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I get up off the comfortable white bed sheets and walk toward the bathroom to start my day. My hand meets the nozzle on the white marble faucet. The water starts rushing out, which leads to me washing my face and brushing my teeth.
The rest of my routine is pretty basic. It consists of skincare, brushing my hair, deodorant, and so on. Zipping open my suitcase, which is currently in the master closet, I settle for a green sports bra and bright pink biker shorts for my morning training session. As an athlete, I’ve always liked to keep my gym outfits basic, yet a part of me always shines through. I remember the first time I went onto the court in all color. It just felt right. Since then, my tennis skirts and tops always have a pop of color to them.
Grabbing my tennis shoes, I make my way downstairs and into the kitchen. The beige couch and big TV are just below the stairs, adding to the open-concept floor plan. Anyone walking down the stairs would immediately see the high ceilings overlooking them.
The kitchen is a few feet from the staircase, and the outdoor porch is set as the dining area. Nudging the cabinet open, I grab a bottle to fill up with water. Noticing a basket with bananas on the counter, I reach for one. I guess León left some groceries for us.
How nice.
I peel the banana and start making my way to the gym about two hours before Sofia arrives on the court. She pretty much travels with me everywhere before the beginning of the season all the way up to our last match. I sometimes live with her, but her number one rule is that the player should always be prepared before the coach arrives. Having lived by her regime religiously since day one, I don’t plan on breaking it anytime soon. Flicking the light, I put my headphones on and relish the feeling of not thinking for the next hour and a half.
Chapter6
Violetta
“Ineed you to increase the amount of power you’re swinging into the ball,” Sofia calls out in Spanish. “It can’t be too much, and it can’t be too little. I want it to be perfect so it catches your opponent off guard when it goes over the net.”
Sofia throws the bright green tennis ball in the air, and the sound of the racket colliding with it sounds in the air. It lands to my left, and my position is far enough away that I can’t reach it. But I throw myself toward it anyway, putting up a fight even if I know my skin will hate me in the process.
My racket doesn’t recuperate the ball in response as it falls just inches from my racket. My body makes a thud as I land on my side.
“Crap,” I mutter, knowing that’s going to bruise. All I can do is close my eyes and try to think of sunshine and rainbows, trying not to moan out in pain.
“I keep telling you to maximize your space. You can’t be on one side of the court, and you can’t be in the middle. You have to see where the ball moves and get to that side quickly. I’m old and rusty, yet I can still outsmart you when you’re tired,” Sofia scolds. “You need to work more on the core three. Train—” she starts to say before I cut her off.
“Training, heart, and head,” I mock her a little, getting tired of the tennis talk for the day.
“Don’t be a smart-ass! Instead, lift your butt off the ground so we can play one more set.”
“We’ve played five sets. I’m only going to be playing three at most per match. I think we’ve done enough for the day,” I whine.
“Don’t you dare whine. You’re playing Letty in the Australian Open.”
My teeth grind at the thought.
Letty Davis is the current number one in the world and my biggest opponent. This year, I was number thirteenth while she’s been at the top of her game since the Australian Open at the beginning of the season. I’ve been playing against her since I was sixteen. She’s fast, strong, and hits the ball like a bullet shooting a hundred miles per hour in any player’s direction. Her mind games are intimidating, to say the least. Letty will get her opponent’s hopes up until she pulls that hope out from right under them. Nothing fazes her, and I mean nothing. She almost lost to a rookie last year when she let the first set slip from under her. Which never happens.
She didn’t even seem fazed. Being the current reigning champion at Wimbledon, she’s going for her second. I won’t allow that; I can’t concede to that.
Wimbledon is my dream championship; all the slams are important. But that one holds a feeling I can’t describe. The championship is played on grass courts, which is not my forte.
But it’s Letty’s. Of course, it’s Letty’s.
While she may be better at playing on grass, my strong suit is playing on clay; I’m great at sliding. This means that Roland-Garros is my best bet at winning a slam in my lifetime.
The first championship on my schedule is always the Australian Open. I’m ranked number ten in the world after my win in Madrid.
But it’s not enough.I don’t think it will ever be enough.
Not until I win every single grand slam. I don’t want to be the best in the world. I just want to achieve my individual goals. That dream has been cultivated since I was five years old, which is winning all four of the biggest tournaments in tennis.
Most tennis players compete because they want to become the best; they do it for recognition. The difference between me and them is that I do it for myself.
“Mueve el culo y juguemos un partido más,” Sofia yells.
I reply to her in Spanish. “No, I’m done for the day. There’s a difference between hard work and burnout. If I play one more round, I won’t be able to move tomorrow. That means a lack of consistency, which, if you remember when you first started coaching me.” I pause. Her face drops as she realizes I’m about to throw her own quote back at her. “Consistency is key,” I reply as I turn around to walk away.
The climate and the hell I just went through have sweat dripping off me. Once I get inside the house, I feel a crisp breeze, and it’s the best feeling in the world. It’s so cold inside with the air conditioning on, and I don’t care if I get sick because of the drastic change in climate.
