Chapter 23
twenty-three
By the time the quarterfinals roll around, I feel more rested than I have in a long time.
My body isn’t as sore as it would usually be a week into a tournament, and my mind is clear, voices of inadequacy quieting to a dull hum.
I may be playing Emilia Kessler, world number one, but I’m prepared. On my best day, I can beat her.
The first set is a battle of sliding shoes and flat shots that I lose when my last service game goes awry. “You’re tight,” Karolína tells me before the second set. “Loosen up. Don’t get anxious. Play your game.”
Unfortunately, despite the cries of support from the fans, I get down early in the third and spend the next few games playing catch up.
On her first match point, I fix my strings, slap the center of the racket against each heel, step forward, and whip my return with a beautiful cross-court angle that should get me back to deuce.
The crowd roars right as the automated system says, “Out.” Bewildered, I glance back at the screen, where it shows the ball half a millimeter outside the line. My mouth falls open, frustration building behind my eyes.
It can’t be. I worked so hard this month, did everything Aleks told me to do. This was supposed to be my tournament. My chance to prove Paris is a possibility.
But confirmation comes in the form of the umpire’s “Game, set, and match, Kessler. 6–4, 3–6, 6–4.” Emilia’s fans cheer loudly, and when I drag myself to the net, she offers me a smile and an awkward hug.
It’s January at the Australian Open all over again, this loss mirroring the one I suffered in the final. The world closes in around me. I wave goodbye, going through the motions of post-match press and recovery until I’m sitting in the women’s locker room, my head tucked between my knees.
I don’t know what to do anymore. To be ranked inside the top ten in the world but have no WTA1000 title…it’s embarrassing. Any sense of belonging I’ve felt over the last month, season, year is wiped away. I might be good enough to be on the tour, but clearly, I’m not good enough to be the best.
My phone buzzes on the bench beside me.
Carmen
I was away from my phone. We’ll try again another time.
I scoff. Another time. It’s been a week and a half since our planned call didn’t happen, and now she wants to talk another time.
Whatever.
This is probably punishment for not winning. Maybe if I’d won here, the place she became the Carmen Aguirre, she’d have more to say.
Maybe I should stop giving a fuck.
I sigh, clicking over to my socials. I’m hit with thousands of notifications, instantly overwhelmed by the number of comments on posts I (Pen) have collaborated with the WTA and other accounts on.
@bradley.grindz.1029: Once again, she can’t close
@bradley.grindz.1029: get off the court
@CallOfDoodieKing2576: You should try pickleball. You might actually win something there
@Steve843927413: get back in the gym! You looked so tired. Have you even been practicing?
@G.money.sabertoothsfan: maybe instead of taking all those photos on that rooftop, you should’ve been on a court
There are more than I could feasibly read, my thumb flying through them until the door of the locker room opens and I jump.
“Nic?” Aleks calls. He’s cracked the door, facing away so as not to look inside. “You done?”
Grabbing my bags, I stand and pull the door open. “Yeah,” I answer quietly.
He scans my features but says nothing as we walk.
They might be trolls, but the people commenting are onto something. I’ve been relaxing too much. Partying too much. “I’m going to head to the gym. I have energy I need to expend.”
“Nic, please. Don’t do this. It’s one loss. It doesn’t define the season. You’ve been doing such a good job. How rested did you feel today? How good?”
I pin him with a glare. “Very. Lot of good that did me.”
“Nic—”
“No, Aleks. I tried it your way and it didn’t work. This was supposed to be my season. Instead, I’m losing to the same people. Feeling rested doesn’t matter if I’m not winning big tournaments.”
He scoffs. “It’s been a month. These things take time.”
That may be true, but if there’s one thing I don’t have, it’s time.
Anya and Emilia are in their early twenties, and every season, more and more young talent joins the tour and stomps down the competition.
My time to win majors is dwindling, and I can’t keep slowly tweaking and changing my approach.
I need to get back to what was working for me at the beginning of the season and adapt from there.
Work harder than I was then. Working harder is always the answer.
“I don’t have time, Aleks. I should be seeing progr—”
“And you have! You just won Charleston.”
