Chapter 17
seventeen
Imove about my hotel room in Stuttgart four days later, readying my clothes and bag for tomorrow’s match and listening to my friends chatter on FaceTime. All three of them are training in Madrid in preparation for next week.
“I packed, like, twenty party outfits, and I’m still not sure it’s enough,” Sahar says as she spins around her tornado of a hotel room. She groans. “It’s useless trying to go through all this stuff when we’re going to fly out again in a couple of weeks.”
“You don’t think twenty is enough?” Delilah wonders aloud, her golden hair strewn about the pillow in her hotel room. “When do we go home? After Wimbledon, right?”
Sahar nods. “I hate packing for three months.”
“But think of all the adventures we’ll have. So many touristy things to do the next three months!”
“And it’s entirely possible we’ll go home at some point in that time.” All three of us shoot Harper an incredulous look. She stands from the toilet, tucking a strand of dark hair behind her ear. “Alright, probably not. But it is possible.”
The conversation devolves into the likelihood of that, and I open the article I was reading before the call. After I won today’s match, reporters began talking about my chances at Madrid and Roland Garros, speculating that I’ll make a deep run. The pressure bends my shoulders and my stomach churns.
“Niiiiiic,” Delilah draws my name out like it’s not the first time. “We can’t see you.”
Flicking back to them, I offer a halfhearted smile. “I’m here.”
“How has training been?”
I shrug. “Fine.”
Despite Aleks’ claims that he’s not good at pretending, the kiss hasn’t made even a semblance of an appearance in more than my own thoughts.
We trained as usual when we arrived in Stuttgart, and without Delilah, he took on the role of my hitting partner as well.
Which means we’ve spent hours together, skirting around a subject that should probably be talked about but that I’m more than happy not to address.
Even if getting it—the press of his lips to mine, his groan, the rasp in his voice when I pushed him away—out of my head is near impossible.
“Just fine? I could get more information out of a mop,” Sahar mutters.
“I don’t know. Less fun without my usual hitting partners.”
“Oh? Nic, that may be the nicest thing you’ve ever said to us,” she answers.
Rolling my eyes, I hang up my kit—a dark blue dress with a small V cut at the collar and a matching pair of spandex shorts—set my shoes underneath, and put my packed bag beside them. “For that, I’m leaving.”
“Nooooooooo,” Delilah and Harper chorus.
“Wait I’m sorry, I was joking! Please!”
I laugh softly. “I need to get to bed.”
Delilah sits up, pouting. “Fine. I suppose we’ll survive.”
We say our goodbyes. After doing my skincare and tucking the ever-growing list of things I’m learning about myself into my bag, I slide under my blanket and watch film.
An idea forms while scrutinizing my match against Anya when the camera briefly pans to Aleks in her box, and before I can get rid of it, I’m typing Aleksandr Morozov match highlights into the search bar.
There are a lot of articles examining his decision to leave and videos of him from almost a decade ago right up until he quit.
Embarrassingly, I watch enough to fill an hour, and when I reach those later matches, I note the way his body curved, even during wins. How he always won with that fake smile instead of the one I’m so accustomed to, a sunken, unhappy quality to his face.
I fall asleep contemplating that fake smile but dream about his real one, fastened right on me.
Whether the pressure to perform creeps its way into my head or something else is wrong, I lose the first set of my match in a tiebreak the next day, barely scraping through the second to force a third.
It would be an embarrassment to go down in the round of 16. Worse to do so in straight sets.
During the break before the decider, I grab a towel and water bottle and walk to my box, where Pen claps excitedly, Aleks watches quietly, and Karolína sits forward, ready for a quick strategy session. “You’ve noticed Madeleine struggles with longer rallies, right?”
Wiping my face, I nod. “Almost every time, she makes a mistake or can’t get to my down-the-line shot.”
“Exactly. More of that. You’re a much stronger player. Get up early and keep the momentum.”
“What about on returns? Why am I struggling with her serve so much? And I’m making way more errors than usual.” I’ve hit no less than twelve balls into the net.
“You’re tight. Loosen up and play your game. Move your feet.” She glances at Aleks, whose gaze I’ve been carefully avoiding. “Anything else?”
