Chapter 4
Chapter Four
SAM
Iallowed the whole ‘covering THE Naomi Sullivan in her coffee’ thing to take up exactly thirty seconds of my mind for the changeover before I went back to thinking about the match at hand, because in those seconds, the voice in my head that sounded like my dad started shouting ‘focus!’
By game three, while trying to convert a break point for the lead, it was already a distant memory.
Then I started doing press.
“Did you know the person you hit with your ball was your compatriot, Naomi Sullivan?” some faceless man in the sea of reporters asked, catching me slightly off guard.
I’d thought we were rounding things up, not talking about something that had nothing to do with my game.
I could only imagine the field day my dad was going to have with this.
“I didn’t even know she was in the crowd until I was checking that she was okay.”
“And is she okay?” A different voice. This time from a woman in the front row, who I was pretty sure worked for The Oracle. Now that I was looking at her, I realised that historically, she didn’t tend to write about Naomi favourably. No matter what she did.
“She’s fine. Although she might be down an outfit,” I answered. “Thankfully, I only appeared to knock a coffee out of her hand, so other than some coffee stains, she’s all good.”
“I hope you offered to pay for her dry cleaning,” she continued, not content with the neutral answers I’d given so far. She wanted something to run with. I wasn’t going to give it to her.
When Naomi was on the tour, our paths didn’t cross that much.
They had no need to, and my dad was a stickler for making sure that we stayed in our own little bubble, especially this season when, for various reasons, other members of my team had left, leaving me with just my dad to travel the world with.
So even at joint events, I hardly saw anyone unless it was in the gym before a match or across the net.
But I’d followed her career for as long as I could remember and knew that no one got more unnecessary stories written about them than Naomi.
It was so bad that her sister started a newsletter to provide a counterpoint to the slush written about her.
Alisha hadn’t posted since Naomi went off court injured.
I still checked once a week to see if there was a recent post. At this point, if another one came up, I was expecting it to be a retirement announcement.
I hoped she would be able to announce that on her own terms.
“I will if she asks.”
The post-match debrief with Dad had lasted longer than I expected.
Watching tape of a match that lasted less than an hour didn’t seem like a four-hour event, but he’d turned it into one.
I’d hoped I would be able to get out and do something that wasn’t being in my hotel room or being on court, but that hope quickly died in a poorly lit conference room while all my errors were highlighted and dissected until I wondered if there was anything good about my game.
He’d let me eat dinner by myself, but it was in the hotel restaurant, and he still watched me like a hawk, so it wasn’t exactly a break.
By the time I’d gotten back to my room, it was after nine, and the first thing I did as I fell onto the bed was open social media.
My notifications bloomed red in the corner, and I clicked to clear, but not check, them before clicking over to messages.
Right at the top was a message from @nsully.
Naomi Sullivan.
I opened it.
The first message was a link to an article on The Oracle. Despite not giving an inch, the journalist had still run a mile and managed to put such a spin on it that by the end, I was almost convinced there was something between us that there wasn’t.
Naomi:
The good news (or bad if you’re me) is that the outfit might be ruined forever so no dry cleaning bills required
The bad news (but good if you’re me) is that you will never see this T-shirt again
I smiled and felt my cheeks heat at the idea of Naomi in my clothes.
I don’t care about the T-shirt. It’s yours.
I do feel bad about the outfit though.
The word ‘typing’ popped up immediately.
Naomi:
Don’t even worry about it. It hit a coffee cup, thankfully. And it wasn’t even going that fast by the time it got to me. It was just incredibly accurate
Were you particularly attached to the outfit I ruined?
Naomi:
Nah, I’ve only ever worn it on holiday. So I won’t miss it.
The voice in my head started telling me this was a distraction. But I ignored it. The best part of my day was turning out to be this conversation, and I wanted it to go on as long as I could.
You enjoy the tennis today?
It was a weak grab at something to prolong this, but after a short lull, she started typing.
Naomi:
Yeah. I did. It’s been a while since I watched it. Or acknowledged it existed
Really?
As someone whose life was tennis, I had no idea who I would be if I didn’t talk about it.
Naomi:
Yup. Had it blacklisted while I was post-surgery and although I technically never gave the okay, when Leesh realised we were going to be here at the same time as the Open she asked and I said yes.
Do you regret letting it back into your life?
Naomi:
Turns out I missed it.
Or I did. Then I got a suggested article come up about how I was only at the IO to get a lay of the land before making my comeback at RG of all places
I laughed. If Naomi was going to come back, it was unlikely to be during clay court season. Not when grass was next, and that was where she truly thrived.
Naomi:
Now, I don’t know. It was nice not to be talked about.
And I get to do all the tourist stuff I’ve never done here before.
On that, my sister has finally surfaced which means we can go to dinner
It was coming up to nine-thirty. The thought of going to dinner now sounded crazy to me.
But that might have been because within the next thirty minutes, I was going to get a reminder from my dad to go to bed so I could optimise my recovery.
I’d listen because I usually did, and honestly, if Naomi was done with this conversation, I didn’t have anything else to do but sleep.
Pasta?
Naomi:
When in Rome
Good luck in your next match :)
Thanks, enjoy getting to be a tourist
When I woke up the following morning, there was another message from Naomi sent just before midnight.
It was a photo of her by the Trevi Fountain, holding a cone dripping with gelato, a trail already starting to run down the light brown skin of her forearm.
Naomi:
This is what dreams are made of
(And if you don’t get the reference, please ghost me because I cannot deal with that)
Fortunately for me, I had two older sisters.
Just don’t ask me to sing for you…