Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
NAOMI
The word dropped like a stone between us, and where part of me wanted to scoff and tell him that was the dumbest idea I’d ever heard, I found that I couldn’t.
The half-formed, probably-not-going-to-happen plan I’d been ruminating on for the last week or so suddenly became a path I could actually see myself walking down.
Mixed doubles was a good way to increase my chances without really detracting from the fact that I was returning to a tour full of incredible athletes, which was going to need as much attention as I could give it.
And Madrid really was my last chance to try to win a medal. Or my last chance to make it to the Olympics at all. I’d had an abdominal injury eight years ago and managed to catch the flu in the middle of summer three years ago, so I’d never been part of Team GB.
“You’d do that?”
Sam’s smile was wide as he started nodding. “I’m not going to turn down the chance to share a court with the Queen of Tennis.”
I rolled my eyes. “None of that, thanks.”
“Won’t happen again,” he said as a pink flush appeared along the back of his neck. Then I remembered where we were and what I was supposed to be doing.
“I’m not agreeing to anything right now. Except finishing this appointment, so lie back down.”
I took a deep breath as he settled into place and went back to work.
I’d managed to park thoughts of returning to tennis for the rest of the appointment, but the moment I said goodbye to Sam, they came back with a vengeance.
I wanted to find Alisha, or even better, Wyatt, but I knew that the moment either of them heard the word ‘return’, they would start thinking ten steps ahead when I’d barely decided if I was fully going to commit.
I knew that no one missed it more than either of them, and they would jump at the chance to go back.
I needed an outside opinion. From someone who knew me well, but also had no qualms being honest with me, and no skin in the game at all.
I needed to talk to Isaac.
Isaac Bounds and I went to uni together.
We did the same course, but he was two years below me.
I wasn’t actually sure how we became friends, but by the time I graduated, he was someone I considered one of my best friends.
During my first year on the tour, Isaac was one of the people I talked to the most when it felt like things were getting on top of me.
He continued to be that person for me, and I didn’t see him in person anywhere near enough because when he graduated, he moved to Melbourne, and our paths only crossed for two weeks in January.
He’s become an incredible sports psychologist. So good that he was the first call I made when I decided to add that to the roster at S&S.
And he was going to move back from Australia to do it.
There was something ironic about the fact that we were mere weeks from being in the same city again, and I was thinking about travelling the world.
Right now, I needed both Isaac the friend and Isaac the psychologist.
I made sure my office door was locked, and video called him. As always, no matter the time difference, he answered. Despite it coming up to midnight, he looked wide awake. Blond hair spilling out from under a hat, tattooed arms on full display.
“Hey, what’s up? You look panicked.”
I looked at myself on the screen and saw that I did look slightly out of sorts. Mostly around the eyes, which did look panicked.
“Hey, can I ask you something?” I leaned back in my desk chair and tried to relax.
“Course you can.”
“I need your advice. And I need you to be honest. You can be brutal about it if you want,” I said as my fingers tapped against the edge of my desk.
He nodded slowly as he ran a hand over his face. “Okay.”
“Do you think I can go back?”
His eyebrows pinched together. “To playing tennis?” I nodded. “You’re cleared, physically?”
“For physical exercise, yeah, have been for months. But I knew I couldn’t go straight back to playing tennis because the demands of exercise aren’t necessarily the same as the demands of the sport.”
I still trained like I did when on the tour, with regular strength and mobility sessions. I just didn’t practise playing tennis. There was an underlying worry that I’d forgotten how to hold a racquet.
“Hence the side hustle. Have you set foot on a court since you left?”
I shook my head. “Every time I’ve walked by them at the other site, I’ve thought about it, but the thought of stepping up to that baseline made me feel sick. I think I could move around the court. I’m running no problem. But…”
I trailed off, and Isaac filled in the gaps.
“No, I get it. If my ankle gave up on me when I was serving, I would also feel reluctant about trusting my body to do it again. But if you’re running, you’re already putting force through the ankle, and it’s not causing you a problem.”
“Running isn’t generating the same amount of force on it, though. Nor am I launching myself into the air and putting all my weight onto my right foot with the landing. The demands are different.”
Isaac hummed. “Were you apprehensive to start running when you could add it back in?”
I frowned. “Of course I was. It was putting more force on my ankle than it had withstood in months.”
“Okay, so you acknowledge that you have to put weight and force through one foot when you’re running. And you’re doing that without issue?”
“I—that’s not—” I sighed and leaned forward. “They aren’t the same.”
“Not completely, but they’re similar enough, and you’re doing one just fine. But you’ve confirmed what I suspected.”
“Which is?”
“I think you could go back physically, no problem. You’re gonna have to work on the mental side of it, though.
Overcome this warranted fear you have of serving.
If you’re coming back now, then you’ve missed clay, but you should also probably get ahead of the game and address any potential fears you might have of that, because I doubt you can avoid it.
I’ve got a couple of people who might be able to help. ”
“I’m already in therapy. The potential mental blocks haven’t come up, though, because up until last week, I wasn’t actively planning to go back. Although send me the names anyway because I might need a specialist for this.”
“Will do. Where is this urge coming from anyway?”
“As you and everyone’s dog probably knows, Leesh and I went to the Italian Open, and I dunno, it sparked something inside me. This itch to get back out there and compete. Or at least try to.”
“Mimi, you’re one of those players whose name instills fear. That’s half the battle. You’ll be competitive.”
I rolled my eyes. “Whatever.”
“I’m being serious! If you can find a way to manage your fear of serving, then you’re a threat. Maybe not for the first few games, but come North America? I reckon the field will be terrified to face you again. But come on, that’s only half the story. What’s your why?”
“I want to compete for the gold medal.”
Isaac blew out a long breath. “Well, shit, Naomi. I mean, it’s a good goal. A real fairytale.”
“Ending. A fairytale ending,” I clarified, and in doing so realised that I was going to do this. Whatever I’d been looking for with this conversation, I’d found.
“If anyone deserves it, it’s you.”
I felt the telltale pressure of tears at the back of my eyes. Ever since my injury opened the literal floodgates, I found that I was much quicker to tears these days. I blinked rapidly to try to keep them at bay until at least the end of this phone call.
“I deserve to give myself a chance,” I said, my voice giving away that tears were close.
“The real question is, who’s gonna coach you?”