“But I did poorly at Stuttgart and here. At least with my method, I was making it to major and 1000 finals. What do I have to show for my rest? A quarterfinal loss at a tournament I was favored to win.”
I don’t realize Aleks stopped until he jogs to catch up to me. Ignoring the disbelieving expression on his face, I tuck my hair behind my ears and march onward.
“Nic, that’s not the answer. I promise you that.
If you want to see more progress, you have to work with me here.
Your overall fitness is getting better. You’re stronger on court, your serve percentage is up, and you’ve never hit so many winners.
All of that is because you’re giving yourself the time to set your feet instead of hitting it flat-footed or on the run.
And you’ve been having fun again. That’s an indication right there that things are working.
” He steps in front of me, eyebrows drawn.
“Let’s train hard for Rome, then sit out Strasbourg. ”
I draw to a screeching halt, crossing my arms. “What?”
“It’s a 500, and if you go deep in the draw, you’ll be playing matches right up until the French Open starts. This way, if you take that week off, you have plenty of time to rest and refocus for the maj—”
“The matches I play at Strasbourg are practice. Why would I not play them?”
Aleks runs a hand through his hair, pulling at the ends. “I just explained why, Nic. You need rest, despite what you seem so dead set on believing. You need to take a fucking break. Pushing yourself past your limit isn’t strength.”
“Maybe it wasn’t for you, but I’m not you, Aleks.
And I’m not your siblings either.” He flinches, and I want to pinch myself for being such an asshole.
I didn’t mean it the way he’s taking it, but I’m on a roll and I’m tired of him trying to control what I do.
I note Karolína and Pen waiting for us ahead, so I step around him.
Over my shoulder, I say, “Stop trying to dictate what I should and shouldn’t do. ”
“That’s what you pay me to do!”
I shake my head, reaching my coach and manager. Aleks remains outside our circle, his hands in his pockets, his shoulders hunched.
Karolína takes in the state he and I are in, blowing out a breath. “Shall we go for dinner?” she asks kindly. She had nothing but positive things to say to me after the loss despite the two times I snapped at her in frustration when she was trying to be helpful in my box.
“No, that’s okay. I want to hit the gym.”
Her discerning gaze dissects me. “Is that a good idea? You’ve been doing so well.” Her voice drops, gentle. “Don’t punish yourself now.”
“I’m not punishing myself. I just know I can be doing more.”
We stare each other down. After a few moments and Pen’s cleared throat, Karolína says, “I can’t train a shell of a person, Nic.
You are one of the most talented tennis players I’ve ever seen.
Certainly the best I’ve ever coached. Please stop killing yourself over these losses.
You have so much season left and years more to play. This is one tournament.”
I glance away, hating the way the words mirror Aleks’ sentiments. “I’ll see you later.”
“We’re flying tomorrow. Meet outside the hotel at eight!” Pen calls as I leave, and when I look over my shoulder to reassure her that I’ve heard, I note Aleks slide into the spot where I was, hopping into conversation with Karolína.
Knowing things have shifted between us makes the pinching in my chest more poignant, but I assure myself this is a good thing. We were getting too cozy, the lines between what we should and shouldn’t be doing blurring rapidly.
It’s for the best.
With my matches from this week, today’s included, loaded on my computer, I watch the footage, snuggling under my trusty blanket in my dark hotel room, alone for the first time in two weeks.
Lonely, my heart cries.
Stupid, my brain answers.
I ignore them both, picking out places where I should have done something else. Ran around a ball to hit an inside-out forehand. Moved forward instead of horizontally to force the ball back to the other side of the court faster. Followed through better on a backhand that sailed out.
My phone buzzes beside my computer, and every time, my stupid fragile heart hopes it’s Aleks.
Instead, it’s my group chat with the girls.
Sahar’s Bad Berlin Bagels
Harper
Don’t worry about it, Nic. You’ve got Rome and Paris!!
Delilah
You’re an absolute tank
Harper emphasized “You’re an absolute tank”
Sahar
Let’s just say I’m glad I’m on the other side of the draw from you in Rome
Maya
My spidey senses tell me you’re winning French this year babyyyyyy
And more from the big group chat.
