Slammed, стр. 22
Maybe going first wouldn’t be such a bad idea after all.
Those brief conversations with Toni had to sustain me for the best part of a month. Although she had my number, I got only a handful of texts. Clearly mass messages at that—updates on where she would be that week if anyone was looking for her. It felt like it meant something to be included, at least.
She kicked ass in Washington, though, while I was playing the Canadian Open. I paid more attention than I usually would have to a smaller tournament, but when Toni made it to the final, I was cheering her on via a stuttering, buffering stream that Parisa managed to bring up on my tablet for me. I sent my commiserations when she lost, pleased to even get a reply.
It was strange to play almost a whole tournament without my mother watching from the side-lines and managing my training schedule. It was easier in the one-week events, since warmups, matches, and cool downs were generally enough on their own. I played pretty much every day to make it to the final, accepting the cute trophy and the cheque with a bit of a spring in my step. No matter how jaded I had been lately, winning did still bring its own kind of high.
My mother showed up for Cincinnati, hitting the hotel reception at the same time as I did. Creepy, how she could time those things to perfection. She didn’t offer much news about the divorce, beyond mentioning that they might sell the house, and I didn’t ask any more than that either. We settled into our suite, only the lounge of it shared, and the routine of another tournament soon took over.
Until the third-round match on Wednesday, when I tossed the ball in the air for a second serve, like I’d done a thousand times before. The first serve had been a fault, something I’d been doing too many times since I first walked out on court. I hated that they called double faults “unforced errors.” It was easier to admit I had just screwed it up.
The crowd weren’t exactly on my side either, since my opponent was American. Sophie was classy enough not to work the home-crowd angle too much, but I didn’t enjoy my every dumb moment being cheered like they couldn’t wait to see a giant-killing moment. So much for tennis being a dignified sport where they only applauded the positive and politely ignored the things that went wrong.
Not that I made for much of a giant, that day.
Anyway. Bounce, bounce, toss it up in the air. Standard, one of the most repeated actions in my daily existence—hell, my whole life. Which was the perfect invitation for the… Okay, I didn’t remember the name, but the big muscle running through my left hip.
It wasn’t close to the worst ways I’d hurt myself trying to hit a ball, but it had me doubling up in pain and missing the ball entirely. At least until I realised that bending over was only hurting it more. Straightening up, I waved vaguely at the umpire. I walked like I’d only just learned how legs worked over to my chair, dropping my racquet on the ground and signalling for my physio, Ezi, to come running. She was already on her way, as the umpire called for a medical timeout, one of the few permitted breaks in play.
The tournament medical staff arrived right along with her, the doctor and nurse looking a little overwhelmed at being called into action in front of the large crowd. Usually, aches and pains were played through until the next natural break—change of ends on the court, the pause between sets. Acute injuries, though, anything that resulted from a fall or a sudden inability to move properly, meant immediate attention.
They had me stand and prodded at where I indicated until I hissed with pain. With the diagnosis made so quickly, I had the option for three minutes of physio treatment or to retire the match entirely. A forfeit, if you like.
I could already tell which it would be. While something like this would be easily fixed, it would take time and rest. Honestly, I’d had trouble with both of my hips on and off for at least ten years. A lot of players did damage in the early years of their career from playing too hard and too often, and that kind of niggling pain flared up again and again.
As Ezi offered me an arm to support me, I made my way to the umpire and announced that I would have to retire the match. The crowd at least had found some sympathy for me at that point and applauded me politely back to the locker room. Sophie, always the most sporting, came to shake my hand and propped me up on my other side, before running back out on court to retrieve her things and make the “victory” official.
“Mamma.” I tried to head her off as soon as she made it down from the VIP seats. “It’s okay, just that same damn muscle.”
“I’ve called the hospital; they’ll scan you and the specialist will be waiting.”
“Not necessary,” I protested, but I already knew it was a lost cause. I wondered whether it was worth trying to clean up and change. The transition from standing to sitting and the way my hip yelled at me said no, I’d be going in my match gear.
Hospitals, physio suites, doctor’s offices: I was used to them all. They’d always been a part of the job, and sometimes a welcome respite from it. It troubled me a little, especially in countries like America, that wherever I went in the world