Chapter 13
thirteen
Charleston’s unique gray-green clay sticks to my sweaty body as I stand on the baseline, one game away from being this year’s Charleston Open champion. I wipe a hand on my maroon split-skirt dress, then blow on my palm as Karolína yells encouragement from my box.
“One more, Nic! Right here.” If I strain, I can almost make out which set of hands clapping is Aleks’.
After wiping away a bead of sweat traveling down the side of my face, I bounce the ball four times, toss it into the air, and slap it into play.
Jenny Wooledge gets it back at the last second, an accidental drop shot that brings me to the net.
A well-placed cross-court shot to her ad side.
A ball slapped right at me that I volley cross court again, right inside the service line.
“Fifteen, love,” the chair umpire says after its second bounce. The crowd cheers, loud whoops ringing out, and a quick chant of “Nic! Nic! Nic!” imbue me with an electric energy. Adrenaline and excitement course through my veins, where two days ago there was only exhaustion.
Three points away. I don’t know if it’s just that I’m winning or if I’m finally enjoying this sport that seemed a chore not so long ago.
Wipe away the sweat. Bounce the ball four times. Toss it into the air. Slap it into play. Ace.
“Thirty, love.”
More cheering.
Wipe away the sweat. Bounce the ball four times.
Toss it into the air. Slap it into play.
She gets it back this time, and it’s a backhand cross-court duel.
Every time she thinks I might change it up, I keep it cross court, wearing her down until she makes a mistake, hits a ball a little too short, right in my strike zone, and I put it away down the line.
I barely hear the umpire’s “forty, love” over the roaring crowd.
Grabbing my towel, I wipe away the sweat on my face and shoulders, trying to mentally set myself up for the match point. The media has accused me of not being the best closer, and I’m not going to be felled by that today.
“Thank you, ladies and gentlemen.” It takes the chair umpire two tries to get them to quiet after I’ve lined up at the baseline. “Thank you.”
My mind tells me to take it all in, look at the crowd and soak in what I’m about to achieve. But I haven’t done it yet, so…
Wipe away a bead of sweat. Bounce the ball four times. Toss it into the air. Slap it into play. Her return slides into the net, and it’s over.
“Come on!” I shout, pumping a fist as I find Karolína, Pen, Delilah, and Aleks all standing and clapping for me.
“Game, set, and match, Vassilakis. 7–5, 6–4.”
I make the quick walk to the net, where I shake Jenny’s hand. “Great match,” we say in unison. I thank the umpire before I let my smile take over my face, basking in the crowd’s praise. I wave to one side of the stadium, then to the three others.
The trophy ceremony and speeches move quickly, and before I know it, I’ve made it to the players’ gym for my cooldown before press and photos. Karolína holds out her arms for a hug, and I’m excited enough, I don’t mind. Another for Pen and Delilah, who squeeze me tightly.
“Told you you could do it,” she whispers. “The season of Nic.”
“Maybe.”
She sets a hand on her chest, comically affronted. “Maybe? You just won the first clay tournament of the season! This is everything you needed to prove to yourself and the world that you’re a force to be reckoned with on clay. Roland Garros, here you come!”
The words are so kind, I force a wider smile and squeeze her hand briefly.
I try not to let my friends see how much I struggle with what the media says about me or the fact that I’m a disappointing failure when compared to my mother and my accolades as a junior.
Telling them would serve no purpose other than bringing them down with me.
But of everyone, Delilah has witnessed it up close the most.
My eyes slide to Aleks, who stands behind the rest of my team, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed lazily, a grin on his face. Like there was no alternative ending to this tournament in his mind.
I give Delilah another small smile. “You’re right. It’s good news for the season. It’ll certainly help my ranking.”
So why does the voice in my head keep saying, Don’t stop now.
Keep the momentum. Get in the gym. Finish this.
It plays on a loop, and regardless of how exciting it was to hold up the trophy, how exciting it was to have the crowd cheering for me, nothing will quiet the sound.
This is a small title, after all. I need bigger ones. WTA1000s and Grand Slams.
When does it end? When do you stop pushing yourself so hard that you collapse? When? Now Aleks’ voice joins, tangling with mine, rattling so loudly, I have to shove my nails into my palms to get out of my head.
It’s after dark by the time I’ve finished my cooldown, pressers, taken photos with the trophy, and had dinner with my team. As I pass the front desk of the hotel, a staff member flags me down, a large bouquet of flowers in his hands.
“Miss Vassilakis!” he calls, and I break away from my team, waving them to go ahead without me. Aleks eyes the man before disappearing into the elevator hall around the corner with Pen and Karolína.
“Yes?” I ask him.
The man holds up the vase. “These are for you. Delivered an hour ago. Should I have them sent to your room?”
I eye the muted pink and white roses, accented with other similarly colored flowers that I can’t name. It screams my mother, and I take the glass vase. “I’ve got them, thank you.”
Waiting until I get to my room to check the card proves difficult, so I hold the vase against the elevator wall with my hip and grab the small white cardstock in the middle.
Congratulations, Nicola. A job well done. Let’s discuss this week. – CAV
The elevator jolts to a stop on my floor, and I grip the vase tightly, holding it to my chest as I make my way to my room.
My mother knows I won a tournament. She’s proud of me.
It’s so shocking a sentiment that, when I get inside, I set them on a table and sit beside them, staring at the card until the words blur.
Only when my cheeks numb do I realize I’ve been smiling.
All the hope I’ve been hoarding that one day I’d get something, anything, out of my mom trumpets in triumph.
It’s not my first 500 win, but it feels significantly more important than the other three, which were met with silence, a text message, and a letter, respectively.
