Chapter 12
PENNY LEANED BACK ON THE CUSHIONED TABLE AND ROTATED her newly wrapped foot, the athletic trainer sitting on a stool, awaiting her judgment. Just enough range of motion to play, not enough to let her ankle roll. Perfect.
“Take it easy today. There was a little more swelling than I’d like to see this morning,” he cautioned.
There was more swelling than she’d have liked to see, too, especially just a few days from the start of the Championships. In nearly a week of slowly ramping up her training, she’d mostly been okay, but still, she’d have preferred no pain or inflammation at all, because time was up.
Just a short drive outside of London, twenty minutes from Alex’s house, the grounds at Wimbledon were ready for the most important two weeks of tennis all year. Lush green courts, white lines painted perfectly. The strawberries and Pimm’s on ice, waiting for the crowds to arrive.
Of all the major championships, it had the most history and, with it, the most prestige. Winning Wimbledon, for most tennis players, Penny included, was the goal from the moment they picked up a racket.
“Got it,” she said, and hopped down from the table and then bounced up and down to make sure she had enough give in the wrap.
The trainer gave a long-suffering sigh, the sigh of a man who’d had athletes ignore him every day of his career.
Indy popped her head into the room. “You good to go?”
“Yeah, let’s get out there.”
They’d taken the drive up to Wimbledon early that morning to get in a hitting session and, if they weren’t too beat, catch Jasmine’s qualification match.
Things had been awkward in the house since Indy broke the news, and Penny couldn’t imagine how thick the air was behind the door to their bedroom.
It was why she’d never really mixed tennis and friendship.
It was tough to be friends when your choices could make or break someone else’s career.
It wasn’t something she’d ever had to consider before Alex and Indy came into her life, but even those relationships didn’t have a direct impact on the court.
The practice courts were lined with reporters, as usual, and some of the club members had been allowed in to observe the sessions.
Word spread quickly that Penny would be on the court truly testing her ankle for the first time since France.
She and Indy would be playing a mock set.
Both of them not having played a real game for weeks and with the tournament only a few days away, it was time to see how it would feel while playing full-out.
Dom was waiting for them on the court. “You ladies stretched?”
“All set,” Indy said, swinging her arms around in circles.
Penny stretched her neck back and forth. “Let’s go.”
After warm-ups, a few groundstrokes each, and some serves, Penny chucked a ball to Indy and yelled, “Bring it all out.”
Indy’s serve was incredible, the sole reason she’d been able to take so much time off from tennis and still rise like mercury in the summer heat, but Penny’s return game was the best in the world.
“You sure you’re ready for this?” Indy asked.
“Shut up and serve, Gaffney.”
The first was a rocket down the centerline, and Penny got a racket on it, not a full swing but a block back deep and beyond the baseline. Her eye twitched a little, checking the strings on her racket, spacing them out as she moved to the other side of the court.
“Fifteen–love,” Dom yelled helpfully from the sidelines. Indy snorted and Penny rolled her eyes. The last time they’d played, way back when Indy had first arrived at OBX, Indy hadn’t even been able to secure a point against her. That streak was over now.
Indy served hard and flat, into the body. Penny let herself just react, a full swing this time, but she sent it soaring out past the line again.
“Thirty–love,” Dom said, clearly enjoying himself.
Crossing back to the other side, Penny frowned. She wasn’t reacting fast enough. Bouncing on the balls of her feet, she glanced down at her ankle, which gave a little twinge in response. She was rusty, but she didn’t have time for that. It was time to get her ass in gear.
Two more serves and two more crappy returns and Penny could feel the tension start to pinch at her neck.
Too much time off the court had made her just a fraction slower.
On the clay of Roland-Garros, she would have been able to absorb it, but on grass, where the ball would fly fast and true, it would be a major liability.
She’d have to make up for it on her own serves.
Keep the games short and sweet; no breaks of serve and no long rallies.
Easier said than done against the best players in the world.
An hour later, grass stains on the white practice gear she’d been given from Nike, she and Indy were knotted at six games apiece and Dom was waving them in from the sidelines. “That’s enough, ladies. You’ve already put in more than I wanted you to.”
Relief coursed through her, something Penny had never felt at the end of a practice session before, at least not in a very, very long time.
