Chapter 3
Rori
LATE JANUARY
Green. All I see is the green of the ball coming towards me. Thwack. I hit it without thinking, muscle memory doing its thing.
“Game, second set, Ms. Reilly,” the umpire says.
My movements might be smooth, but I feel like I’m melting. The heat is killer here in Australia, where it’s summertime. On top of that, this match has me running ragged. My quarterfinal opponent is a French star, Natalie Picquet, and she’s higher ranked than me at #6.
We’ve split sets in the first two hours. Now that I’ve claimed the second set, whoever wins this third set goes on to the semifinals of the Australian Open.
OMG, my brain screams internally. This could mean my first semis of a Slam.
I try to breathe and stay in the moment. Repeating in my head all the affirmations that my coach Julie said this morning. “You have everything you need. You made it to the quarters. The semis are yours. Take them.”
People underestimate all the pieces involved in putting together a world-class pro tennis player.
Yes, you need top-tier tennis skills—which in themselves are years in the making, and require serious innate athletic gifts combined with relentless practice.
You also have to be in elite physical shape, so that your performance in the third hour on the court is at least as solid as in the first hour.
We run miles upon miles during a match, much of it sprinting.
And then there’s your mind. Your greatest strength or weakness is your mind.
You’re out there, all alone, surrounded by thousands of people, not to mention cameras recording every move, fighting for something that you have wanted since childhood.
The pressure is indescribable. It’s easy to lose your focus, or to become emotional and frustrated, if you do not train your mind as much as your body.
And that’s where Julie has made such a difference for me in my comeback.
After a chug of my water, I walk back out to serve first for the third set. My serve is solid—I’m no Serena, but it never costs me points and can help me win them. I’m known more for my speed and ability to anticipate where the other player is going to hit.
The ball goes into play as Natalie returns my serve. Neither of us are willing to concede the point. We exchange a few rounds of cross-court forehands as the intensity of the point heats up. The crowd seemingly feels the rising stakes too as they oooh and ahhh.
Natalie’s next hit goes down the line, a straight line shot, which is the shortest distance for the ball to travel, and the hardest for me to reach in time. But I get there, crush a forehand the opposite way, and take the point.
All those off-season suicide sprint drills during the last three months are paying off.
The crowd erupts, and I look around. This is only one point in a long set, but it feels like a pivotal moment. Natalie swings her racquet in frustration and curses in French.
I won’t lie, I love seeing her frustration. Julie has reinforced that I should capitalize on these moments and push harder, take advantage of the fact that my opponent is mentally vulnerable. Suddenly it’s easier to ignore the heat, and I march through the game, winning the rest of the points.
And in what feels like a dream, forty minutes later I win the set, 6 games to 3.
I’m in the semifinals of the Australian Open.
After showering and getting a hug from Maggie in the locker room, where she’s recovering from her own match, I check my phone. There are a ton of notifications, but not any from people I feel like talking to.
I accidentally scroll down too far past all the new messages and then I see his text. Still unanswered a few weeks later.
I sigh. Landon Battle. Our night was unforgettable, but I’m indeed trying hard to forget. I’m not going to get distracted texting some guy, I kept telling myself after he sent his message on New Year's morning. Now it’s been weeks.
I push aside the hint of guilt I feel about that and get back to packing up my things. Being in a competitive scenario like this tournament, the furthest I’ve ever gone in a Slam, the pressure I mentioned earlier? It’s now sky high. No guy drama allowed.
“Rori, do you want to grab dinner with Peter and me later?” I hear Maggie ask. “Our mixed doubles semi is in two days, so it’ll be an early meal and bed.”
“I’m good,” I say, knowing Julie will want to use dinner to strategize. “But so excited that we get to stick around for the semis at the same time. I’m just gonna chill, I think.”
Maggie gives me a nod and another big hug, and I walk back out of the locker room into more hugs, this time from Julie and my dad.