Like each time I win one, I fall more and more onto her radar.
I’ll have to find a way to get these to my apartment.
After sending a thank you text to my parents, I search the internet for anything about my win. About me. I click the first and begin getting ready for bed as it plays.
It’s commentary over highlights from the match. In it, I’m hitting an ace. “Rising star Nicola Vassilakis takes home her first title of the year in Charleston today, and I have to say, she looked like she belonged there. Don’t you agree, Gene?” a woman asks.
“Oh, absolutely,” a male voice joins hers.
“Vassilakis has struggled a lot since she aged up into the pros, with injuries and disappointing performances, but this season, things are certainly getting better. Her level of play has been spectacular, and though she didn’t win them, her matches during the Australian Open, Doha, and Indian Wells have us all asking ourselves if she could be sniffing out a major title this year. ”
The screen cuts to a studio, where a middle-aged man in a suit sits beside a poised woman in a forest-green peplum top, match highlights continuing on the screen behind them.
The woman nods. “She’s put herself in a great position for Madrid and potentially Roland Garros.
Both tournaments will be big for her: she’s the daughter of Carmen Aguirre, four-time Madrid champion in addition to her three major titles.
” I glance at the flowers on the table behind me, as if I need the confirmation once more that, though I’ve not done anything to live up to her reputation, she’s proud of me.
“And Roland Garros was the last major tournament Nicola won before she aged up.”
The man, Gene, adds, “I’ve enjoyed watching her this season.
This week especially, she’s played some incredible tennis.
For those who are unaware, power hitters like Vassilakis typically have more success on hard court and grass, where quicker points are favored.
But she dug in this week and, I think, has proved to many that she’s good on any surface.
She’s set herself up to be one of the, if not the favorite for both tournaments.
I can’t wait to see how the year goes for her. ”
“Me too. Now onto the men’s tour…”
I click out of the video with a small, bubbly sigh, wiping off my makeup with languid strokes of a cotton pad.
I should probably rest before our flight to Orlando tomorrow, but the boost my confidence received from the flowers and compliments is a high I’m desperately chasing.
I find another video and press play, washing the rest of my makeup off.
Jackson and a sandy-haired man in his early thirties sit side by side at the modern Tennis Broadcast desk, a massive screen behind them cycling through match statistics and shot placement graphics for matches happening in Monaco.
When the screen switches to highlights of my match, Jackson says, “As for the women, I think we can safely say Nicola is on her way to big things this year.”
The sandy-haired man, who I’m remembering is named Sam—or maybe Dan—scoffs. “I’m not sure we can safely say that.”
Jackson’s frown matches my own. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, we’ve seen her get to these big tournaments and struggle in the ninth hour, right? A 500 is great, but she hasn’t been able to close in bigger tournaments. You have to remember, she’s never won a pro major or a 1000.”
Toweling off my face, I peer at my phone. The difference between my and Jenny’s first-serve percentages slide onto the screen, followed closely by our winners-to-errors ratios. The juxtaposition between this guy’s words and what the screen says is enough to make me laugh sardonically.
“That may be true, but that’s also true of plenty of players on the tour. She’s won Charleston now, and she’ll have lots of opportunities this year to win bigger tournaments. The fact that she’s made it to so many big finals three months into the season is proof she’s almost there.”
“Sure, but she also lost in all three of those big finals. She’d been playing well at the start of all three tournaments before her level kind of fell off in the last couple of matches. And her semis match in Miami was abysmal.”
“How many 1000s did you win?” Jackson asks. A joke, I think.
“None.”
Jackson’s expression remains open, like he’s still joking, but with a bite, he answers, “Right. Nic is closing in on her first and has plenty of years left in the tank. I’m sure she’ll get it figured out.”
Sam/Dan shrugs, arms up in defense. “All I’m saying is I’m not sure she’s cut out for a major title. More likely, I believe we’ll see another major this year go to Emilia Kessler, one to Anya Morozov, and Roland Garros to either of them or Valentina Ortega.”
Jackson stares at Sam/Dan for a moment before turning back to the camera. “Anyway…”
But I’m not interested in hearing more of this. I click out, swiping open the group chat that’s been going off for the last few minutes.
Shots Fired
Sahar
Nic did the mf thingggg
Harper
So proud of you! Can’t wait to celebrate when we’re back home!
Austin
Hey, props Nic. That’s big
In more important news, I’m having girl problems
Delilah
Booooooo
Matteo emphasized “Booooooo”
Noah
Thirding, it’s Nic’s night.
Someone help him with his problems before he blows up the chat.
Noah
Dude has so many problems, I’m not sure there’s enough time left on this planet for that
Ignoring the rest of the messages that come through, I open Instagram, biting back a grimace when I note the thousands of notifications. Thank god for Pen handling this most of the time.
A cursory glance over the comments tells me enough.
The WTA account posted my match point from today, and Pen accepted collaboration on the post. When I scroll, I see no less than fifty comments saying the same thing as Jackson’s co-broadcaster.
@bradley.grindz.1029: Wow, one 500 win. Big deal. Let’s see her actually do well at a Grand Slam
@CallOfDoodieKing2576: @bradley.grindz.1029 she literally can’t, she’s a choker
@bradley.grindz.1029: @CallOfDoodieKing2576 what I’ve been saying, she’s good until she has to close
There are plenty more like that, but the lump lodged in my throat is about as big as a tennis ball, angry tears heating my eyes. The flowers were a momentary balm for my insecurities. But even paired with the kind words from broadcasters and my friends, they’re no longer enough.
And though I’ve worked so hard to rewire the habit this week, I throw my phone into my gym bag, change into spandex shorts and a tank top, and grab my room key so I can do what I do best.