Chapter 1 #2
Robbie hands his phone over to Dad and walks in my direction. I know I shouldn’t ask, but I do because a small part of me is always so heartbreakingly hopeful.
“Where’s Mom?” I ask Robbie, not caring to dry myself as heavy water droplets drip down my face onto the floor.
As I wait for his response, I redo my ponytail.
“Is she out there?” I make a double fool of myself for pressing a question to which I already know the answer. “Did she come or not?” I insist, for good measure, and a good dose of masochism.
God, she doesn’t have to be sober, just here. Present. Why does she always make me feel like her attendance is too much to ask?
Robbie runs a hand through his thick, wavy, golden hair. He shakes his head once, pushing his dark-framed glasses up the bridge of his nose, his piercing ice-blue eyes staring back into mine. We couldn’t be more different, Robbie and me. But he takes after my mother’s looks. Thankfully, just that.
My teeth dig into my lower lip to hide the tremble, reminding me how I didn’t do it before my last serve. I didn’t bite my lip when I NEHBL-ed. I skipped a step, and that’s nobody’s fault but mine.
“She wanted to watch the final at the country club with her friends. You know how tennis is such a big deal over there, and she …” I stop listening to whatever shitty explanation Robbie’s cooking up at the last minute on her behalf to make me feel better.
All the while, I’m left standing, wondering what it would be like to have Mom here with me, comforting me. To glimpse a shred of pride shining in her eyes for having made it this far. But I sling the thought away as Robbie and Dad sandwich me in a crushingly adorable hug.
I don’t need her, I remind myself, tears beginning to roll down my face.
Damn her and her day-drinking, country-clubbing friends to hell.
I cry-laugh through the hug, but I can’t distinguish between sweat, water, and tears anymore. Although I’m sure I’m depleting my body’s mineral supply fast because everything tastes salty in my mouth.
Drew storms into the locker room in a freshly pressed suit, talking on the phone. A security guard plucks the cigarette from his fingers and walks off without a word. Drew barely notices, swatting a lazy hand in his direction like he’s a Zika-carrying mosquito.
Dad gently breaks off the embrace and marches over to Drew, his towering frame reaching him in a few long, sturdy strides. He makes Drew look tiny as he stands beside him.
Finally, I sit on the couch, and Robbie tosses a blue Sportaid my way.
As I drink fast and deep, Elliot paces the locker room, shaking his head as if buried deep in his thoughts.
He’s not calling me out or scolding me as he does every single time after a match.
Even when I win, he gives me shit. But he’s not talking to me, which is highly disturbing.
Robbie grabs a yellow Sportaid for himself and plops on the couch beside me.
“You know you’re getting fined, right?” he says. “You were out of control out there. Chad’s not gonna let it slide this time.”
“I know.”
“You’ll be lucky if they let you play next year,” he adds, sucking on his yellow drink.
Panic swirls around me, making my spine stiffen for a second, but I shake the thought away. He’s overreacting. I’ve seen other players do worse and walk away with a modest fine, but they’re men, so having a temper and acting out is “more acceptable.”
Commendable, even.
“I said I know.” I shove my shoulder against Robbie’s while trying to overhear Dad’s conversation with Drew. He’s not telling me anything new. My inability to control myself doesn’t affect my self-awareness.
My father nods at whatever Drew’s telling him with bunched-up brows, his lips pressed into a line.
It’s bad news.
No … it’s terrible news.
They both walk in my direction, and I look at them from the corner of my eye, taking a longer swig of my blueberry Sportaid. Angry tears are still rolling down my cheeks. I can’t help it. I’ve never known how to shut down my emotions or reel them in.
“Okay, Bamm-Bamm,” Drew says as a creative opening statement. “I’m not gonna sugarcoat this for you. We’re safe with Adidas because they’re obsessed with you, but the guys at Neel Ultex are peeing blood after your little demonstration out there with their precious little racket.”
Drew takes out his cigarette box. “You don’t mind, do you, kid?”
He lights one up inside the locker room, leaving no room for me to complain.
I give him a blank stare and a raised brow because I’m not in the mood to remind him that my alveoli are wide open after physically exerting myself, and that secondhand smoke might do more damage to me than the actual smoking will do to him.
But we both know he’s going to smoke it anyway.
