Chapter 27
twenty-seven
Though the high-speed train ride from Strasbourg to Paris is only two hours, we take the next day to rest and explore the city, my lower back sore enough that I wouldn’t want to workout or practice anyway.
I add to my old list by following Pen around Paris, enjoying places I’ve never been to and foods I’ve never tried.
The afternoon is met with gold-framed mirrors and red leather at a Parisian café, fresh coffee and buttery croissants to sate us after the trip to our hotel.
Pen wants me to take photos for social media, so we stroll through gardens with tall, manicured hedges and vivid flower beds on the way to a restaurant with three Michelin stars, golden walls, long crystal chandeliers, and a waitlist booked out for a year—I have no idea what thread Pen pulled or who she knew to get us a reservation.
When the chef comes to talk to us, Aleks and Pen keep the conversation alive, and the latter adds a photo with her to a shared album she’s titled Paris dump.
The next four days, I have practice sessions with Sahar, Harper, and Delilah once she arrives before brief stretches with Aleks and film with him and Karolína.
“We’re emphasizing rest and recovery this week over pushing ourselves,” he reminds me when I snap that I’m not fragile.
It leads to a quiet apology and a continuation of the resistance banded clams.
In the evenings, while walking around the neighborhood in a large pack of us girls and our teams, Aleks’ touch lingers—on my hip after I step into his space while a group passes us on the sidewalk, on my elbow when I’m too busy staring at my feet while trying to decide where to jump into conversation that I nearly walk into oncoming traffic, on my lower back, a brush of his fingers when we get sidetracked looking into a patisserie and need to catch up with our friends.
He started hesitant but grew emboldened when I didn’t stop him, unbothered by the contact. So much so that, when he’s not touching me, I’m finding reasons to be by his side.
We don’t speak of any of it, especially not during the day, when we’re hyper focused on the impending tournament. It appears to be something we’ll address afterward, and with how much pressure I feel surrounding this major, I’m thankful he’s giving me that.
The first time I step onto Philippe Chatrier, Roland Garros’ center court, during the Round of 128, there’s a buzzing in my blood.
A sense of belonging, like my body is writing a song only the red clay in Paris can hear.
I win in straight sets, dropping two games to my unseeded opponent.
A couple of days later, I play another unseeded opponent, a crafty seventeen-year-old who worked her way up from qualifiers, and though she’s able to keep up with my pace in the first set, I win 6–4, 6–1.
It’s the most fun I’ve ever had on the court, and that excitement follows me into each point.
My third match is similar to the first two, and I’m grateful for all the tournaments I did well in this year.
Because of them, I’m seeded high enough that the first few matches aren’t against higher-ranked players.
Though my back feels sore after a serve late in the second set, I end the match with a smile and spend the evening with a physio massaging the area, Aleks sketching by my side to keep me company while Karolína and Pen disappear to get us dinner.
“Would you ever want to do that for money?” I ask him when I see the one he just finished, a stunning image of me grinning on court that makes me realize how much better this tournament has felt.
Aleks shrugs. “Not really. It’s like any other hobby, something I do when I have the time. Monetizing it might take the joy out of it.”
It’s such an interesting concept, I wonder what hobbies might interest me.
A few minutes later, when I search what people are saying about me, he takes my phone away.
But not before I see Jackson from the Tennis Broadcast talking about me being in peak form.
It leaves a hint of a smile on my face for the rest of the evening.
Next, I meet my first seeded opponent in the round of 16.
While it’s not the best tennis I’ve played all tournament, my focus remains on getting the ball to her side of the net, forcing her to run back and forth across the court until she’s too tired to get the last ball back.
My winner average is down after I leave Court Suzanne Lenglen, the secondary stadium, but I get the job done in two scrappy sets and celebrate getting into the second week of the tournament with dinner with the girls, the guys, and Aleks, all the while aware I’ll face world number one Emilia Kessler in my quarterfinal in two days.
Going into the second week, I listen to Aleks and only train when he allows me to, handing over my laptop before bed so I can’t watch film late into the night.
When I step onto Philippe Chatrier on Tuesday, the buzz in my blood ratchets up, begging—no, screaming—for me to finish this. To do what I haven’t been able to do all year.
It’s a hot June day, and though I train in the humid hellscape that is Florida, my lungs burn and my body aches more than they have the last week of matches.
After scraping by in the first-set tiebreak, I lose my footing and drop the second set 1–6.
It’s a grim meeting with my team during the break before the third set, but I wrap a cold towel around my neck and press it to my face, downing half a water bottle and an energy gel as Karolína runs through what I can improve upon for the deciding set.
“What are you going to do?” she asks before I leave.
“Step in a foot farther during her second serves.” She holds up a finger and nods encouragingly. “Play to the corners a few more shots before trying for the winner.” A second finger. “And focus on my footwork.” Three fingers up.
“You got this, Nic,” Aleks adds from beside her with a proud smile.
Emilia is unsurprisingly formidable, an opponent I can say brings out my best tennis.
One who makes me a better competitor. And with Karolína’s pointers, I pull ahead.
During the third game, I step in for two of Emilia’s second serves, which gives me the break I need.
In the sixth game, I hit cross-court shot after cross-court shot, wearing her down until she’s struggling and the opportunity for perfect winners presents itself.
