Slammed, стр. 28
We wore clothes from different suppliers; her racquet brand was one of the newer ones I didn’t entirely trust yet. Where I favoured the towel-material of sweatbands, always matching the accent colour of my outfit, Toni opted for a simple cotton bandanna twisted and tied around her head. The bands at her wrists never matched, to the point where it had to be intentional.
All that information, significant and not, just left me wanting more. Hadn’t I asked these very questions? Why wasn’t I satisfied to find out the answers? And then I realised: Reading about it second-hand wasn’t half as interesting as potentially hearing those stories and details from Toni herself. I smiled at the thought. Would we get much chance to chat before the match if she made it through?
And just like that, her match came to an abrupt end. Her second-round opponent, Sasha, had been forced to retire with an injury. Just as I had in Cincinnati. The trouble with the grand slams was that the money just for showing up was too good to miss out on, so players forced themselves back before they were fit. Sasha had been struggling and Toni had taken the first set anyway, but the game was now handed to her in a forfeit.
She looked frustrated at winning that way. Not that I could blame her. Winning by forfeit never felt much like winning to me, either.
The pundits were waiting for her, especially since Sasha had gone straight off for treatment. Mira looked quite excited for once.
“So Antonia, you’ve made it through to face Elin Larsson in the third round as many predicted. Think you’ve got another giant-killing in you?”
Toni smiled and shrugged. “I can only try.”
“Obviously Elin has a great rivalry with Celeste Rutherford and is fresh from winning Wimbledon. Still, there are rumours that she’s playing through injury. Is this the best chance anyone has against her in a long while?”
I tried to tell myself Mira didn’t sound too gleeful at the prospect. I did a quick set of side stretches recommended by the physios, almost out of spite.
The moment Toni escaped the clutches of television, she sent me a text.
Game on?
I smiled. She had confidence enough, I’d give her that.
I look forward to kicking your ass. Respectfully, of course.
Which only left me thinking about her ass. Damn it, brain. I didn’t have to wait long for a distraction this time. Her texting speed had picked up. Haven’t you heard? I kill giants this year.
I just wasn’t loving the word ‘giant’ being thrown around so liberally. It made me feel huge and clumsy somehow, and not in the least attractive. What happened to goddess? I think I preferred that title.
My joy at quicker responses had been premature. The screen kept showing endless runs of those three little dots, but it took almost three whole minutes for those to give way to words.
Oh God you saw that? I never know what to say in these things. If anyone gets to be the goddess of tennis though, it’s you.
Time to let her wait a bit. Too much instant replying might make me look a bit too interested. I had a gym session to get to. Running and stretching, nothing too fun.
Besides, I would see her tomorrow for our match, thanks to the relentless format of these tournaments. Better to play it cool.
I hadn’t been nervous about a match in over a decade. Not in any noticeable, physical way. Those first few years I was a nervous wreck about everyone I played, either because they should crush me or then because I was the bright new thing that everyone wanted to tear down from her pedestal.
And okay, I still don’t like talking about it, but anxiety attacks right before I needed to be in my best physical condition and mental sharpness? Not that helpful. I spoke to the most discreet therapists and tried what they prescribed, but the pills often left me foggy and lethargic. Maybe in another job, another life, I would have given them more time. Instead, I had to look around for alternatives, all the while terrified that someone would find out and splash my private life all over the news.
I’d learned, with my mother’s constant coaching, to take that shaky adrenaline and use it channelled into strength and speed. If nerves made my body go all fight or flight, I could use flight to get my ass around the court that little bit quicker. A fraction of a second and a handful of millimetres could make all the difference on a vital point, and so I’d buried those human reactions deep beneath the surface to charge my reflexes and my motion.
Yet there I was, about to walk on court at the Arthur Ashe stadium. The biggest audience for any single tennis court in the world, I had played it countless times and had my share of big wins there. The friendly, raucous crowd were a delight to have on your side, and they treated the returning Open winners as their handpicked champions. If you won in New York, they’d always welcome you back.
Toni came bounding through the door from her private dressing room, another perk of playing on the big courts. She looked thrilled, but there was just the tiniest bit of tension at the edge of that broad smile.
“Ladies,” the head usher greeted us, looking as sharp as ever in his tournament suit.
“Mohammed.” I reached out to shake his hand. “It’s nice to be back.”
“I heard they had you on court in the Louis Armstrong for your first two,” he said, as though it’s some insider secret and not a matter of public record that also happened to be