40
“The US Open Is Off to a Heated Start for Luna Aldridge”
—Sartorially
NEW YORK MIGHT be painful during the winter when dirty snow covered every sidewalk, and the wind tunnels between corporate buildings made your eyes tear up, but at least you could layer scarves and escape to a store that had efficient heat.
In my opinion, a New York summer was so much more brutal.
Never underestimate the first week of September.
Those last days of summer, there was no ridding yourself of the slick sweat that stuck to your skin.
Especially not when the sun was beating down on your scalp as tennis balls charged at you.
Cecilia stood beside Coach at the side of the court. He’d yell a correction as she yelled tasks on my list.
“Fix that wrist!” Felix shouted. I let my wrist bend backward.
“Did you confirm with your dad about Mr. Alvarez?” Cecilia asked.
“Yes!” It came out in a strangled breath.
“Don’t lean forward, you’ll lose your balance!” he ordered.
I pushed my shoulders back, not having the energy to tell him that my form was off because it felt like I was playing inside a sauna.
My ankles were sore, my feet were swimming in my socks, and my mouth was dry, drinking in air as if it were water.
The last ten days of matches had been brutally hot.
But I had to thrive in the worst conditions.
If I could play in the worst conditions, then I could play even better out of them during the final tomorrow.
“Walt called to see if you were around tomorrow!”
“Is. That. A. Joke?” I repeated each word as I hit each ball.
“Unsure,” she responded.
“Get a backhand in there!” Coach commanded.
“Your dress is done for Sunday’s premiere!” she reminded me. “You also have an interview with Tennis Today next week for their ‘Women in Tennis’ feature.”
I blew a piece of hair out of my face. “Great,” I mumbled.
“Then—Amir, not right now!” she interjected, not wanting to stop her list.
Suddenly Amir was running up to me on the other side of the court.
“What is going on? Why are you breathing so heavily?” I gave him a sideways glance before running forward to the net for a drop shot. His hands clutched his knees and his head hung low.
“It’s”—deep inhale—“her”—deep exhale.
“Her who?”
“Her,” he spoke with exasperation.
I swung my arm below my hip, sending the ball to the right of the court. “Your rabbi? The Guac My World guy’s girlfriend? Your sister-in-law?”
He stood up, his shoulders slumped. “Ava Williams—she’s moved on to the final.”
I lost feeling in my arm. Dead weight in my socket. The racket fell to my side as the machine spat out another ball, hitting the ground behind me.
I had been so focused on staying in my own lane, not paying attention to any of the others’ matches or rankings in order to hold on to my own peace, that I hadn’t considered this outcome.
I was playing against the one person I never wanted to see again. The woman my ex-husband cheated on me with.