Slammed Read online

  And that was before you considered the reaction from my mother.

  As the bartender passed, I fished some cash from my purse. Plucking another twenty on top of the bar bill and tip, I risked leaning in to ask, “Is there a back way out of here? Maybe a staff entrance I could use?”

  He took the extra money and nodded to the opposite end of the bar from my unwelcome journalist. “That way. Anyone stops you, just say Jimmy sent you. Leads right out into the side street.”

  “You’re a lifesaver.”

  I suppose I shouldn’t have been surprised that when I stepped down from the stool and headed that way, Toni followed right along. She actually took me by the elbow and steered me towards the barely visible door on the far side of the bar, apparently concerned I wasn’t moving fast enough. I could keep up with Olympic runners on sprints, but that evening I was sluggish, almost slow. I blamed the heels.

  The door opened into a space with duller blue lights, like something out of a bad sci-fi movie. We jogged down the corridor, her hand never leaving my arm, and as we reached the first turn, normal fluorescent light greeted us at last.

  We never got a chance to explain our presence, because nobody intercepted us between there and the door out into what was an alleyway at best. Calling it a side street suggested it was somewhere people might willingly walk down or that cars could drive down. This was a horrid place, full of industrial bins and cobbles shiny with rain. At least the wet pavement could be explained by the damp weather and not what it distinctly smelled like.

  By that point I was definitely moving fast enough. I practically dragged Toni out of there, to the safety of the main street and the potential of flagging down one of those iconic black London taxis.

  “Thank you,” I said, trying not to be disappointed that she finally let go once we were on the pavement. “I hope I didn’t interrupt your evening. I just have a big day tomorrow and thought a little time to myself might be nice…”

  “I get it. I didn’t get a chance to say back there, but I’m on the tour again this year.” Oh. Implying that previously she hadn’t been? I was caught completely off guard. Maybe that was why she looked so familiar at second glance. I hadn’t just been staring because she was so damn pretty with those high cheekbones and expressive dark eyes that seemed to play a news ticker of her feelings as she silently worked through them. I envied her the transparency. Lately I only expressed emotion over missed points and bad line calls.

  “So when we met in Paris…?” I asked, suspecting at least part of the answer.

  “You put me out in the second round at Roland Garros. Straight sets, 6-1, 6-0. I suppose you do that so often that it’s just a statistic, but it was a big day for me. Thanks for letting me win that first game, by the way. Saved a little bit of my pride.”

  “Let you?” I couldn’t help but scoff. “I never let anyone win anything. It’s possible it took me until the second game to be fully warmed up. But, uh, sorry about that. Also for not recognising you tonight. You must think I’m some arrogant bitch.”

  “With a career like yours, I don’t think you’d have the storage space to remember every poor girl you ever sent crying back to the locker room. At least I got a kiss on the cheek at the net when you were done demolishing me. I’d have been even more bummed to just get a handshake.”

  There was that sparkle in her eyes again. Maybe saving me from the press hadn’t been her only motivation. I hardly dared entertain the idea. Tennis I could do. Flirting? There wouldn’t be trophies for that any time soon.

  “So since you know where I’ll be tomorrow,” I began, because once the idea had struck me, I had to speak up instantly or lose the nerve, “any chance you might be in the same place?”

  Toni laughed. “You mean will I be on Centre Court at Wimbledon? It’s funny, but they don’t give out tickets to the people dumped out in the second round.”

  “I have one to spare,” I said, because I did. Three, in fact. “As long as you don’t mind sitting in the box. The cameras can be…” I was going to say too much, but I didn’t want to sound spoiled about all the attention. “But the Royals will be in. My Swedish ones and the local ones. That will pull focus.”

  “Well, I’d be an idiot to turn down a free ticket, right?” Toni stepped closer, and just when I began to think a kiss might be in my future, she stuck her hand out instead. She hailed a taxi, and miraculously for a Friday night, the first one with a light on actually stopped.

  “Just go to the collection window at the ticket office, I’ll put one under your name.” It occurred to me then I had only a vague grasp of her surname. “Actually, could you just remind me…”

  “Antonia Cortes Ruiz,” she said, close to my ear, and the soft S with the rolled R’s made for a very pleasant sensation. “Now get some rest. I don’t want to come all the way to watch you lose tomorrow because you were too tired from choking on martinis.”

  “Deal.” I didn’t say that I felt more awake than I had all day. Instead, I got into the taxi, wondering what it might be like to be the kind of person who asked Toni to get in alongside me.

  Turned out I wouldn’t get to know, because the door closed behind me and she simply waved from the pavement.

  “Where to, love?” the driver asked.

  “Bathgate Road, please. SW19.” I hoped that by not saying the W word he wouldn’t make the association. But there it was: the flickering glance back to the rear-view mirror as we pulled into traffic.

  “Wimbledon?” he said, and I nodded without making eye contact. “Here, has anyone ever told you that you look a bit like—”

  “I get it all the time,” I said, faking a laugh. “That would be nice, huh?”

  He accepted the denial at face value; people always do. It’s easier to accept that the unlikely isn’t really happening. “Would be nice to have her money, that’s for sure.”