Indy had put up one hell of a fight and Penny’s ankle was throbbing.
Not the sharp pain of a tear but a burn through the entire joint, the tendon pulsing, making her skin swell against the wrap.
“You want to go check out Jasmine’s match?” Indy asked. “I’m not going to lie, I’m kind of hoping you say no.”
“We should go after my press conference,” Penny said. It would be a nice distraction from the pain. “It would look weird if we didn’t. If she wins, she gets a qualifying spot next week.”
“It’s so awkward, though.”
“Yes, but you don’t want things to look suspicious, like you’re fighting or something. People would talk. Besides, you’ll be sure to come up against Natalie at some point. It’ll be a good opportunity to scout her.”
“People talk anyway,” Indy muttered, and Penny couldn’t help but agree. “And I really should get some rest; there’s a long two weeks ahead of us.”
Penny began to respond but then stopped herself.
Sometimes, it was better to learn things like that from experience.
The odds that Indy would make it past the first week were pretty slim.
Though the draw hadn’t been released yet, as a wildcard entry, she’d be facing a really tough opponent, someone in the top ten at least.
She saw Dom, just ahead of them, motioning toward the press conference room. “I’ve gotta do this presser. I’ll meet you there, okay?”
Indy laughed. “First you make me go to the match and then you abandon me. Some friend.”
“God, stop being dramatic. She’s your friend; you should want to watch her match,” Penny snapped, then flinched, immediately regretting it. “Sorry. I’m…”
“You’re annoyed that I might have beaten you if Dom hadn’t stopped us just now,” Indy finished for her.
Blinking in sheer confusion, Penny considered. That hadn’t even entered into her mind. It was her ankle; she could practically see it, red, maybe purple, and swollen, needing some time in an ice bucket before she’d be able to walk on it later. “No, not at all,” she said. “Where did that come from?”
“It’s okay. It’s written all over your face,” Indy said with a little laugh. “You make this scrunched-up, totally unimpressed face when you’re upset.”
“I’m upset that my ankle hurts. You played well.”
Indy bit her lip. “Sorry, me and my big mouth.”
“You really should have a lock on that thing. I’ll see you after, okay?”
“Yeah, all right.”
Indy turned into the players’ dressing room and Penny continued on down the hallway toward her coach, handing her bag off.
“Ready?” he asked, eyes narrowing in concern that she put most of her weight on her good ankle.
“To face those vultures? As I’ll ever be.”
“You all right?”
“Fine. Let’s just get this over with.”
She walked out onto the tiny stage, reporters packing the room and the cameras in the back rolling.
“Hey, guys,” she said, getting comfortable in her chair.
“Penny,” Harold Hodges, from Athlete Weekly, began, “how’s your ankle?”
“Doing fine. Pushed it hard today, so I’ll see how it feels tomorrow, but so far so good.”
“Is ‘fine’ enough to make it through the fortnight?” a British reporter she didn’t recognize asked.
“We’ll see, won’t we?”
A reporter from the back of the room stood up. “Penny, we did some calculations, and if you win this tournament and Zina Lutrova loses in the quarters, you will be the new number one. What does that mean to you?”
“Being number one in the world would be a huge accomplishment, but I’m not here to worry about that. I’m here to win Wimbledon.”
“And if the ankle doesn’t hold up?”
“It’s going to have to, isn’t it?” She forced a grin. She could still feel her ankle burning under the table.
“If it doesn’t?”
“It will.”
The same trainer who’d wrapped her ankle was now unwrapping it. He shook his head as he pulled the tape free. “You are going to do some real damage to yourself, young lady,” he lectured, but nodded to the ice bucket.
Penny slid the injured foot into the freezing water and hissed, a thousand tiny needles stabbing at the injury all at once. “It’ll be fine.”
“That’s what they all say.”
He left the room and Penny sat back against the wall, letting her eyes drift shut. But before she could relax, she heard the creak of the door opening and closing again and then Dom’s voice. “How does it feel?”
“Hurts,” she said, and pulled it out to show him. The cold water had made the swelling go down a little bit.
“Maybe we should withdraw.”
Penny sniffed, still not opening her eyes. “That’s not an option.”
“Did you see how you played out there today? Indy’s good, but she’s not that good, not yet.”
