Chapter 4 #2
Hearing the words from my own mouth paints them into reality.
I try not to panic. The work Nora and I do is incredibly important to my development on and off the court.
We spend hours perfecting my form in the gym, on the field, and on the court to prepare my muscles to better withstand the aggressive level of play I’ve developed.
Karolína is a genius when it comes to fixing my approach to a match, but that differs greatly to honing my body to improve my performance.
“Oh no! Do you think you’ll search for someone else or go without for a while?” Harper asks.
“I’d rather not go without, but I’m not sure what my other options are. I texted Karolína.”
“I’m sure the two of you will figure it out,” Delilah reassures me, stepping closer without touching me.
“Hey, so don’t get mad at me, but why not train with Aleks?
” Sahar asks after a beat. “He told Noah that if the right player came along, he’d be willing to step away from Anya’s training.
It’s not like she needs two performance coaches.
Plus, he was helpful and knowledgeable when he trained us this offseason. ”
“Is that a joke?” I ask sharply. Delilah winces, exchanging a look with Harper.
“No,” Sahar answers simply. “You know Karolína will recommend him first. Last season, Anya moved into the second spot in the rankings and won, what, like six titles? I’m not saying he was the sole reason but…
” She shrugs. “And, if you want to be petty, you’re also kind of getting in Anya’s head by taking her brother and performance coach. ”
I blink, but Sahar doesn’t back down. It’s something I like and respect about her a lot: she’s nearly as combative as I am.
“He might be the only performance coach willing to step up right now. If you start working with him during this tournament, you could be in a groove come clay-court season.”
Her final sentence hangs in the air, mocking me.
I grew up playing on clay, and it has always been the season I love most, even if it hasn’t always been good to me.
Clay is a slower court with balls that bounce higher, which is at odds with my aggressive and quick style of play.
Still, clay feels like home, and it’s the season I anticipate most each year.
But the concept of asking Aleksandr Morozov for help goes against everything I’ve worked so hard for.
His youngest sister is quite possibly the worst person I have ever met.
She smears me in the press and gloats every time she beats me.
After I win a set during a match, she takes a long bathroom break to disrupt my rhythm.
She always makes sure to take my favorite court (court fifteen, tucked away in a quiet corner of the facility), a grin pasted on her face when I walk through the gate and realize it’s taken.
The hitting partners Karolína lines up for me keep disappearing, only to appear on Anya’s team, in her box.
Through it all, her brother stands beside her, needling me with his faux boyish charm and comments he knows will piss me off.
And that’s not the worst of it. No, because that would require examining the infamous post-match press conference Anya gave last year after beating me at Wimbledon.
When asked if she thought I could win if we played again later in the year, the she-devil laughed and said, “My brother pointed out that she seemed out of shape, so maybe if she works on that.” And while one could make the argument that she has two brothers, only one of them trained and traveled with her to every tournament.
So the universe will have to forgive me if I’m not jumping for joy at the idea of working with the asshole.
Of course, my friends aren’t privy to all this. When I saw the presser, I was too embarrassed to show them. What if it was true? And if I showed them and admitted it bothered me, then what? It wouldn’t change a thing, and since none of them have brought it up, I’m not sure they’ve seen it.
To them, my dislike for Aleksandr probably begins and ends with the fact that he’s Anya’s brother. To them, perhaps I’m just petty.
I pull myself out of the anger-induced spiral Sahar’s comment pushed me into, realizing the girls have switched topics as we stroll through the final section of the gardens and toward Biscayne Bay.
Delilah stays close, her way of comforting me, I think.
She and Harper trade fun facts they learned from the plaques inside, and Sahar mouths, “I’m sorry,” before shooting me an apologetic smile.
I answer with what I hope is a reassuring nod.
A few hours later, as I sit in my hotel room watching the errors I made during my Indian Wells finals match, waiting for Karolína to let me know if she’s come up with anything, the few group training sessions I had with Aleksandr float through my head.
Each one pushed me exactly the way I like—to the point where I felt like my lungs might collapse—and my body was so sore the next day, I wasn’t compelled to hit the gym.
But in no universe, on no planet, is that enough to convince me he’s my sole option. Of that, I am sure.