  I rested my head against the inside of the cab, feeling the vibration of the tyres against the road rattling through my head, that strange tickling that seemed to go through my teeth. Traffic was slow as drunken revellers spilled into the street and buses competed with other taxis for places to stop. Soon, though, we were heading for the river and quieter roads.

  When the orange lights started to blur, I let my eyes close for the rest of the journey. I hoped it would prevent any conversation, the awkward questions that I never knew how to answer. London sped by outside, but I didn’t see any of it.

  CHAPTER THREE

  I always woke up far too early on the day of a final, though these days it was just force of habit. Years ago it had been pure nerves; often I’d hardly been able to sleep at all. I’d been a jittery, jumpy wreck of a girl, barely able to hold my racquet right or answer a simple question.

  That soon went, with practice. The regular, manageable amount of anxiety still fizzled and crackled in my veins, but I had learned how to seem completely cool on the outside, to seem like a major final was just any other three sets of tennis.

  Sitting around the house all morning to quietly worry was not an option, especially once the interns had started packing up all the extra stuff I hadn’t even asked for. Some would head to my home in Los Angeles, more still to my family home in Stockholm, but the staff would get their share too. Who else would do these crazy jobs with long hours and so much travel if they weren’t getting some perks? All the sportswear, cool gadgets, and keychains a person could ask for.

  The permanent staff I knew well by now. Most of them had been with “Team Larsson,” as my mother infuriatingly called it, for more than five years. Some had come fresh from university, while others had been hanging in there for a professional tennis break that never came. They made my life pretty seamless, and most importantly, these people were my travelling family most of the year. We laughed, argued, played stupid games—anything to pass the time in a new country every other week. They made it fun to be in the g
ym or on court every day.

  “When’s the car?” I asked Parisa when she appeared bearing a smoothie and a bottle of water. Looking chic as ever in her tailored cream-coloured dress and fitted navy blazer, she had her glossy dark hair down in loose waves for a change instead of the professional buns and twists I was used to.

  I was dressed for the day ahead too, only in my case that meant a pair of crisp white shorts and a matching white T-shirt, temporarily covered by what the kit maker called a ‘presentation’ jacket, but really it was just a tracksuit top with a few more splashes of colour. Only my shoes were waiting to be put on, from force of habit and maybe a little bit of superstition: I preferred to wear slider sandals until I got to the court area. Tennis shoes went on only in the locker room, along with my actual match kit. That was just a replica of my current shorts and shirt, but with the date and our names embroidered on the chest. I was honestly just glad I didn’t have to do my own laundry with the amount I must have generated.

  “Morning to you too, party animal. You know Britta is lying in wait to murder you for that, yes?”

  Parisa’s accent still carried a strong current of her native Pakistan, and her darker skin next to mine as she handed over my necessary drinks made my year-round tan seem to fade in an instant.

  “Oh, let her. I went out for one drink, and I’m all ready to go today. It’s not like I make a habit of it.”

  “Apparently there was some social-media buzz about you, from people on the street. Nobody got a clear enough shot, though, so you got lucky.”

  “If either of the men playing their final tomorrow went out tonight it would be ‘look, he’s just being a guy,’” I complained. “I don’t mind people judging, but I mind when it’s really about controlling what the little ladies are doing.”

  Parisa rolled her eyes and made no attempt to hide that was exactly what she was doing. “Lots of good luck messages and gifts coming in. You want to look before we go?”

  I shook my head. Did I ever? It wasn’t that I was ungrateful—quite the opposite. I just didn’t like to weigh the whole day down in the expectations of others. A final should be nerve-wracking enough on its own, surely?

  “You’re going to make me do social media from the grounds, aren’t you?”

  “It’s nice that you’ve stopped fighting it. Most people will never get to experience this, so you’re shining a light on the sacred—”

  I held my hand up to stop her. Parisa could wax poetic for hours if I set her off. I kept telling her she was wasted on my straightforward life. She owed the world a book of all her wonderful stories. To that, she usually snorted and started talking to me about photoshoots or personal appearances, knowing how much I hated them. “Were you able to fix that ticket I asked you about?”

  “Not like you to be sending midnight texts, but yes. Darren in the box office is a sweetheart, totally in love with me, you know how it is. It helps that this woman already has security clearance as a player.”

  I don’t know why I was so invested in Toni being there, not when there was still a good chance she’d think I was joking and not even show. Who’d brave the crowds on the last weekend of Wimbledon unless they were sure of a ticket? I should have asked for her number. Or maybe I should have learned how to flirt at least ten years ago.

  With carefully timed lingering over my smoothie and a cowardly dash to the front door, I managed to get in the first car with Parisa and avoid my mother until we reached the Wimbledon grounds. From the moment we stepped out of the cars after the short drive, it was controlled chaos. Designated press areas allowed for photographs of each player’s arrival, but there was also a gauntlet of VIPs and staff who all wanted to wish me luck, grab a quick picture, or generally say hello.

