When will this insanity end?
“Save me,”I mouthed to him, covering my words from view. In answer, he held up five fingers as if to ask for a little more time. It took all my resolve to not sigh heavily into the mic.
“What were you thinking during that crucial moment in the second set?” another journalist asked. “When Bailey was ahead in the scoring?”
That was an easy answer, one I couldn’t admit.
“I thought of her.”
Every time that red mist began to creep into my vision, fear and panic descending, I thought of her words, how she played, the beauty behind each backstroke. I’d learned to take that feeling and use it to my advantage instead of melting down in front of the crowd. It felt better. I felt stronger.Maybe I could really do this.
“Don’t fuck it up,” I said instead, slumping towards the mic. I needed to eat and crash for the night, the recovery getting harder and harder the longer we went into the tournament.
The crowd chuckled at my answer as Dani picked yet another journalist. A woman stood this time, asking simply, “How are you feeling heading into the next round?”
“I feel good. I think my performances have been strong and I hope to continue that.” A stock answer, but nonetheless true. I had been on my best behavior, even when things didn’t go my way.
Sometimes, I’d focus my frustration into my serve, into the rallies, and use it to my advantage. Sometimes, when it was really boiling over, I’d look to the crowd and find her watching me.
Even a single glance could calm my unwinding emotions. And if she wasn’t there, I’d focus on her bracelet, run my fingers along the beads, counting each one until I felt focused.
“What are your thoughts on the competition left in the draw?” another asked. “Anyone you’d like to not face going ahead?”
“I mean, if they could all withdraw and clear the path to the final, that would be great,” I dared to joke, trying to lighten the mood a little. “There are so many strong players left. Thompson, Petrovic, Costa...” I caught myself off guard with the absentminded mention of her name, pride swelling as I thought back on her performances this tournament. “To name a few.”
There was a rumbling around the press room, a few phones pinging at once. I felt a little uncomfortable, everyone else around me suddenly enthralled with their phones, my own still in my locker.
What was I missing?
But when their attention returned to me, it felt a little like sittingin front of a shiver of sharks. And then there was a flurry of hands in the air, each more eager for the next question than they had been for the last fifteen minutes.
Dani pointed to another reporter, an older man who stood as he cleared his throat. “With the recently announced withdrawal of Thompson from the competition, it will be Inés Costa you play in the semis.” He continued speaking, but I didn’t hear any of it. My focus split clean down the middle.
“Sorry,” I interrupted, leaning forward. “Did you say Thompson has withdrawn?”
I’d known playing Inés was a possibility. We’d been drawn into different sections, but once the tournament reached this stage, paths inevitably crossed. Inés was supposed to play another match before the semi-finals, though.
The reporter’s brow furrowed slightly as he repeated, “Yes, withdrawn. There has been plenty of talk about yourfriendshipwith Costa. Do you think that will affect how you play against each other in such a crucial match?”
Friendship.The word stuck in my throat. I forced it down, keeping my face calm. “I think we are both seasoned professionals. It should make for an exciting match.”
The reality was undeniable: we were going to face each other. The last time had been Wimbledon, only a few months ago, but that felt like a different life. Back then, she wasn’t the woman who now left the scent of her perfume on my pillow, or the one whose laugh I could pick out in a packed room.
Back then, she hadn’t been naked in my bed, her head buried between my thighs, her touch a fire I could still feel.
It was official: me versus Inés.
We might have grown closer since our last showdown, might have forgiven, or at least buried, the worst of what we’d said and done to each other. But could she forgive me if I knocked her out?Could I forgive her if she did the same?
I remembered what she’d said during one of our worst fights in the Hamptons:When I beat you, I want it to matter. I want the fucking points.
Now she’d have her chance.
“Time for one last question,” Dani said, scanning the room before picking an older blonde woman. My heart sank at the sight of her.
“Rachel Kendrick,The Daily Tea,” she said quickly, holding her phone out towards me. “What do you make of the speculation online of you being suspected of using a banned substance?”
The floor felt like it was falling out from underneath me, my stomach lurching.
