Chapter 28
twenty-eight
Because the universe is set on building as much tension as possible between us, Anya and I warm up in the same room.
I face Aleks, who stands against the wall, and behind me, Anya trains with her performance coach and parents, facing the opposite wall.
Every time Aleks drops a ball in my periphery for me to catch, I imagine her eyes burning holes in my head.
“Focus, Nic.”
“I am,” I grumble.
Aleks laughs. Karolína puts a few freshly strung rackets in my bag.
When I take a sip of water, glancing over my shoulder, I note I was right: Anya’s glaring, her eyes bouncing between Aleks and me.
Their parents, too, are watching us, though her father quickly barks something at Anya and they all return to her warmup.
“Focus,” Aleks reiterates, though his eyebrows pull together like he witnessed his father’s ire.
“Stop looking behind you. Don’t let her get into your head.
That’s a huge part of her game plan. Play your game, ignore her and the noise and everything else.
Focus on your tennis. You’ll be unstoppable. ”
I set the bottle down. “For once, I’m glad you know her so well.”
He laughs again before handing me a jump rope.
I begin hopping, running through my five key points for today—get my first serves in for some free points; if I have an opportunity to put the point away, do so effectively or she’ll find a way to do it first; do not get caught with flat feet; stretch the court and be prepared for shots with a lot of angles; and finally, don’t let her get in my head.
Right around the time my heart rate reaches its max and my body is warm, we’re led to the entrance of the court.
My name is called, and for the second time this year, I step onto court for a Grand Slam final.
There are cheers from the crowd, people swinging Greek flags, and I wave, keeping my headphones over my ears and taking in the large letters that read “Victory belongs to the most tenacious” in English and French across one of the stands.
I’d like to believe that, at least today, that’s me.
Our warmup moves at light speed. Anya is on her best behavior now that the eyes of millions are on her.
When it finally comes time to start the match, every cell in my body awakens.
My blood hums, singing to the clay and Philippe Chatrier in a language foreign even to me.
I bounce a ball one, two, three, four times and slap it into play.
Anya gets it back, a winner down the line. She pumps her fist, and the hum of my blood turns to an angry sizzle when she stares right at me, the crowd behind her. My next serve is out, my second serve too easy. She hits another winner.
“Slow down,” Karolína calls from my box. “Take a breath.”
I blow on my hand, accepting two balls from the ball kid.
I breathe in and out deeply before bouncing the ball four times and slapping it into play again.
This time, she hits it right at me, and though I’m able to get my racket on it, it’s a high ball that lands inside the service line.
Anya attacks it easily. Three winners in three points.
It’s so demoralizing that I wind up double faulting away the first game, holding back a frustrated scream.
Don’t let her get in your head, says a voice that sounds like Aleks. Don’t let her know you’re upset.
Still, I lose the first set 6–1 and end up in the bathroom during the break, trying to use deep breaths to settle the rock in my stomach and the frustration in my veins.
I can’t—won’t—lose the next set. I have fought tooth and fucking nail for this.
Years and years of struggling through the tour, then an injury and another few years with mixed results.
I fought so hard through it all, and I’m not letting it slip through my fingers the way it did in Melbourne, Doha, and Indian Wells this year.
Forcing the tears to remain at bay, I breathe in deeply, then breathe out. Deep breath in, deep breath out. I splash water on my face, pat it dry, take another couple of deep breaths, and jog back onto the court, my face neutral. It’s a new set. The first set was a different Nic. This set is mine.
Tossing my towel in a bin on the edge of the court, I look at my box. Karolína stands, clapping. Beside her are Pen and Aleks, and behind them are Delilah, Matteo, and Austin.
All six of them wear encouraging smiles and yell various versions of you got this.
I can’t remember the last time my box was so full, like I have a big family backing me, just as I’ve always wanted.
And though Harper and Sahar left Paris to train on grass, I know they’re watching my match carefully too.
“Remember the game plan, Nic! Come on!” Karolína nods optimistically.
I grab my racket and head to the court. Anya is serving to begin the second set, so I align my strings properly, hit the center with the heel of each shoe, and drop into position.
