Three Teagan
Three
Teagan
B y the weekend, my stomach is in knots, and not just because my business is on the cusp of financial ruin. My lunch with Charity Wilson at the Phoenix Country Club is today, and she wants us to play a game of tennis. I hung up my racket years ago. Feeling the solid handle and taut strings reminds me I vowed never to play the sport again. I had every intention of keeping that promise—until now.
My tennis dress is classic and unlike my former fashion choices of bold and graphic colors. It’s white with a built-in bra and a semi-fitted skirt made of breathable Dri-FIT material. I’ll fit right in with the country club crowd. However, putting it on feels constricting; I can’t breathe. I bend over, take in big gulps of air and give myself a pep talk. You can do this, Teagan. You have to. Everything you’ve worked for since reinventing yourself over a decade ago is on the line.
Be the boss babe.
I stand up straight and stare at myself in the mirror. But the reflection staring back at me is not one I recognize. I’m used to being calm, confident and sure about my actions. Today, I’m the opposite. I’m scared of opening up a part of myself I closed off and buried. Playing tennis again leaves me fraught with anxiety. Instead of wearing my hair feathered, up and away from my face with hairspray, I’ve slicked it down with gel until it frames both sides of my face. Other than arching my brows, mascara and a swipe of lipstick, I keep my makeup to a minimum. In the past when I played, I never wore any, but I can’t go without, not today. I need armor.
I snatch my new racket bag, sling it over my shoulder and head out of the bedroom. I got rid of all my tennis paraphernalia years ago and had to purchase new gear earlier this week. Within minutes, I’m in my Benz and headed to meet Charity. I try not to let anxiety get the best of me, but it feels as if a large elephant is sitting on my chest. I push through, driving into downtown until I reach the sprawling eighteen-hole golf course and pull up to the valet stand outside the entrance of the Phoenix Country Club.
After we take care of preliminaries, the attendant quickly picks up my bag and follows me inside while another valet hops in my Mercedes and pulls away.
“Will you be playing tennis or racquetball today?” the first attendant asks.
“Tennis,” I respond in a clipped tone. “I’m meeting Charity Wilson.”
“Follow me.” He leads me through the main club until we arrive outside. With each step, I feel my anxiety level rise. Eventually, we stop at the tenth court.
Charity is already there with who I can only assume is her tennis coach, a blond fellow in shorts a bit too short. Meanwhile, Charity is rocking a two-piece tennis ensemble that shows off her svelte figure complete with the new boobs she raved about getting last year. Her red hair and bright emerald eyes easily stand out on the hard court.
“Teagan!” she screams when she sees me. She rushes over to give me air-kisses. “Omigod! I can’t believe you’re here.”
Neither can I. It’s the last place I want to be. “Thank you so much for the invite.”
“Of course, anything I can do to help a former champion.” Charity circles her arm through mine. “When I told the ladies you were coming, they were all so eager to meet you. No one’s ever met a Grand Slam winner.”
Why does she have to bring up my former glory? I didn’t have time to luxuriate in being a champion. I’d won only a few Grand Slams before the rug was pulled out from under me.
“That was a long time ago,” I respond politely.
“True, but no one else here has those kind of credentials. Trust me, it’ll go a long way with this crowd. Appearance is everything . Would you like some refreshments before we get started?” I notice a small stand with an attendant next to a large cooler. “There’s Evian, Fiji, smartwater, Gatorade… Or if you need something stronger,” she whispered, “I can arrange that also.”
“Water is fine.”
“Cole, do be a dear and bring me over two Evians, please.” Charity pulls me over to a bench outside the court.
“Yes, ma’am.”
Were all the attendants young men in their late teens or early twenties? I’m sure that’s no coincidence. I bet some of the married women have indulged in trysts. I try to be cordial so the day isn’t completely about me. “How’s your husband and the boys?”
“Ben is working like always,” Charity sighs. “He’s trying to make partner at his law firm so it’s all about clocking the hours, but that means I spend a lot of time alone with our three- and five-year-old. It was driving me bonkers until I joined the club and made some friends.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. It sounds difficult.”
“Sometimes I feel like a single mom.” Charity sighs again. She tosses her red hair as if she’s indifferent, but I sense she’s lonely. “I doubt you came today to talk about the woes of being a housewife. How can I be of assistance?”
“I’m always an ear to listen,” I respond, touching her hand. “As for helping, if you know of any friends who might be in the market to sell their home, that would be a start.”
“Of course. Ann Marie Walther mentioned the other day she and her husband might be relocating to Texas. She’s horrified to have to move to the Lone Star State.”
“I can put their house on the market and I lived in San Antonio during my teens before I went pro and can help them find a new place.”
“Sounds great. I’ll make the introduction.”
The attendant brings over our refreshments. Immediately, I’m unscrewing the cap and downing mine as if my thirst comes from being in the middle of the desert. My heart is loud in my chest. Can Charity hear it?
“Are you ready to get started?” Charity inquires.
I nod and finish off my water, tossing it in a nearby recycling bin. “Sure.” I attempt levity when I feel the exact opposite.
We stroll back to the court and I’m awed at the beauty of it. The hard rectangular surface with a low net stretched across the center ruled my life from the time I was eight years old until my forced departure at nineteen. I learned to play on different surfaces: clay, grass and hard court, but my favorite was always this one, the acrylic-topped hard top, because it’s faster and the balls bounce lower.
My hands are sweaty as I grab a ball from my bag. I was known for my serve, but I feel as skittish as a first-timer. I rub my hands down my dress and then lift my racket into the air and let the ball go. Everything else happens in slow motion, as if I’m watching myself play. Despite the years that have passed, tennis comes naturally to me and when Charity swings the ball back at me, I let my racket rip and topspin the ball crosscourt. She’s unable to hit it.
The score is 15–Love.
Charity puts her hands on her hips. “I thought you told me you haven’t played in years.”
“I haven’t.”
“Then you’re as gifted as everyone said you were,” Charity replies, “but I’m pretty good too and I’m not going down without a fight.” She crouches down into position for my next serve.
“Bring it on, Charity.” I send another serve her way.
We continue rallying. She gets several past me and has me on the run because I’m a little rusty, but with practice I can get better. If I want to. I’m not sure I do. This is a means to an end. A way to get in front of the wealthy and elite. After we play a set, I take a water break.
“Everyone at the club will want to play with you,” Charity says, dabbing her forehead with a towel. “Having you here will make everyone want to step up their game.”
“Honestly, I didn’t think I still had it.”
“You more than have it, Teagan. You never lost it.”
“I beg to differ. In the past, I would have slayed you.”
By the end of the match, I’ve won two sets and Charity’s won a set. Given I haven’t seen a court in over a decade, it’s not a bad outing, but I would definitely have kicked her ass if I’d been at the top of my game. Being back here brings up old memories.
“Everything all right?” Charity asks, coming over when she sees me in distress.
I shake my head to jolt myself out of the past. “Yes, yes, sorry.”
“Does being back here hurt?” Her green eyes peer into mine. “I would have thought after all these years it was behind you.”
I thought the same, but apparently, I was wrong. Some hurts run so deep they never heal.