During the eighth game, I jump to my toes as soon as the serve sails off my racket, ready for her return, and because of that, I beat her in the decider 6–2.
I drop to a squat, my hands covering my face in genuine, unrepressed shock and jubilation, my heart racing, the knots in my stomach unraveling so completely that I feel indestructible.
Beating the world number one is never easy, but even less so on a stage as big as this, with German fans who have traveled here to watch her screaming for her at the tops of their lungs.
It occurs to me as we shake hands at the net that her massive fan base didn’t factor into the match this time.
It was just me, the clay, and the determination to do something I haven’t been able to.
I leave Roland Garros’ largest stadium with my head held high, new fans metaphorically assembling behind me, awaiting what I’ll do in the semifinal.
Once again, we celebrate with dinner, and I do a truly commendable job of listening to Aleks, getting a massage from physio, doing a long, recovery-focused cooldown, and waiting to watch film until the next day.
I barely remember to check for messages from my parents, and when I do, right before I fall asleep, I see Aleks’ I’m so unashamedly proud of you, solnyshko and feel so warm, I have to remind myself I’m not allowed to knock on his door and fall asleep in his arms until after this tournament is over.
In the semifinal on Thursday, I meet an unseeded French player, who has battled her way through multiple top-twenty opponents, including Valentina Ortega, last year’s champion.
To describe the crowd as difficult to manage and plain rude would be an understatement, and yet I find once more that I’m able to overcome it.
When I hear them cheer, “Blanche! Blanche! Blanche!” I pretend they’re saying, “Nic! Nic! Nic!” It’s invigorating, so much so that I have more aces than I have all tournament combined.
I win 6–2, 6–4, and though I’m being booed in spectacular fashion, I smile politely at the fans and congratulate my opponent on an amazing run.
After everything, I end up on the floor of the players’ gym, staring into space in disbelief because for the first time in my adult career, I’m in the French Open final.
My team and friends each take turns squeezing me, and though it’s not entirely comfortable, I accept their hugs and praise with a nod, hardly hearing them.
Two major finals in a row, two major finals in a row, two major finals in a row.
The words play over and over in my head.
I may have lost in Australia, but clay is my home, and I won’t, can’t, let this chance slip through my fingers.
The pressure builds in my chest, tight and uncomfortable, until later that day when I learn who my opponent will be.
Anya Morozov.
My eyes find Aleks’ first when the match on the television in the gym ends with Anya screaming, “Let’s go!” to the crowd. Suddenly, the balloon grows heavier, filled with doubt, and Aleks takes me aside, his fingers soft against my right hip.
“Breathe, baby. Breathe. That’s it,” he says when I finally listen, taking air in and out, my shoulders rising and falling.
“It’s Anya,” I say miserably. “I…”
“Can beat her. That’s it. That’s the only thing I want to hear out of your mouth right now.
” He drops his head so we’re the same height, his bright blue eyes forcing me to latch onto them.
They’re earnest. “I have never seen you play the way you have the last week and a half. I mean that. And you know that I’ve watched you for over a year.
This is the best you have ever been. The past is the past. Your record means nothing.
You beat Emilia after losing to her in Melbourne and Madrid.
You can beat Anya to win your first major. ”
After taking another couple of calming breaths, I step into his body, my head falling into the crook of his neck.
That I ever believed he would choose to sit in her box when we played each other was a disservice to him.
Immediately, I’m enveloped in the warmth of citrus and clove, and his arms wrap around me loosely, like he wants to give me the option to step away whenever I need.
But I don’t need to, and I certainly don’t want to.
“What if I don’t? What if I can’t?” I ask. I hate how scared and small I sound. It’s so unlike me, and yet fitting that it’s in his arms I feel safe enough to voice the terrible thought.
“Nothing changes. You still got to a second major final, and your first in Paris. You’re still the strongest player I’ve ever had the pleasure of watching.
You move up a few spots into the top five, where you’ve always belonged, and you play your heart out for the rest of the season.
With my help, of course, to tell you when you need to take it easy.
It’s not the end of the world, solnyshko.
It’s a game.” He adjusts us so he can tap his chest with his index finger, where his tattoo rests. “Remember?”
“‘For the love of the game,’” I whisper.
“Exactly. I know it doesn’t feel like it right now. And I know it won’t, no matter the outcome on Saturday. But it’s a game. And you’ll have plenty of time to collect your titles after. Alright?”
I nod but don’t step away from him. We haven’t held each other like this since before our fight, and half of the tension in my shoulders lifts. “I’ve missed this,” I admit quietly.
Aleks squeezes me. “Me too. Let’s get through Saturday, then I’ll make it my mission to be your full-time happiness incubator.”
I chuckle, his own laugh rumbling against me. Karolína calls me hesitantly from the doorway of the players’ gym, and my surroundings come back to me. Tournament staff stand a few feet away, looking away from us as though, if they make eye contact, they’ll catch fire.
“Okay?” he asks as I step away. It’s weighted heavier than the one word it is.
“Okay,” I answer, hoping it conveys just as much.
Karolína, Aleks, and I spend the evening on recovery and all of Friday watching film, coming up with a strategy for how I’ll get over my biggest mental and physical hurdle.
I promised myself not all that long ago that I would be hoisting a major trophy soon. And despite the self-doubt that flits into my mind here and there as we prepare, I mean to keep that promise.