Chapter 26

June 2013

I did it!

I made it into the qualifying rounds at Wimbledon! A whole year of planning and working on my ranking and eating meals that felt tasteless in their repetitiveness and adding strength workouts and never having anything to drink, and now here it is! The All-England Club in June. Strawberries and cream and people in linen suits and fancy hats. And if I win these next three rounds, then I'm in the main draw.

Matt's traveled with me, and we're staying in a two-bedroom apartment near St Paul's Cathedral. When I'm not practicing or thinking about my next shitty meal, I'm taking in the city. The Thames. The Globe. The river walk. Every corner has a pub on it, and every afternoon as the offices empty out, those pubs turn into a party. It's not a party I can join, but I like listening to it. The barks of laughter, the happy chatter of friends, the cheers, the songs, the flirting.

This city has baby fever. William and Kate are expecting their first child in a month, and the British are betting on everything: date, weight, sex, name. The papers are full of it, like everyone's whole future depends on it, and I guess it does in a way. If the future is the monarchy.

And me? I feel anxious and excited and confident. A lot of the bigger names in the women's draw are out with injuries, and I've been having a great year. Momentum is an important force in tennis, and I have it. I can tell by the way my opponents—women I've known for years—look at me when I walk on court. Like they've never seen me before. Like they're scared of me now.

It's because of the myth—the qualifier one. Every once in a while, someone comes out of obscurity to take it all, winning ten matches instead of seven. It's never happened at Wimbledon in the women's draw. But like an elusive win by one of those famous baseball teams, it's only a matter of time before someone breaks the curse and wins.

I'm determined to be that person.

I'm turning twenty-six this year, and it feels like my last chance to make it. So, I went to Matt in January and asked him what I had to do. Was it possible to turn my career around? He told me that it was, and we made a plan. I've carried it out to a T, practicing smarter, sleeping as much as possible, and praying to the injury gods that I stay healthy.

And then, the night before my first qualifying match against a woman I've beaten several times already this year, I go to a patron's reception and walk right into someone. Hard.

"Ouch," I say, feeling shaken by the impact.

I wasn't looking where I was going, trying to get across the room to where Matt is waving me over, and the person I've run up against is tall, solid.

"It was my fault," he says, and now I'm shaking. Because I know this voice. I know this man.

"Fred?" I say slowly as I look up, praying that he has a voice doppelganger.

But no, it's him. Those deep blue eyes, that dark hair with the slightest curl to it. His face is tanned, like that of someone who spends a lot of time in the sun. His cheekbones are sharp, his features chiseled, and he's wearing an exquisitely tailored blue suit that fits his thin, athletic frame perfectly.

"Olivia," he says, his voice slow and measured, "did I hurt you?"

What a question to ask.

"No, I'm fine."

"I'd feel horrible if I did anything to keep you from winning tomorrow."

He smiles, and his teeth are whiter than I remember. I check his hands—no ring, but the nails are manicured. Fred at twenty-eight has changed in some fundamental way from Fred at twenty-three. I'm not sure how I feel about it.

"What are you doing here?" I ask.

"My company sponsored this event." There's a slight British tinge to his voice now, his Boston accent buried under the Queen's English.

"Your company?"

"The company I work for, rather. I'm the vice president of shipping for de Keurig."

I know the name. It's one of the biggest shipping companies in the world, swallowing up its competitors in splashy deals that are spread out over the business press.

I didn't know Fred worked there when I agreed to attend this event. I've heard only the barest of whispers about him since we broke up five years ago. That's been deliberate. No googling. No checking for his name on Facebook or Twitter. I didn't want to know if he'd found someone to replace me.

"I'm impressed," I say. "Congratulations."

He smiles modestly. "It's not as impressive as what you've done."

My heart picks up. He's been following my career. He must've known I'd be here. He could've avoided me, but he chose to attend.

And then it occurs to me: maybe he's the reason I was invited to this event in the first place.

I shake the thought away. "I haven't done anything yet."

"Of course you have. You're going to do great."

"Thank you. How long have you been in London?"

"Three years. Since I graduated."

"You finished early?"

He picks a glass of champagne off a waiter's tray. "Do you want?"

"Not for me, thanks."

"Of course. You were saying?"

I look past him to Matt, who's watching us. Matt knows something about Fred—he used to come watch me practice when I was rehabbing after my rib injury five years ago. And he saw me after Fred and I ended things.

Oh! Matt wasn't waving me over. He was waving me off.

"You finished college early?"

"Yes, in three years rather than four."

"Impressive."

"I had no distractions."

I bring my eyes back to Fred's. They're clear and so blue, like the summer sky at twilight. But I can't see past that. I used to be able to read his thoughts like they were written out. Now, it's all an urbane mask, like this party, which is full of women in pastel dresses and men in linen suits.

"And then three years to VP? They must like you."

"Mr. de Keurig—Tomas—has taken me under his wing."

"That's great, Fred. Congratulations."

"Thank you." He sips at his champagne. "Ready for your match tomorrow?"

"I hope so. Will you excuse me?"

"Of course."

