Chapter 2 #2
Patty, Austin’s coach, sets a hand on his shoulder and squats down, barely touching the ankle before Austin hisses in pain. “We need to get you to the health center. They’ll want to do imaging and get it braced.”
“I know. This blows,” he grumbles dejectedly.
“I’m sure it’s just a sprain!” I pipe up, then bite my lip nervously when Patty and Matteo help him up and it becomes clear the ankle can’t bear weight. My eyes lock on Matteo’s for a second, and I can tell he’s thinking the same thing I am.
Ankle sprains are a product of the sport. All the quick starts and stops make them the most common injury. But I’ve seen Austin with plenty of sprained ankles, and never has he seemed to be in so much pain.
“I’m probably fine,” he says, pulling his arm from Matteo’s shoulder, but Matteo puts it right back.
Austin’s trying to play it off—for whose benefit, I’m not sure. But I know that twist of his lips means he’s holding back.
Softly, I agree, “It’ll be okay, Austin. I’m sure you’ll be back on court in no time.”
Panic etches itself in the lines of his face as the trio moves toward the gate on the way to the health center, Austin’s rigid shoulders belying the calm and collectedness of his previous words. I drift back to my court, an eye on them the whole time.
It’s no surprise when Nic wins the next six games in a row and we call it for the evening.
Francesca meets me outside the women’s locker room a little over an hour and a half later to go over game strategy and film, as we do almost every day.
Only, my mind’s not really in it. The entire time I did my bike cooldown, stretched, foam rolled, and showered, my mind was on Austin and his injury.
He hasn’t texted me back, which worries me more.
The expression Francesca is wearing does nothing to assuage my concern.
“What? Did you hear something?”
“I stopped by the health center after you finished.” She blows out a breath. “It’s a ligament tear. His foot is incredibly swollen. They want him in a brace and on crutches doing physio for a few months. He won’t be able to do lateral movements for a while.”
“How long is he going to be out?”
“Not sure yet, but at least three months.”
I set my head back against the wall, closing my eyes. Austin may not be driven by money like me or glory like Nic, but like the rest of us who put our everything into this sport, he loves it. Any injury that takes you out, even in the offseason, is hard to bear.
“Did he seem okay emotionally? How was he acting?”
“Like he didn’t want us to know he was upset.”
My eyes open, taking in her frown. I should go into town to grab some things since he’ll be home more often.
I make a mental note I hope I won’t forget in the three hours it takes to go through strategy and eat dinner.
I’m sure Austin will get through physio in record time, but I still wish I could do more for him.
As I start toward the meeting rooms we use for film, Francesca says, “We should talk through your options.”
“My options?” I ask dumbly, turning back to her. “What do you mean?”
“Austin’s going to be out for the Australian Open. He might be fine in time for Indian Wells or Roland Garros, but you’re losing mixed doubles income for the first major for sure. So either we follow Nicola’s lead and focus on singles, or you try doubles with someone else.”
Sahar and Harper will be playing together, and Anya plays with her older sister. I can’t think of any other person I trust enough not to serve into the back of my head.
“I don’t know that there’s anyone left for me to train with. Everyone has their partners. Have you heard about someone trying to make a switch?”
“You could play with Matteo. Just for January. He’s a great player, and if you train with him a couple of days a week for the next six weeks, you might make a significant amount of money from it.
If Austin is still out after that and things are going well, you could see about continuing through the season. ”
“What?” I laugh at Francesca’s attempt at a joke.
It’s not as simple as she’s making it sound to up and start playing with someone I hardly know, even if we do have a couple of months to prepare for the tournament.
Brooding Matteo, a top fifteen men’s player who doesn’t know me from Adam, seems a bit out of left field.
Earnestly, Francesca grabs both my hands.
Her dark brows pinch together, and those wrinkles carved into her face become more severe.
“Del, you know I believe in you one hundred percent. If you want to focus on singles, I think we can get you to more quarterfinals and semis. Hell, I know you can win these tournaments. And sure, we can find you someone else to play regular doubles with for the year. But if you want at least a shot at some big prize money early in the season, he’s your best option. ”
“I don’t…What?” I ask again, pulling my hands from hers and tucking them into my armpits. “Why on earth would that be the logical next step?”
“Because he has a similar style of play to Austin and you both need a doubles partner.” I’m about to protest again, but she cuts me off. “And I guess when Austin mentioned he felt bad you would lose mixed in January, Matteo said he’d be happy to step in if he was okay with that.”
“If—if Austin was okay with it?” I sputter. “What about whether I’m okay with it?”
She mutters something in Italian and then lets out a long-suffering sigh, like I’m a petulant child in a grocery store refusing to put a candy bar back.
“Again, it’s up to you. If you want to focus on singles and you think it will provide you with enough money to cover all the bills you pay for yourself and your family, we can do exclusively singles.
You have sponsors for clothing and equipment.
You’re an amazing player with so much potential, so I would not be shocked if you showed up for the Australian swing, racket blazing, beating out every single other player.
But I’m giving you this option at this one tournament to earn the money you could have won with Austin. If you lose first round, no big deal.”
It is…an interesting choice. My primary endorsement deal is set to end this month, and I have no idea whether they’ll renew it.
Even then, it’s only for my clothes and shoes, so there’s no actual money coming in from it, just a breath of relief that I don’t have to worry about my many outfits on tour.
“Wouldn’t we have to be lucky enough to get a wild card?”
“It’s Matteo. You’ll get it.”
I back against the wall again, parsing all that she’s told me.
Doubles is a significantly smaller portion of my income.
The payouts aren’t anything to write home about in comparison to singles.
But Francesca is right that it’s low risk with the potential for a high reward.
If we do well, and that’s a big if, I wouldn’t turn my nose up at the amount, no matter how small. Every cent I save is important.
I’d be going back to a three-day singles, two-day doubles training schedule though, and that would detract from my singles work.
Plus, I like knowing that my work is what has freed me from the hell of financial insecurity.
Jumping into a partnership with someone just because he’s a great player and might help me make a little more money feels like admitting I need help.
I don’t.
Before I can respond, Matteo steps out of the men’s locker room, expression unreadable.
His thick, water-soaked dark brown curls are held back by a hat turned backward, and it’s been at least a few days since he’s shaved, though there’s nothing disheveled about him.
Brown eyes lock on mine and hold, like they did earlier on the court.
Once again, the intensity makes me squirm.
And then he’s gone, sauntering down the hall and out the door without so much as a nod.
I square my shoulders, dropping my voice in case anyone else is around.
“I’ll look at my finances and think about it, but I’m leaning toward no.
I think I’m making enough. I’ll be fine without one tournament.
We should focus on singles like Nic and try to get deeper in the draw so I have more to show for each tournament.
I’ll be fine.” I have to be. I always am.
Chase, the twins, even Dad rely upon that. Rely upon me.
There’s no judgment in Francesca’s face when she nods. “Alright.” And then she grins evilly. “But don’t complain to me when you have to do singles work five days a week.”
“Diabolical.”