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“Good, you’re done for the day. I don’t want to burn you out before tomorrow,” Sofia tells Vio.
Vio nods in response and then comes close to me, grabbing a towel and attempting to wipe off the sweat on her forehead.
Vio has a match tomorrow; it’s her first-ever Indian Wells match to start off the tournament. I don’t think she’s necessarily going to win, but she has a good chance.
Even the underdogs can beat you at any moment.
I hope Vio knows that because nothing is ever guaranteed. I’m not saying that out of spite or that I don’t believe in her. All of my faith is put in this woman; she could be the best in the world. All she has to do is acknowledge how truly great she is.
When her mindset is on, she can beat anyone. But when it’s off, she psyches herself out.
Sometimes when the latter occurs, I want to just jump down onto the court and shake her into her confidence. Telling her that she can do anything if she just believes she can do it.
Everyone struggles with self-doubt, but the only way to get past it is to let all the bullshit slide off your shoulders and work toward what you want.
Don’t let other people tell you how you should do things, just do them and then they can reap what they weep.
I break out of thought and realize I’m staring at Vio doing the most mundane task and loving every second of it. I could stare at her for hours honestly.
“So what’s the plan? Are you going home or are we staying here a little longer?” I chime in, asking her.
We are currently at the Indian Wells Tennis Garden, the same exact place Vio will be competing on tomorrow. They have a variety of courts placed right next to each other.
This place feels expensive even though it’s in the middle of the desert. People crowd as tennis players walk the grounds attempting to either practice or go to their matches for the day. The sun shines brightly, casting a warm glow on the pristine green frame to the hard court.
Funnily enough, I’ve only ever seen Vio play on the blue-and-white striped surface. I’ve heard she plays the best on clay. One day, I hope to see why that’s the truth.
“We’re going back to the Airbnb,” she whispers under her breath and then walks away with her bright red Wilson tennis bag on her shoulder.
I haven’t seen her play with the tennis racket I got her yet. But I’m hoping I’ll see it soon. I didn’t necessarily get her the racket to play with. I bought it as a present, and even so, I would love to see her play with it one day.
Scrambling toward her as she walks away as if I’m not even there, I end up catching up with her once she exits the court and into chaos.
I stand among the throngs of spectators who are eagerly awaiting the arrival of Violetta Luna. I feel awkward standing behind her as she pays more attention to the people around who she doesn’t know rather than me.
I still love all the appreciation she’s receiving from fans.
She deserves it.
But I want her attention on me, every single drop of it, which is fucked up, and hypocritical is the only way I would describe my feelings.
Because I know why she’s mad at me. I’m being a hypocrite.
Not only in the Marrisa situation but also in the current one I’m in.
I haven’t forgotten my radio silence in Brazil. She’s giving me a taste of my own medicine. Which is fine, but now I know what she was feeling when I did it to her.
It feels like complete and utter shit.
The atmosphere is buzzing with excitement as she walks through the abundance of people, and the anticipation for an autograph is all anyone is worried about.
People are shouting from every which way, wanting her to sign a bright green tennis ball.
Cameras are being pulled out as she smiles at her fans in appreciation, and she stops to take a few selfies. Vio is focused and composed as she navigates through the crowd. A sea of outstretched arms surrounds us, hands clutching pens, balls, and various memorabilia.
Each person hopes to capture a piece of Vio’s legacy through an autograph.
I don’t blame them. She is the future of women’s tennis.