She waved a hand in the air and put her foot back into the icy water. “Rust.”
“Open your damn eyes when you talk to me,” he snapped. Dom had never spoken to her like that, not on his worst day. Her eyes flew open. “It wasn’t rust. It was pain.”
“No, it wasn’t. I could barely feel it.”
“Because you have the pain threshold of a gladiator. I know what I saw. Your footwork was slow and you instinctively went for shots that would put less impact on that ankle.”
“So, I focus more on playing my game. It’ll be fine.”
“It might not be, and what if you hurt it worse? There are other tournaments, Penny.”
“It’s Wimbledon. I’m not withdrawing. I played on it in France and it was fine.”
“You played on it in France for a few minutes. You were out there for an hour today and look at it.”
“I’m not withdrawing,” she said through clenched teeth.
Dom pushed off the wall, throwing his hands in the air. “You ever see the video of my last match?”
She had, and he knew she had. It was at the US Open, against a sixteen-year-old Alex Russell. Dom’s knee had given out and he’d been helped off the court by the trainers at the end of the match.
“I don’t want that for you, Pen.”
“You had nearly ten years on tour on that knee, Dom. I have an ankle strain. It’s not the same thing,” she said quietly. He rarely talked about his own career, and it made her realize just how much he wanted her to withdraw. “I’m not you.”
“No, you’re not. You have ten times the talent I ever had, and up until now, I thought you were about a hundred times smarter.”
Penny sighed and lifted her foot from the bucket. Enough time had passed for the ice to do its job. “I know my limits. If it’s too much, I’ll withdraw. I promise.” There was no chance in hell that was happening, but at least it would shut him up.
Her phone buzzed with a text from Indy: You coming? Thumb flying over the screen, she responded: In a bit.
“I’ve got to get back to Jasmine’s match,” Dom said. “See you there?”
“Yeah, I’ve just got to shower.”
“And have them rewrap that ankle.”
She saluted and waved him away. Even she wasn’t that stubborn.
By the time Penny made it out to the qualification courts, Jasmine and Natalie’s match was nearly over.
Dom was still there, but Indy was long gone.
Penny caught sight of Paolo Macchia near the edge of the crowd, hat and sunglasses firmly in place to keep a low profile.
She was sporting a similar look. “How’re they doing? ” she asked at a whisper.
“6–2, 4–1. They’ll move on easily,” he said, his eyes not leaving the court for a second. “Indy went back to the house.”
Penny twisted her mouth into a pout. She didn’t really want to stand around on her ankle waiting for the match to be over. “I’m going to call a car, then. You want to come with me?”
“No,” he said, and she smiled at him and patted him on the back. He was going to need a lot of luck if he wanted Jasmine. Penny couldn’t even remember a time when Jasmine wasn’t in love with Teddy.
“Okay, see you later.”
“Ciao.”
A car was brought around quickly. “Miss Harrison, where to?” the driver asked.
“Number sixty Egerton Crescent.”
“Ah, you’re staying with our boy, then? Good, good. You two make a lovely couple, miss.”
“Thank you,” she said, her mind drifting away from her damned ankle and back to Alex for a moment.
“Be nice if you both could win it this year. Decided to adopt you as an honorary Brit. Closest thing we have on the women’s side, innit?”
She laughed. “No pressure, then.”
It took a little longer to get back home than it had on the way there. The morning rush hour was just starting to build, but even still, she knew it wouldn’t take long for the green of the suburbs to turn into the row houses of Chelsea.
“Now, you rest that ankle of yours. Gotta have you nice and healthy on match day,” her driver said.
She nearly snapped at him. She opened her mouth to tell him that her ankle was fine and that she didn’t need to rest it or anything like that, she just needed people to shut the hell up about it and let her play, but then she caught his eye in the rearview mirror and he was smiling broadly at her, white teeth stark against his dark complexion.
She couldn’t let her frustration get to her, couldn’t let it dictate everything, on the court or off it.
“Thank you…” She trailed off.
“Ahmed.”
“Thanks, Ahmed,” she said, making a mental note to request him as a driver for the tournament as they pulled up to Alex’s house.
Alex would probably still be lounging in bed, but she had no doubt she could convince him that there were far better uses of his free morning.