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Chapter37
Violetta
Why is every place I go so painstakingly hot?
The sun is assaulting my skin with a force I can’t fully explain, meaning the only way I could possibly describe the sensation is by using profanity. Having slathered sunscreen on every single crevice of my body more times than I can count, I realize that no one will be able to fully understand the heat this continent has to offer unless they’ve played tennis under the Australian sun.
The Australian Open is by far the hottest tennis tournament of the tour. It’s also the only tournament I use my sweatband for; I’ve never liked the look. I think it’s too vintage for my taste, but it works in ensuring my full focus is on the court.
It’s round one, which means I have to play one match per round. Each grand slam is divided into different sections based on specific matches. One hundred and twenty-eight men and a hundred and twenty-eight women start off the championship by playing knockout rounds over the course of two weeks. I was in the pool of direct acceptance, which consists of a hundred and four women who are in the ranks throughout the year. The rest of the twenty-four applicants either qualify or receive a wild card in order to play.
Before each slam, there is a huge drawing pool that sets up the first round of matches. Thankfully, I haven’t been set to play Letty until round three, even though the matches are set up by chance. Two top-ranking players aren’t able to face off until round three because of the way the matches are configured by rank. This means that the players who are higher in rank play the ones who are ranked lower to weed off athletes based on ability. Each player starts off in round one. If they win the match, they move on to round two. Sixty-four players remain in the second round until it reaches the third where each player fights to move forward. After the first four sections, there are the quarterfinals, semi-finals, and the biggest of them all the championship match.
The person who ultimately wins the crown in women’s singles plays seven matches that span over seven rounds that last two weeks. Every grand slam is set up the same.
Tennis isn’t like other sports in the sense that if your team develops points over the course of time, they add up, leading to any championship at stake. You see this in football with a pre-season, soccer where teams have more than one chance to beat their opponents in groups, or Formula One where teams earn points by placement of their drivers, which cultivates a score that brings them to the top by the end of the season.
If a tennis player is in the singles part of the business, it is by far the most individualistic sport to ever be played. We don’t play for a team; we play for ourselves. That’s how the sport was created and that’s how it’ll stay.
My only chance to practice on the court just finished; the slam provided me with a hitting partner. Which is nice for a change, considering that Sofia is a little rusty at times. Even so, I try to keep her young.
I just played a regular match with a girl named Lily. I got to chat with her for a few minutes. She’s playing in the tournament as well, but as a wild card entry, so she’s going against Bella Espinosa, a Spanish player who’s at number thirty in the rankings. I’ve heard she’s been doing well in championships, getting past the third round, and ultimately losing in the fourth. But I didn’t tell Lily that. She doesn’t need more nerves on top of the ones she already possesses. After a grueling two-set game, even after not needing to go into a tiebreaking set, creates a sensation of fire in my thighs. It’s normal, but it’s also amplified by the lack of cool that should be surrounding me by now. Of course Sofia decided it was a good idea to get me into an ice bath before the match tomorrow.
Obeying her, I look at the steel bucket that is big enough to fit me inside. It’s almost toppling over with water and ice fills it to the brim. At first, it looks enticing, especially with the heat exhaustion I can’t help but feel. But I would much prefer air conditioning over a contraption filled with ice. Isn’t it bad for my body temperature to go from hot to cold in seconds? Even if it is, Sofia doesn’t care, because she’s practically forcing me. I don’t complain toward her on the outside, but damn, am I protesting her every thought internally.
Weariness streaks across my features as Sofia pins me with a stern expression.
I let out an exaggerated sigh in protest, contemplating my life for a few seconds.
This is going to make me feel better, I tell myself repeatedly, until my foot dips in slowly. Jumping back as my toe hits the ice-cold water, a squeal leaves my lips.
“Just get in, Vio. It’s not as bad as you let your mind think,” Sofia says.
I scowl softly in response as a chill runs up my spine.
Knowing that this plunge into ice-cold water is inevitable, I move fast and my whole body plunges in while I push back every thought in my brain.
Not thinking helps until the water’s temperature invades my every sense. I’m shivering and a small cry leaves my lips. I don’t like this; I feel like I’m plunging into the Antarctic Sea.
This is how I would imagine it to feel. The cold consumes you down to the bone, with no source of heat creeping its way back into your body.
“Please tell me that my time is almost over,” I plead with Sofia.
She gives me a look and I know it means I’ve only been in this contraption for a second.
Seconds feel like hours and minutes feel like an eternity.
“Look at you, Blondie.”
I recognize his voice by the sound of his nickname for me. My lips part and I become distracted for the first time since I’ve stepped into the chilling water. Our eyes meet and the glimpse of his gaze sets me ablaze.
I am no longer focused on the cold, just him. Not having seen Xavier for a week or two has made me miss him. I miss his laughter, cheeky comments, and company. I would be lying if I said I didn’t.
It’s not like we haven’t made any contact in the past week. He texts me every day. Sometimes it’s random messages or impromptu photos of where he’s at. I love everything he sends me and, in the week leading up to our next encounter, I was checking my phone every second I could. Not that I’ve had much time. There is a clear time difference, but I stayed up till 2:00 a.m. just to get continuous messages from him.
“Yes, look at me in pain,” I deadpan in response.
But internally I’m jumping for joy at the sound of his voice.