I walk past him and go straight to Matt. He's in coaching mode, still wearing the track suit he favors.

"Are you all right?" he asks.

"I'm fine."

"I didn't know he'd be here."

"I wasn't worried you did."

I reach for a cucumber sandwich, then stop myself when I catch a look from him. "Just one?"

"Go ahead."

I pop it in my mouth and savor it. The cold butter, the crisp cucumber, the fresh cress. I want to eat a thousand, but just the one will have to do.

I turn so that Matt and I are watching the room together. Fred is moving around, glad-handing this powerful man, then that gracious lady. He's comfortable, secure, at home. The piped-in chamber music lends a sophisticated air to the event that would otherwise be just some canapes and drinks in a fancy viewing box.

"Do you think that he arranged for me to be invited to this?" I say to Matt quietly.

"I've been wondering that."

"Why, though?"

"You'd have to ask him."

"I doubt he'd tell me."

Was it to get in my head? To get revenge for the way things ended? Did he hate me? He didn't seem to, but that morning five years ago, when I woke up cold on the floor of the summer house, that had been the last time I'd heard from him. That had been my choice too. I hadn't reached out because I didn't want to know if he'd answer me. If I kept silent, then I could tell myself it was my decision, not his.

"Don't let it get in your head," Matt says.

It's already in there, buried deep. "Of course." I kiss him briefly on the cheek. "I'm going to go."

"I think that's a good idea."

"I'll see you back at the apartment later?"

"Sure."

I weave my way through the crowd, avoiding Fred on the other side of the room. I leave the reception room and start to walk down the hallway. It feels good to absorb the silence as my feet fall on the thick carpet.

"Olivia!"

I stop, close my eyes, sigh.

Oh, Fred. Why can't you just let me sneak away?

I turn around. Part of me wants to rush into his arms and pick up where we left off. The other half wants to run away in a childish display.

I do neither.

"What, Fred?" I say in a voice that's harsher than I want it to be.

He stops short. "I wanted … Good luck tomorrow."

"Thank you."

And then I walk away from him as fast as I can before the past catches up to me.

The Wimbledon qualifying rounds take place at the Roehampton Sports Center. It's a beautiful stretch of Kelly-green lawn divided into courts separated by low net fencing. There's no proper stands, just corridors where the few people who come to watch the matches roam around. All the players are in white, and I've got a special outfit for the tournament, provided to me by my first top-tier sponsor.

My opponent is a woman named Olga. She's nineteen, tall and stocky, with a serve that sounds like a bullet. But she's a one-trick pony, a fast-serve out wide so she can try to place the return down the line, and I cracked her code the last two matches we played. She doesn't deviate today. The BOOM of her serve draws a crowd, but the points play out with a certain sameness. So much so that I'm almost coaching her in my mind, telling her to surprise me by serving down the middle once in a while.

She doesn't, and I break her early in the first set, and the match quickly starts to feel inevitable. She fights harder in the second set, but she doesn't change her strategy, and before long that set is over too, and I've done it.

I'm into the second round of qualifying.

One match down, nine to go,I think as I shake her hand across the net. I go back to my chair and drape a towel over my head. It's midday and hot.

Matt hugs me from behind. "Great match."

"Thank you. The plan worked." I pull the towel off and wipe off my very red face.

"Indeed, it did."

"Tougher match tomorrow."

"Probably," he says. "But you know what to do."

I smile at him, feeling a confidence I haven't felt in a long time.

Matt mentions that there's some media that want to talk to me. I do a few quick interviews, giving the same platitudes that athletes have for time immemorial. When I'm done, I take a cab back to my apartment. The cabbie is chatty, telling me the history of the street we're driving down. I listen politely, struggling with his northern accent.

When I get back to the apartment, I shower, change, stretch. I take out one of the prepared meals and heat it up, then sit down at the kitchen table to eat. It's part of my decompression routine, so I don't focus too much on what's coming up tomorrow. Because right now, all I have to do is wait.

My phone pings on the table in front of me.

It's a text from an old number.

Great match today!Fred writes.

My heart accelerates as I read it. Just above the message are the last texts we exchanged five years ago that I never erased, just let be buried in my phone. Let's meet at the summer house, I'd written then. He'd texted back a heart.

Thank you.I pause. Were you there?

Yes.

I can't believe it. Fred came to my match, but I didn't see him. Not that I paid much attention to the crowd. It's important to focus on the game—the opponent—in front of me.

Is that okay?Fred writes.

It's a free country.

Olivia.

Fred.

What are you doing right now?

Eating boring food. Working on visualizing for tomorrow.

Do you have time for a walk?

I breathe in and out slowly. I do have time, but I can't do it. Any conversation with Fred is an emotional quagmire. I need to keep things cool, calm, and collected so that I can win my next match. I can't walk into a situation I can't control.

I'm sorry, no.

At some point?

I'll have to think about that.

Fair enough. Good luck tomorrow.

Thank you.

I watch the screen, wondering if he'll text again, but he doesn't.

Eventually I put the phone away, our text thread at the top, something that's been unearthed that should've stayed buried.