“I plan to sign up for driving lessons, eventually,” I explain. It’s what I should have done in the first place. “But I can’t afford a car right now, so it’s hard to be too motivated.”
“Makes sense,” Drew says as he turns into the condo parking lot.
“Thanks for driving me tonight,” I say as we walk to the elevator.
“No problem, Ally.”
On Friday morning, I wake up to a FaceTime call from Sarah Hayes.
“Hey, Sarah,” I say groggily, as I rub sleep out of my eyes.
“Shit, did I wake you up?” she asks. “What time is it there?”
“Six.”
“Sorry, I thought it was seven.”
“It’s okay, I have to get up soon, anyway,” I tell her. “Congrats again on the French.” We’ve texted, but this is the first I’ve spoken to Sarah since her French Open win.
She smiles. “Thanks.”
“What’s up?” I ask.
“Not too much,” she says, but she looks nervous. Clearly, something is up.
“You’re in England now, right?” Wimbledon starts in two weeks, so she’ll have jumped straight into grass court prep.
“Yeah,” she nods. “Since last week.” She hesitates for a beat. “Look, Ally, the reason I called is . . . I’ve been spending time with Piers, and well . . . we’re dating.”
“Piers Montclair?”
The question is unnecessary, because there’s no other Piers in tennis right now. Piers Montclair is basically the Roger Federer of our generation: tall, Swiss, multilingual, and incredibly talented. He’s two years older than Sarah and me, and he’s been number one on the men’s tour for most of the past year.
And I used to have a massive crush on him.
I spoke to him once, in the player’s lounge at the Australian Open during my second year on the tour. He told me I was playing really well, which wasn’t true. It was, however, very kind.
On the phone screen, Sarah gives me a guilty nod. “Yeah. We were staying at the same hotel in Rome last month, and we ended up having dinner together. Things just sort of went from there.”
“Sarah, that’s great,” I tell her. “Piers seems like really good guy.”
“Really?” The relief is evident in her voice. “I mean, yeah, he’s a great guy. But I know you kind of liked him at one time, so?—”
“Yeah, but that was years ago,” I say quickly. It’s true; I haven’t thought of Piers in a long time. I might envy Sarah’s tennis success, but I don’t envy her this. “I’m happy for you, Sarah.”
“Thanks.” She sighs. “People were taking pictures of us at dinner last night, so it’ll probably hit the tabloids soon. I wanted to tell you before it made the news.”
“Ah.” I guess that’s one downside to dating Piers Montclair; people want to take pictures of you while you’re eating dinner.
“How’s everything with you?” Sarah asks. “Played any more tennis with your boss?”
I realize that even though we’ve been texting, it’s been over three weeks since I spoke to Sarah. She doesn’t know that Drew is no longer my boss, and we’ve done a lot more than play tennis.
“Yeah, we played again, actually,” I tell her. “And it was okay.”
The truth is, the second time we played was better than okay; it was fun. I was hitting well, and most of my serves went in. I’m nowhere near as good as I used to be, but I didn’t embarrass myself either.
“That’s great,” Sarah says. “Was the boss impressed?”
