to get through the end of hard court. Come clay season, we may reevaluate, but it’s not a top priority.”
“Of course. Clay season is your fav—”
“Nic!” a familiar voice calls. When I turn, Harper bounds toward us from the warmup area on the field.
“Oh, sorry, Jackson. I didn’t realize you were live,” she says with a laugh, tucking her dark brown hair behind her ears and giving the camera a winning smile. She waves at the viewers before turning back to us. “Just saying hi to Nic before I play.”
Despite her claim to be talking to me, her and Jackson’s eyes are locked on each other for a beat, then another, until finally Harper glances at me.
“Great match, Nic. You played like the next Miami Open champ.” She giggles, hooking her thumb behind her, where Sahar waves wildly from beside Noah. “Sahar and I are going on in a few.”
“Good luck,” Jackson and I say at the same time. Harper turns and heads back the way she came.
“What was I saying?” Jackson asks, dazed.
He clears his throat when he notices me watching him, shaking his head.
“Right, clay season. You grew up in Athens and trained on clay until you moved to the United States, right? You won the Junior French Open at seventeen before you aged up and began playing on the tour. Do you have Roland Garros in your sights again?”
The clay-court season spans April to the first week of June and features six tournaments.
Roland Garros, the French Open, is the culmination of the season, the final tournament on clay and the second major of the year.
A slam is always in my sights, especially the two I won as a junior.
After my triumphs, I had so many new fans rooting for me to become something great.
Many, I’m sure, have fallen away in favor of other players on the tour who’ve won slams, like Emilia and Anya.
Young blood that have come in and followed through on their promise.
If I can get a big win this season, it might put me back where I was when I first aged up. People might root for me instead of Anya, even if she has the home court advantage.
And maybe I’ll win the respect of my mother, if only for a brief moment.
My lips twist, hopefully hiding my grimace.
“Who would ever say they’re not hoping for a big title like Roland Garros?
” I answer. “I’d love for my first major on the pro tour to be on my favorite court, but we’ll have to see where clay season takes me.
” When I glance at Pen, she gives me a thumbs up and an enthusiastic nod.
Jackson smiles, inclining his head toward me. “Nic, congratulations on your win. You played really well today. We’ll let you get some rest and recovery and hopefully talk to you again soon.”
“Thanks, Jackson.”
I set the microphone down and nod at Jackson once, pulling out my phone as I step away.
Pretending I’m not disappointed by the dearth of messages from my parents, I scroll through the congratulations in the big group chat before heading to the players’ gym, leaving Pen to take a call.
It doesn’t take long to get there, but a problem presents itself when Aleksandr pushes the door open for me, his face brightening.
“Happy Greek Independence Day!”
I blink, startled. “Oh…” It was heavy on my mind during the match, a small push on every strike of the ball so I could make my country proud on such a big day.
“Oh? I thought you’d be more excited.”
“I didn’t—” I clear my throat. He doesn’t need to know he’s the first to say it. “What’s up?”
His head tilts, but he doesn’t push. “I’ve got a cooldown workout for you.” For the first time, I note the printed spreadsheet in his hands.
My eyes narrow. “You don’t quit.” It’s been five days since our impromptu session, and I’d hoped he’d leave me alone after.
“You’re the most tenacious person I’ve ever met. I figured I should take a page out of your book. Your talent and drive make your potential higher than virtually everyone else on tour. I want to be the person to get you there.”
“Are you pitching yourself to me right now?” I ask incredulously.
“Yes.” He flashes a smile. “Did I do a good job? I practiced it in the mirror this morning.”
I can’t contain my eye roll, grabbing the small stack of papers from his hand.
He lets them go easily, grinning like he’s won.
I scan each of them. It’s an entire training program for the next three weeks, my name at the top.
Each box details the exact exercise with room for me to write in my weight or resistance level, and there are multiple options for pre-match, post-match, and rest and recovery days.
Brushing past him into the gym, I find Karolína. She smiles proudly. “There she is! Ready for cooldown and dinner?”
“Sure. Same as usual?” I ask, reaching for the set of resistance bands I keep in my bag, which lies at her feet.
Karolína glances at the papers still in my hand, then behind me, where I’m sure Aleksandr stands. “Or we could give Aleks a try,” she offers. It’s too coincidental for this all to be aligning so perfectly.