Shots Fired
Harper
Who is flying to Rome tomorrow? Sahar is still in, so not her or Noah.
Sahar
Boooooo don’t leave without me :(
Harper
That’s what I’m trying to decide!!
Austin
I’m still in bitchesssss. I’ll be here at least another day
Delilah
Matteo plays tomorrow so I won’t leave until the day after at the earliest!
Noah
Sahar’s going to win it all, so we’ll be here until the tournament is over
Sahar
Awww I love your delusion
I like the first message so Harper knows I’ll be leaving. Even if the rest of them stay behind, my focus is on Rome. The earlier I get there, the faster I can get used to the courts and conditions.
There’s nothing from Aleks. Good, I remind myself.
I flip my phone over before setting it on the nightstand beside the piece of paper I’ve been adding to almost every day.
I fold it and tuck it under my phone so I don’t have to see it.
On-screen Nic from a few hours ago is pummeling an approach shot down the line and pumping a fist when it lands on the baseline.
If only she knew.
A knock on my door startles me. Did Aleks set aside his frustrations? Or is he here to tell me more about why I shouldn’t play Strasbourg? I tug the covers off, stepping out of the bed and ambling toward the door. Karolína stands in view of my peephole.
When I open the door, she smiles at me. Kind and something else I can’t put my finger on. “I figured you’d be awake,” she says.
Stepping out of her way, I nod. “Wasn’t going to be able to sleep without watching the match back.”
Her eyes flit to the partial wall, behind which the sound of the match plays on my laptop. Her brows knit before she sits on one of the couches. “We haven’t talked through our plan for the rest of clay-court season.”
“What do you mean? I’ve always played all the tournaments during clay.”
“What if this year you didn’t? What if this year, we take the week after Rome to reset and recuperate. You’ll have played two 1000s back-to-back. That’s a lot of tennis, particularly when combined with a week for Strasbourg and the two weeks for Roland Garros.”
I tilt my head to the side, hearing the echo of Aleks’ words. “Where did that idea come from?”
“Aleks is worried about you, and I’m inclined to agree. You need the rest. He knows it. I know it. Pen knows it. Deep down, I think even you kn—”
A sea of thoughts drown out her words. I feel like someone’s lit a match inside my chest and set it on fire.
He went behind my back. He took his concerns to my coach and breached my trust entirely.
Control over my life, over my routines and my schedule, are things I hold dear, and Aleks has made a point to stomp all over that control.
He’s practically forced my hand by pushing my coach to approach me about this.
I’m seething, so much so, I miss the fact that she stopped talking. “Nic?”
“He shouldn’t have said anything. Going over my head to you is…that’s so wrong.”
“He’s trying to be helpful. He’s worried about you,” she reiterates.
“I don’t care. I’m not a kid. I can look out for myself, and I do. When he brought it up to me and I said no, that should’ve been enough for him to drop the subject. He shouldn’t be enlisting your help to change my mind.”
“Nicola,” Karolína says so sharply, I flinch.
She only talks to me like this when I’ve really stepped out of line, which in this case, is outrageous.
“You played a tough match, then did recovery, press, and whatever else you forced your body to do in the gym, and instead of sleeping it off, you’re watching film.
Something we will do when we get to Italy anyway.
You don’t know how to rest, and eventually, that’s going to be to your detriment. ”
“It’s my decision, and I say I’m playing Strasbourg.”
“It’s our decision. We’re supposed to work together to figure out the best course of action for you.”
I cross my arms, a painful lump building in my throat. “So if I make this decision on my own, will you walk? Force me to scramble for another coach ahead of Paris?”
Her shoulders drop. “Of course I won’t. I want you to win it almost as badly as you do. But I want—” She cuts herself off with a shake of her head, standing. “Never mind. It’s been a long day. I’ll see you in the morning. Try to get some sleep.”
She opens the door, and just as she steps out, she says, “We care about you, Nic. All of this is because we care about you. We want you to win, but we don’t want you to be miserable while you do it. I hope someday soon, you recognize that.”
She doesn’t wait for me to answer, the door swinging shut behind her.