Hallie’s voice cut through the, to quote her friend, ‘pity party’ she’dmaybebeen throwing herself. “I’ve been standing here for like a minute. Don’t think I didn’t see what you did with that tortilla chip.”
Sydney pitched her body forward over the sofa in a fluid movement, her fingers sliding along the carpet until she found a sharp edge.
“Gotcha,” she said, holding the chip up in triumph like she’d just accomplished something.
Hallie only lifted her eyebrows and stepped farther into the shared living room, their respective bedrooms flanking both sides.
Hallie had taken over day-to-day operations of the inn from her parents two years ago. She worked possibly even more hours than Sydney had—back when she’d still had a career.
And since Hallie lived on-site that meant that, in a way, Sydney did now, too. At least, she did while she figured out what came next.
Which she would do. As soon as she managed to separate herself from the couch.
She could always go back to Florida and live in the house she’d purchased for her parents a few years ago. But when she’d finally accepted that continuing the tour this year wasn’t possible, it hadn’t taken long to realize that being enveloped in her parents’ sympathetic yet mildly concerned hovering wasn’t what she needed.
She’d needed a reset, and coming back to the place where she’d fallen in love with tennis—cominghome—while maybe a touch masochistic, felt like the right next step.
She was grateful that her friend, with very few questions asked, had offered her a place to stay. Sydney had tried to make it work on the tour for as long as she could, but as the days wore on and her ranking continued to plummet, she’d been caught in avicious cycle that had chewed her up and spat her out in no more than a few months.
“I’m sorry, Hal,” she said when she placed the chip on the end table, promising herself she’d throw it away when she got up.
And truly, she was. Sorry, that is. It was terrifying how easy it’d been to fall apart when it felt like there was nothing anchoring her to the world and her place in it anymore.
Hallie was already moving toward the small kitchen nestled along the wall to dig for her midday smoothie ingredients when she finally threw Sydney a bone. “You’re fine, Syd. I know this year hasn’t been easy for you. Plus,” she said, leveling a smirk in Sydney’s direction, “you’ve always been the messy one.”
“Messy, not dirty. There’s a huge difference,” she muttered back, but it was drowned out by the sound of the blender.
And truly, there was. Clothes strewn about her bedroom after a shower and deprioritizing weekly deep cleans in favor of hitting a few extra balls on the court were far different than living in the detritus of sparkling water cans, chip crumbs, and stray M&M’s that had overtaken her life recently.
She couldn’t seem to pull herself out of the rut that deepened by the day.
When she’d been injured during last year’s final pro tournament of the season, it had been a blow… to put it mildly.
She’d done everything they’d said she should. Rehab. Rest. Okay, she likely could have done that one better, but she couldn’t stand the idea of coming back this season in anything less than peak physical form.
But when she’d hit the court for what she hadn’t known would be her final year, she could feel her body still wasn’t right. Her knee’s range of movement was still too limited, exacerbated by her preference for hard surfaces and quick hits.
She’d lost during the first round of the Australian Open, and it had only gone downhill from there.
If the body keeps the score, hers was looking to take her out without allowing a single point.
Her serve was weaker. She couldn’t cover the court as easily, even at a few inches shy of six feet. The nail in the coffin was that she was afraid to make the quick adjustments that were crucial to her almost imperceptible edge in reaction time, something she’d been honing for years as she’d reached the next levels of play.
The end came not with a bang, but with a whimper. There was no singular moment, no reopening of her ACL tear that had forced her to be carried off the court. Just a slow degradation of stamina, focus, and confidence in her game.
She didn’t trust herself—and that was the worst thing that could happen to an athlete at the professional level.
Finally, at her coach’s recommendation, if not downright insistence, she’d retired from the tour a week ago, officially rescinding her spot in the next open, which she’d originally been set to fly out for in a few days.
Wimbledon, which had made the knife twist in a little harder.
And then she’d accepted—still hoping this was all a bad dream—that her career was over.
It felt like she was proving everyone right.
Her sponsors, who always seemed more interested in her staying conventionally attractive than whether she won matches.
Her coach, who’d already moved on to working with the next sixteen-year-old phenom who’d had a tennis racket in hand before they could walk.