“Ohhhhh you did it, sweetheart,” Dad says with pride filling his voice. He’s a gentle giant, at least with me. At six foot six, he was a standout college basketball player before moving into the “real world,” building a career in financial services.
When my mom died, he became my rock, keeping his own mourning quiet while he tended to my devastated eight-year-old self.
As my tennis progressed, he left a big financial services firm and struck out on his own so he could stay flexible as I traveled to tournaments.
Now he has a solid book of clients, but that was never assured at the time.
I must have inherited my fearless side from him.
He also gave up much of a personal life.
As far as I know, he hasn’t dated seriously in the last twelve years.
People assume that money managers are all-business, but my dad’s a softie and always there to pick me up on bad days.
We never even attempted to have him step in as my coach, unlike so many other young stars, because he’d hate to be critical of me as a living.
Julie proves this point with her next reply.
“Rori has more to do,” she corrects him with a smile. “But that was amazing.”
A top 100 American player who never could quite stay healthy, Julie found her calling when she turned to coaching. I was lucky to have snagged her last year as I got ready to return from my injury.
“Do we know yet who I’m playing?” I ask as we start walking down the hallway to the exit.
“Yes, Hanna Savchenko,” Julie answers.
Ugh, the world #1. And someone I’ve never beaten.
Hanna’s hardcore, with a single-minded focus, and currently performing at her peak.
She’s also a cold character in the locker room.
An ice queen, some call her. I’m not easily intimidated, but her demeanor is off-putting.
In general, we try to stay friendly on the tour because we live so much of our lives together.
Hanna doesn’t take that approach, however.
Julie starts to launch into a high-level match strategy discussion, but I interrupt her. “I’m starving. Can we start focusing on Hanna after I eat something? Preferably a lot of somethings?”
She laughs, and we walk to the car, ordering room service on the way back to the hotel so it’ll be waiting for us when we arrive. Later on, we talk deep into the night about my game plan for the match after I’ve loaded up on food.
Well…
The game plan doesn’t work. Two days later, Hanna beats me once again, and my tournament is over. Victory—ice queen.
After Hanna comes to the net to shake hands, I take stock of my emotions. Last Australian Open, I was still in recovery from my surgery. I thought my career might be over. But after fighting, day after day, to get back to my best, I made it to my first semifinals in a Slam. And I feel damn proud.
Taking a deep breath, I peer over at my player’s box in the crowd. Julie and Dad, along with my publicist Taylor and a couple of friends from the tour, are all looking at me anxiously, as if they’re worried that I might be disappointed.
I throw a big smile toward Julie, and she starts to nod and clap. She knows what it took to get here. The rest of the group follows her cue and relaxes into cheers and more clapping.
Breaking eye contact with Julie after a few seconds, I turn back to pack up my gear. As I grab my extra rackets, a little girl’s high pitch shout cuts through the mumbling crowd noise.
“I love you Rori!” comes her adorable voice. I look up instinctively, following the sound to a spot on the opposite side of the court to my team’s box. The little girl is about seven, wearing my branded workout gear released late last year by one of my sponsors. I respond with a grin.
But then something else catches my attention.
Twenty rows up from the little girl is a man. Standing up, his eyes are focused on me. A small smile on his face.
Looking exactly like Landon. His curls shorn down, but if I’m not just seeing things in my post-match fatigue, I think it’s him?
A younger version of the man is standing with him. Didn’t he mention his brother was traveling with him?
Memories of our night start flashing in my mind—his gravel-textured voice as he whispered my name in my ear, his large hands moving on me everywhere, his delicious cologne making me feral. How genuinely he seemed to be interested in getting to know me and my world.
How he made me come more times than any of my past random hook-ups by a magnitude of four.
It couldn’t be him, right?
I spin around and grab a towel to wipe off the sweat that is running down my forehead into my eyes.
And when I turn back to see if I can spot him again, the seats are empty.