Cross Court (Off Court #2)

Chapter 1

one

The best and worst thing about tennis? Momentum can change on a dime.

One well-placed shot, one second’s hesitation, muscles springing into action a moment too late, and suddenly the tide shifts.

A match you were losing by miles can be within your grasp in a few won games, your opponent’s confidence ripped to tatters.

Which I’ve now squandered.

Four games in a row lost, and the American crowd clamors for my American nemesis, Anya Morozov, stomping their feet and clapping with excitement that she’s one game away from being crowned this year’s Indian Wells champion. A title nearly as prestigious and coveted as that of a major.

The two towels I slung over my face at the start of our short break do nothing to drown out the noise, though I am thankful I got them on before the frustrated tears began.

Déjà vu simmers through me, reminding me of January of this year, during an unprecedented run to the final of the Australian Open before falling to the world number one, Emilia Kessler, in a third set I could have won.

Should have won. Or last month in Doha, playing some of my best tennis before losing in the final to the world number three, Valentina Ortega.

“Time,” the chair umpire calls, which only escalates the noise reverberating around Stadium 1.

“Anya! Anya! Anya!” The chant sets my teeth on edge. Ripping the towels off my head, I grab my racket and march to stand below my near empty players’ box. I don’t dare glance at Anya; I’m sure she’s grinning like a Cheshire cat.

Karolína, one of few privy to how difficult I am on myself during matches, ensures her face is devoid of anything but pride, though as my coach, there are plenty of technical and strategic things she could tell me to fix. Things that will torment me if I lose this match.

Who am I kidding? They’ll probably torment me even if I win.

“Play your game, Nic,” she yells from the first row, her bright blue eyes focused singularly on me. Still, with a thunderous crowd drowning out everything my insecurities don’t, I hardly hear her, forced to read her lips. “Be offensive. Four points to tie it. You can do this.”

I’m not so sure. My aforementioned tattered confidence wanes with each passing second, replaced with self-hatred and anger. And while I’m sometimes able to harness that anger and channel it to play better, that hasn’t been the case today.

It’s been like this for a while, the defeat weighing heavily after years of hard work not paying off. The sport I used to love nothing more than a chore, a means to get the adoration of a crowd that rarely roots for me in big moments.

My coach claps a few times for my benefit, encouraging me to focus once more. Penelope, my manager and publicist, and Nora, my strength and conditioning coach, each give me a thumbs up beside her, their expressions less veiled. They may be the only three people in this stadium rooting for me.

I wonder if they think I’ve lost already.

Shoving the notion from my mind, I turn toward the baseline, stepping a foot closer to the deuce side service box than I have been the last few games Anya served.

After shifting the strings of my racket so they’re evenly spaced and slapping each of my shoes with the center of the strings, I glance up.

The umpire looks around, maybe shocked the crowd has yet to quiet. “Ladies and gentlemen, please.”

Finally, my eyes land across the court, where I spot Anya’s grin, wide and trained on me.

Taunting me. My blood rises to an absurd temperature, my hand tightening around my racket.

I jump once, twice, and drop my shoulders so my torso is nearly parallel to the court, bending my knees and moving side to side.

Anya’s serves are like bullets, and if I can get the center of my strings on the ball, I can harness her power.

The crowd quiets, silent as the dead, everyone’s breath held as Anya tosses the ball.

Her first serve is an ace up the T. The stadium erupts like it’s over. And maybe I’m a fool for believing otherwise.

My resolve slips, and I take a step back for her next serve, giving myself more room in case she tries to serve up the middle again. Though, based on the countless hours of tape I’ve watched on her, she won’t. I adjust my strings again, tap the center against each of my heels, and get set.

It’s a kick serve out wide, my backhand return sailing past her baseline.

“Come on!” she roars alongside the thousands of people cheering her on.

Helplessness eats at my nerves, my hands shaky. She’s two points away now. Adjust my strings. Tap the center of the racket against both heels. Bend and move side to side.

Another ace. I might as well not be here. I’m letting the crowd in, letting them take away my chance at the fifth biggest title of the year, but I can’t figure out what to do.

With one last chance, I return the ball to her forehand, and there’s nothing to be done when she sends it perfectly down the line.

A triumphant shriek from the other side of the net.

It’s over.

My ears ring. Like my body knows the last two grueling weeks I’ve spent getting to the finals have come to an end, it aches, every muscle in need of an ice bath and massage. My walk of shame to the net is met with a curl of Anya’s lips and a sarcastic “good match,” her snicker poorly concealed.

Do not rip her arm off her body, I tell myself, though no one can fault me if my grip is tighter than necessary when we shake.

“Good match,” I pretend to agree through gritted teeth before turning to shake the umpire’s hand. Anya begins hitting balls to fans and pumping her fists, basking in her win. Infuriating as always.

Outside of a title slipping through my fingers, the worst part of losing in the final is that I’m expected to sit here and accept the consolation prize.

Any other round of the tournament, I’d get to walk off the court as soon as it’s over, but for the final?

Give a speech, take pictures, and act as though I want to be here when I’d rather be anywhere else.

I am so sick of losing important finals. Losing one was demoralizing enough, but three? In three months? Pitiful.

It’s taken me seven fucking years to break inside the top ten, but no one cares about that. No one gives a shit about you unless you take home the big titles: Australian Open, Indian Wells, French Open, Wimbledon, US Open. There is no love for an almost winner. For someone who can’t close.

There are winners and there are nobodies.

And I cannot afford to be a nobody. I cannot afford to continue reaching the finals only to fall to players like Emilia, Valentina, or Anya, younger and less seasoned despite their higher rankings and greater title achievements.

It’s not long before the dreaded “and now, to receive her trophy, Nicola Vassilakis” thrusts me from my self-loathing.

And as if the disappointment of the loss isn’t enough, I stand on stage, holding my sad, little trophy, telling the person I hate most on tour what a great player she is in front of thousands of her adoring fans.

A fate worse than death.