“Yeah, I think moving your feet more. Many of those net balls are because you’re letting the ball get behind you. She learned how to harness your power over time, so make sure you’re ready.”
“Okay.”
“You got this Nic!” Pen calls as I turn back to the bench. I wipe myself down one more time, take a long swig of water, and jog to my side of the court.
Get up early, I remind myself. This first game is crucial.
Unfortunately, that seems to be the opposite of what I’m capable of.
Clearly, Madeleine had a good talk with her team, who’ve told her to get out of the longer rallies by rerouting the ball earlier than me, which means I’m often left on the defensive, running back and forth.
It also means I’m hitting the ball on the run more, which leaves me with more mistakes than ever.
In an attempt to follow her lead, I cut off cross-court rallies early, but where I was able to place my down-the-line shots exceptionally in the first two sets, every time I try this set, they’re a hair out. Before long, it’s match point and I’m dizzy.
It’s fitting that I lose a match point with a backhand into the net. Very in keeping with the disaster of a match I played. Madeleine is shocked, hands over her mouth like she won a major semifinal.
After our handshake, I shove my things into my bag and walk off the court to a cold goodbye from the crowd. My teeth grind together to stop me from crying. Or screaming. Or throwing something.
It’s no surprise when, after cooldown, press, and a shower, I find myself in the gym. I told Karolína I was ready to watch film, but she said we’d look it over tomorrow to prep for Madrid.
My body is too run-down to punish too much, so instead, I find a corner of the empty players’ gym, rolling my legs out while watching the match from start to finish. On points I lost, I make notes to myself about what I should’ve done better.
A ball I hit out after it landed on my baseline. Move your feet better.
A double fault that makes my gums ache from how hard I clench my teeth at the mistake. Don’t fucking hit a toss if it’s too far to one side. Reset and try again.
A volley into the net. Move your damn feet and get your racket underneath it.
It doesn’t make me feel like any less of a failure, but it’s enough to keep me away from the shark-like reporters and commenters on social media, all who, I’m sure, are talking about my disappointing loss and how this might mean I’m no longer favored to do well in Madrid next week.
It also keeps me from checking whether my mother has responded to any of my messages asking if she still wants to call and talk about Charleston. Or in general.
Aleks makes an appearance shortly after the first set, water in one hand and a suspicious box in the other.
He says nothing, sitting beside me as I watch myself make mistake after mistake in the third set.
There’s no smile to speak of, just his messy hair and the warmth of his body closer than I should allow.
When the torture finally ends, I click my phone off and set it down.
Both items Aleks brought are handed to me, and I take them, drinking half the water before opening the box to reveal baklava.
Though Stuttgart has a large Greek population, it’s something I never would have gotten for myself, his thoughtfulness a nail in the coffin of my depression.
The gratefulness thrumming through me feels like something… more.
I hate being around others after a loss. The presence of someone important to me only feeds the monster in my head that tells me I’m not supposed to be here and they’re bearing witness to that fact. And yet Aleks has now seen me after multiple losses, and his presence beside me isn’t stifling.
After eating a piece, I say, “I played like shit.”
Aleks doesn’t answer, and I appreciate that he won’t lie to me.
“I had, like, fifteen chances to get it together in the third set. Worse, I shouldn’t have lost the first set to begin with.”
“True,” he agrees. “But you did.”
I turn to him. “That’s not helpful.”
His smile is kind. “This sport is brutal, solnyshko. You play a tournament more weeks than you don’t.
One bad day can be the difference between an early loss or a title.
Worse, you’re losing every week, often to people you know you can beat.
Matches you lose, you might have won half of the points in.
How can you lose when you won half the points? ” he asks rhetorically.
We’re silent. Then Aleks pulls his shirt down to reveal his chain and the tattoo beneath it. He taps the ink once, a reminder. For the love of the game.
Quietly, I respond, “I don’t love the game when I’m losing. I used to. It used to be about fun before the pressure of majors fell onto my shoulders. But now it just…”
He nods. “Now it feels like if you’re not winning, you’re worthless.”
I sigh. “Yeah.”
“You’re so far from worthless, Nic. You go into each training session with your head held high, ready to take on anything Nora or I throw at you. You have one of the best backhands on tour, and when you’re on, you’re a sight to fucking behold. Your game is what makes the sport fun to people.”