“Neel Ultex wants to drop you,” Drew finally says, taking a long drag from his cigarette. He exhales upward, but I cough anyway to let him know how annoying it is. I can’t help myself.
“If you ask me, I’d say it’s great publicity,” he shrugs, “since that thing is intact after you tried to annihilate it. But that’s not what they’re aiming for marketing-wise, I’m afraid.”
I was expecting them to drop me. It comes with the territory of being: “A Mercurial Hot-Mouthed Teen.” That’s from another headline I woke up to a few days after my birthday during the Australian Open earlier this year.
“Sportaid?” I ask Drew, lifting my drink.
“No thanks, I’m good,” he replies, lifting a hand in front of him.
“Jesus, Drew,” Dad says, his tone exasperated. “She meant Sportaid.” He lifts his brows to see if Drew will catch on.
“Ah, shit. You’re right.” Drew chuckles under his breath.
“I gotta give Lou a call. They might be willing to overlook this,” he considers, his eyes fixed on his phone’s screen as he types.
“They didn’t mind when Dane Gomes accidentally uploaded a controversial video on Facebook last month with a hook—”
“We all heard about the video,” Dad cuts him off before he finishes that sentence. “No need to bring it up.”
Robbie chuckles, and I sigh because I don’t want to ask the next question, but I have to. So I toss my Sportaid on the bench beside me and harden up. “What about Rolex?”
Drew looks up from his screen and parts his lips to reply.
“They’re out,” Dad says, looking away. The disappointment in his face slashes my gut.
No …
I lean my head back and pull my knees against my chest.
“Eh. Not exactly, Joe,” Drew interjects, lifting a finger. “They said they’re willing to temporarily hold off on the ambassadorship.” He waves his cigarette in an undulating motion in front of him. “They want to observe you during the tour next year.” He takes a longer drag.
“O-kay?” I reply, not wanting to get my hopes up. “That’s good, right?”
Everyone stares at me in silence.
“Right?”
“Well, it depends, kid.” Drew shrugs, smoke coming out of his nostrils as he tucks his phone inside his inner jacket pocket. “You would have to, you know … behave.”
“I can do that,” I assure him, rubbing my hands and nodding. “It’s not like I’m spiraling out of control or something.”
Robbie throws a nasal hmm at me, Drew tilts his head and narrows his eyes like he’s looking at a cute puppy, and my dad crosses his arms at his chest.
“What?”
“Let’s pretend that’s possible for a second, m’kay?
” Drew shoots back, hitting the mark. “But they also want you to win the US Open next year. They still have faith in you and think it would be a meaningful partnership since your mom was an ambassador too, and they’re all about generational legacy and yada yada. ”
Well, that’s convenient.
I could kill three birds with one stone.
Drew pulls his vibrating phone out of his pocket for the hundredth time and sends whoever is calling him to voicemail.
“Sound good to you? US Open next year. Doable? Yes or no?”
He stretches his left arm in front of him and squints at his watch before bringing his cigarette to his lips again, taking it to the filter.
Winning the US Open next year is not only doable but necessary. I made a promise to myself, set a personal goal for myself. One I’m not ready to divulge. But it will be the only thing I live and breathe for the next 383 days.
“Of course!” I exclaim, feeling confident, but overdoing it with enthusiasm. “Super doable!”
I still need to learn how to calibrate my friendly responses. They always come out forced, like I’m incapable of being genuinely warm towards others, when I know I can be.
“Elliot will work his magic, and we’ll make it happen.
I know I sucked in Australia, but I already won Roland Garros, made it to the semis this year at Wimbledon, and won second place today.
” It stings so badly to say it out loud and accept it because I didn’t win shit.
“I’d say things are looking pretty good. Right, Elliot?”
Elliot shudders, breaking away from the self-induced trance he was under at the mention of his name.
“I’m afraid not,” he mutters, seeming detached from his response. His hands are tucked inside his pants pockets, and I haven’t seen him lift his gaze from the floor since I got here.
“Elliot?” I smile, puzzled, the corners of my mouth twitching. Trying to meet his eyes is pointless.
When he doesn’t react, my smile melts, so I repeat, “Elliot?”
He finally glances at me and nukes the hell out of the locker room with three simple words, “I quit, Belén.”
1 “You sellout piece of shit! Go f—”