Her first serve is tough, but I get it in, and when she runs me to the far side of the court, then back and forth and back and forth, I finally take advantage of a ball in my strike zone and hit a winner down the line.
My box screams louder than the rest of the crowd, and not for the first time, I mentally thank Aleks for getting my conditioning to where it needed to be for this match.
We go back and forth on deuce a few times before she drops a ball inside the baseline again and I put it away, breaking her serve for the first time today.
Relief sighs out of me. It may only be the first game, but it’s a bit of momentum I desperately needed and harder than it sounds against Anya’s strong serve.
The next few games, we hold serve, battling hard until it’s 5–4 in the second.
The crowd heavily favors Anya, but I ignore it, especially when Aleks cheers for me so loudly that Anya glances over at him, her expression contorting.
She may have the crowd, but I have him, and because of that, for once, I might be getting in her head.
My first serve is an ace. The next is out wide, and though she gets her racket on it, her return sails long.
The next is another ace. Set point, I bounce the ball four times, toss it in the air, and hit it so hard, I feel it in my back.
Her return is a perfect winner, and I wince at the ache near my hip.
I need to win this set so I can take a medical timeout and have the physio come on court.
Bounce, bounce, bounce, bounce. Toss, slap it in the air. She gets it back to the center of the baseline, and I run around it, smacking the angled forehand with such a high velocity that it bounces inside the service line and hits the wall before she can get into position.
“Come on!” I yell, letting the booming claps of the crowd in, letting them take residence beside where my heart beats a wild rhythm. The tide is shifting. At the very least, they want this to go to a deciding set.
We’re even now, just a set until one of us is crowned this year’s Roland Garros champion.
I make eye contact with Aleks, who grimaces, like seeing that I’m in pain hurts him too. Calling for a physio, I reset one more time, taking the painkiller she offers me and sinking into the massage until it feels a little less tense.
If I win this, I’m taking that fucking break Aleks keeps talking about. Hell, I’ll take it even if I don’t.
“Your range of motion may be inhibited,” the physio tells me, her neat, slicked-back ponytail swinging as she puts things back into her backpack. I nod my understanding and head back to the court for the final battle.
I return well the first game, but she holds serve. I hold in the second game. The third is hers and the fourth mine, back and forth holds of serves until we’re into the third-set tiebreak, my back begging for reprieve.
Ten points is all I need. Ten points, and I can have everything I’ve wanted for years.
Anya double faults the first point of the tiebreak, slamming her racket on her leg three times in a way that will certainly bruise later. I hit two perfect first serves, an ace and a ball she returns out.
My head keeps rushing to seven points left, but I force my thoughts to one point at a time.
Anya wins the next two, screaming after I hit a ball outside the baseline.
I win the following three. At 6–2, Anya hits a drop shot that brings me sliding toward the net, and when she gets it back, I tap the ball out of her reach.
I pump my fist for the crowd, many of whom seem to be backing me now. I revel in the noise until I notice Anya gesturing at me while talking to the umpire.
She has to say it four times before I hear her. “Her racket went over the net. That’s not allowed!”
I’m 99% sure my racket didn’t, but I look at the woman in the tall chair. She says something in French, then repeats it in English, “Anya Morozov is requesting a video challenge.”
The crowd quiets as I pop onto the screen. My racket makes contact with the ball right inside the plane above the net, and when it switches to slow motion, it’s clear my racket never crosses over.
“The racket stayed on her side. Vassilakis’ point. Vassilakis leads seven points to two.”
Anya stomps a foot, the smug expression she wore the whole first set replaced with anger. “What! That’s not fair! I want to watch it again.”
There’s a collective murmur in the stands, perhaps Anya’s fans realizing she’s on the edge of a tantrum. At this point, it’s poor sportsmanship to imply that the umpire was wrong, particularly when we’ve all seen the replay slowed down.
She’s trying to delay. I’ve got the momentum and I’m three points away from the trophy. Walking away from the net, I grab my towel, wiping my face, arms, and grip down. I hear Karolína somewhere, telling me to decrease my serve speed, but the rush of my blood overwhelms the words.
Focus on your game, Aleks’ voice says in my head.