CHAPTER 1
Maggie
February - Australian Open
The tensionin the arena is more palpable than the Melbourne heat. I wipe the sweat from my face and finish my banana, my knee bouncing in excitement and anticipation. The back of my neck prickles and I sneak a glance over my shoulder at the family section.
My sister is wearing an impeccable white dress and matching sunhat. She waves at me and I wave back. A flash of neon pink next to her draws my attention and I roll my eyes as my best friend gives me a thumbs up. I bite back a smile, trying to control my facial expression for the cameras that are no doubt zeroed in on me.
This is my fifth time playing in the Australian Open, having won three times in the past. My opponent, Elena Wozniac, is currently ranked as the No. 1 in women’s singles, but that won’t last long once I win today.
I’ve played against her so many times; I know hermovements like I know my own backhand. Ihaveto win this tournament. After all, I’m not getting any younger.
Ever since we were little kids, my dad would take my older sister and I to the tennis club and teach us everything he knew. When my sister went off to college and decided the game wasn’t her passion, my dad was crushed. Then, he focused all his energy into me, his next best prodigy. That is, until I went off to college.
Now, at thirty-one years old, a decade after graduating from Stanford, I’ve won numerous tournaments and awards, and if plans go my way this year, I’ll win my tenth Grand Slam tournament.
I take one more peek at my family’s seats as I make my way to the court for the third set. My dad’s empty seat mocks me and I grit my teeth. I don’t know why I expected this time to be any different.
Each serve, each backhand, each point I claim, it’s all fueled by my anger and determination to master the sport. What has he ever done in his career? Coach some of the best tennis players in the world? Well, I’m one of those players now and he still couldn’t bother to show me some support.
I bend my knees and focus my gaze on the ball, taking measured breaths. This is it. Elena is quick on her feet, returning my serve and bringing the pressure.
The crowd is quiet as people watch us with rapt attention. The only sounds are our grunts and the ball hitting the court again and again as we rally back and forth.
Elena rushes her swing on an overhead smash and hits the ball into the net. I pump my fist at my side and prepare to receive again. I can see her fuming from all the way across the court and I bite back a smile.
Love-15.
It’s hard not to show our emotions when we play, but I’d like to think I’ve mastered something of a poker face over the years.
My opponent, however, shows every bit of anger when she plays against me. I’ve never had a proper conversation with her outside of tennis and the occasional fundraising event, and I wonder if she’s always this grumpy.
Our next rally goes much smoother for me, and I manage to draw her out by the net, leaving her baseline open. I hit a lob when she least expects it, pushing the ball high and deep into her court.
Love-30.
My heart is beating wildly and I take a couple deep breaths as Elena gets ready to serve again.You can do this.
The stakes are high as my opponent tries to wear me out, hitting each ball on opposing sides of the court, making me run around from one side to the other. When she least expects it, I hit another drop shot, landing it softly just over the net. Even though she tries, she can’t make it in time. The ball bounces twice and she screams in frustration.
Love-40.
Match point.
I only need one more point to win the whole championship.
Elena serves and we rally the ball back and forth for what feels like eternity. Elena’s final attempt at saving herself fails as she hits it out of bounds. The arena erupts into cheers. I can hear people hooting and hollering—my sister especially, the loudest one of the bunch.
I take a moment to bask in the glory while Elena breaks her racquet, hammering it to the ground again and again. I’m not usually one to gloat, but I’ve got the biggest grin on my face as I shake her hand over the net.
“Good game,” I say.
“Get fucked,” she says in her thick Polish accent.
“Oh, I plan to.” I wink and turn my back to her.
CHAPTER 2