  Although it didn’t help my icy reputation, I kept the smiles polite and my earbuds firmly in place. Parisa and my mother ran interference on all the requests, and as silly as it sounded, I specifically had to refuse handshakes. Four years ago an overly enthusiastic billionaire sponsor had tried to shake my hand with both of his massive ones. He’d practically crushed bones in the attempt, and I still grumbled sometimes that he was the reason I hadn’t won that particular US Open.

  Lars, my fitness trainer, and Eziamaka, my physio, set to work getting my equipment and general area prepared once we entered the shared ladies’ locker rooms. At that point I could avoid my mother no longer, and she pounced.

  “Elin.”

  “Mamma? You know, Ezi looks almost ready to do some stretches with me…”

  One glance from her shut that down fast. “Nice evening?” She switched to Swedish as soon as Lars left the room, a sure sign that she didn’t want to be overheard or understood. “I’m sure I heard wrong about you looking for silly distractions before a final.”

  I rarely got to speak in my native tongue other than with my parents and the occasional meeting with old friends, but it was probably good to take a refresher. One way or another, I’d be meeting with the King and Queen of Sweden later today. They didn’t always travel to my finals, but Wimbledon they had a soft spot for. Maybe they just liked the short flight.

  “I was just stretching my legs,” I said, finding a euphemism. “No harm, no pictures.”

  “There better not be. Just make sure you win today, then anything that might show up will only be a detail. They’ll say it’s impressive that you could be so irresponsible and still the best in the world.”

  “You know, Mamma, your compliments are a little hard to find sometimes.”

  She snorted, moving back to English effortlessly. “Elin, be serious. You’re in touching distance of the all-time Slam record. Do you really want to lose your appetite for winning now?”

  “Well, I’m thirty-two,” I answered. “And some would say I’ve already won plenty. Maybe it’s time to give someone else a chance.”

  “I don’t think so. Even if it was, don’t start today. I can’t bear the thought of you losing to that woman.”

  That woman being Celeste Rutherford, ranked number three in the world and second seed for this tournament. Which, in case it wasn’t obvious from those numbers, meant we spent a lot of time breathing down each other’s necks. The reason for my mother’s animosity wasn’t rooted in that, though. No, we Larsson women respect a fellow competitor, and we understood that it wasn’t personal when we were on court.

  No, Celeste had the almost unique honour of being my ex-girlfriend, and though we’d never officially been outed or talked seriously about coming out as a couple, it had been a poorly kept secret for two years. Then she broke my heart, which turned out to be pretty easy to do, and we’ve been friendly rivals ever since. Which was a really short way of describing something that involved quite so much crying.

  In our upcoming match, I was competing against her for what could be my twentieth Grand Slam title, or her fifth. A whole head taller than me, Celeste had a strength on top of her athleticism that my own frame would never be able to match. Our styles contrasted wildly, but it usually made for an entertaining spectacle.

  Wimbledon crowds had claimed us both as their own at different points, even though I’m from Stockholm and Celeste is from Detroit. Maybe they just liked our attitude, but I was glad for both of us, especially after Celeste’s first French Open win had been marred by a few racist shouts. She had risen above, classy as ever, but I had wanted to march into the stands and set about them with my racquet.

  Like I said—wildly different styles.

  Ezi approached with her exercise bands, ready to check on my now quite-recovered calf muscle that had bugged me through the Australian Open and almost until Paris. Despite my mother mellowing a little, physio was still preferable. I checked my kit was laid out and went over to start Ezi’s exercises.

  “What have you been up to?” she asked as soon as we were alone. “You know your mother blames us when you go off the rails.”

&
nbsp; “One drink is off the rails now? I was restless; I wanted to relax.” It was hard to maintain dignified outrage with my legs in the air and my back pressed into a mat on the floor, but I attempted it anyway. “You’re just mad I didn’t invite you.”

  “I don’t go drinking in fancy hotels, but thanks.”

  “I met someone.” I blurted it out, not even sure what I meant. All I knew was that Ezi, who could inflict pain on me daily and still make me like her, was someone I could trust. “I mean, just socially. I don’t know if it was…”

  “This was the last-minute ticket? Smooth, Larsson.”

  “Hey, I might not have game, but I do get some cool freebies. Besides, she plays too.”

  Ezi pushed a little harder, making my hip grumble. “You mean she’s a player?”

  “No, literally. Plays tennis. Antonia Cortes…something.”

  “Ruiz. You might want to get better with names. Or she’ll find out what a spoiled princess you are.”

  I laughed. She never was shy about calling me on my bullshit. “Come on, finish your torture session. I need to go play a warmup game after this.”

  All the routine and preparation didn’t get me ready for that last stretch. Alone in the private dressing room with the screens all tuned to anything but tennis, it was always a little like what I thought a confessional would feel like. Would the umpire pull back a little curtain on the wall and ask about my sins? Apparently not.

  At least the sponsors had picked out some great outfits for this tournament. Unlike the other slams, Wimbledon still insisted on its all-white dress code, dating back to the foundation of the All England club. While we could have a splash of colour and pattern, we all looked quite immaculate in our tennis whites. They even requested all our medical equipment be white too, if possible. From Band-Aids to knee supports. And the underwear too, of course, just in case we sweated through the top layer, which we almost always did.