Slammed, стр. 25

I was sure my sister had more to say on the subject, but then she caught sight of a fellow artist in the crowd and was drawn away to talk clay or whatever sculptors actually discussed.

Anyway, she was wrong. I’d been a little sore for matches before, and it wouldn’t make a bit of difference.

Two points. That’s how close I came to losing my first-round match—to an unseeded twenty-year-old. From Belarus. A country even I hadn’t visited, despite my considerable air miles.

And my hip was almost entirely to blame.

When I finally got off court after two hours, I relented on the painkilling shots I’d been leaving for a last resort. If I was going to get past anyone else, I was going to have to accept that additional help.

I spent the start of my next day off in the gym, headphones firmly in place. I knew what speculation would be going on, about my recent injury and the fact I’d come so close to losing to a relative unknown in the first round. Sports media was populated by sharks, and they had their first scent of blood in the water.

Don’t get me wrong; I knew I was lucky to have had so many great headlines and back page splashes. I’d done well from magazines and even the big sports blogs, but it took a hell of a lot of work to get that kind of buzz. What they relished, and what probably sold more papers, was a shocking loss or a hint of scandal. Throw in the tragedy of injury or a personal feud, and the reporters after each match were practically salivating.

Back in the hotel suite, safe from prying eyes, I decided it was no kind of time to stay indoors and wallow. That used to be my preferred way of handling the tougher stuff, but with time I’d realised that I had to face my problems head on. Being up and being active made that much more possible. Besides, I had actually won, in the end.

I knew that the best part of big cities was that nobody paid close attention. With the entire tennis circus in town, attention would be spread across many famous faces, making me just one of many. It was the perfect environment to go out and get a little culture.

While I got dressed in my favourite jeans and a T-shirt not actually designed to play sport in, I flipped on the television coverage for the day. Having been so entrenched in all things recovery, I hadn’t really paid attention to the tournament draw beyond my first-round opponent and whether Celeste was on the same side of the bracket or not.

Okay, fine, I had also checked to see who Toni was facing. She had a tricky match that day against Keiko Kobayashi, the thirteenth seed and one of my best friends on the tour. Most people hated that kind of draw when they were low in the rankings or just starting out. But if Toni was anything like me, she’d be thrilled to draw such a big challenge. An early chance to prove herself and a big name to take down if she won.

Was she any match for Keiko? The little I’d watched since becoming aware of Toni properly wasn’t conclusive. For a moment, I considered calling the concierge and asking them to get me a seat in the players’ section for it. Then I realised two things: It was on one of the outer courts, where there was no players’ section, and the match had already started.

So I didn’t make it any further than the couch for a while. I raided the mini bar for some juice and settled down to see if Toni would make any impact against Keiko. There was some chance, at least. Keiko had been out most of the previous season after knee surgery and wasn’t yet back to her best. A year younger than me, she was clearly feeling the ravages of a long career too.

To listen to everyone’s laundry list of injuries and complaints, it was easy to forget we were amongst some of the fittest people in the world. All sportspeople ended up the same, give or take a few lucky ones here and there. We got our bodies into the best physical condition, and then we pushed them past their limits time and again.

Keiko looked sharp and held her serve as seamlessly as ever. Having to break her was a challenge for anyone, but Toni managed it in the fifth game. The determination on her face was evident even with the camera zoomed out.

My phone lit up with a message from my mother. I ignored it.

I turned my attention back to the television. Keiko had settled into a kind of groove, flicking her long fringe out of her eyes. How she could play with that kind of irritation I had no idea, but most players’ haircuts or style changes fell firmly in the superstition bracket. It had been a few years since Keiko had handed me my ass in Melbourne, reminding the tennis world I wasn’t invincible after all. Coming off the year of my Golden Slam—winning all four majors in the same calendar year and polishing it off with a gold medal at the London Olympics—the media frenzy had been immense. Personally, I’d been relieved that people were talking about me like a human being again.

No matter what Keiko threw at her, Toni kept coming back. She was giving as good as she got and playing like she’d never been injured. I’d never missed more than a couple of months at a time, but even I had adapted my game to allow for wear and tear over the years. I envied that fearlessness, but I worried about it all the same.

Alice came back from whichever merry brunch she’d been at during the last set. I nodded in acknowledgement, unable to