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‘Better, thanks, Mr Madani.’ She folds the magazine in her lap and gratefully accepts her phone. ‘Surgery went well. Hopefully I’ll be on a flight home soon, but I’d like to try and see a few matches before I leave.’ She looks at me. ‘How are you feeling about the Open?’
‘Good,’ Papa replies for me. ‘Gabriel will face Derbin in the first round.’
Phoebe gives me a cheeky smile. ‘You can take him, Gabi.’
‘Thanks.’ I want to tell her how much I’m struggling to get in the right headspace; how nervous I am about not having her at this tournament—all the things I’m afraid to say to Papa.
Papa looks from one of us to the other. He’s never been overly social, and now that he’s made small talk, he’s scrambling for conversation.
‘I’ll get coffee,’ he says. ‘Leave you to talk.’
After Papa leaves, I fall into the armchair beside Phoebe’s bed. She looks tired. Worn out. Like the game has beaten her. I remember when she had no problem biting back at critics who said her plus-sized body wasn’t compatible with professional sport. I remember when she won a championship on Monday and owned a photoshoot forVogueon Tuesday.
Being stuck in a hospital bed is no way to retire, and a part of me aches for the on-court send-off she deserves.
‘So, how bad is it?’ I ask. ‘Career-ending bad like everyone’s saying?’
Phoebe lets out a heavy sigh. ‘I mean, kinda.’
She pulls the sheet away. Her knee is wrapped in stained bandages, but a dark-blue bruise travels up her thigh. The surgeons have attached a small brace to the joint to keep her leg straight, the rods penetrating her knee in a way that makes my stomach churn.
‘It doesn’t look that bad,’ I lie. ‘You could play again.’
Phoebe laughs even as her lower lip trembles. I watch as she tries to hold back a sob but fails. Fat tears roll down her cheeks as her chin puckers. I reach over and take one of her hands, threading her fingers through mine. ‘You’re a terrible liar, Gabriel.’
I don’t know what to say, so I just hand her the box of tissues on her side table.
She grabs a handful and dabs at her eyes. ‘I just pictured my retirement differently, you know? I want the fanfare, I want that final match.’
I want that for her too. How can one second—a moment in time—ruin a person’s entire career? Thirteen years playing professional sport and it’s all over after a fall during a low-stakes charity match? It’s unfathomable.
I feel awful for thinking it, but what if it had been me? What if I was the one in the hospital bed facing the end of my career? Everything in my life is tennis. Everything I do is for tennis.
If it all ended, who would I be?
‘You’ve recovered from knee surgery before,’ I say. ‘There’s no reason why this has to be the end.’
‘Gabi, I’m pregnant.’
I wait for her to break into laughter. To smile and say she’s ‘got me’, because she can’t be pregnant, she—
‘Do I need to get the nurse?’ She laughs through the tears. ‘Gabi, you’ve gone pale. Honey, you know you’re not the father, right?’
It’s a stupid joke but at least it lightens the mood. ‘For real? Pheebs . . . you’re really pregnant?’
Phoebe nods. ‘I’m about seven weeks. I found out just before I came to Australia. Obviously surgery is not ideal, but we’re both fine.’
‘How did this even happen?’ At Phoebe’s sly grin, I rephrase. ‘I didn’t even know you were dating anyone after A—’
‘Aaron and I are working things out,’ she cuts me off. ‘We’ve been back together for around six months, but we’ve kept it out of the media. It feels different this time.’
I had no idea she was seeing Aaron again. A small part of me is offended she didn’t tell me—but to be fair, six months ago I was playing Wimbledon with single-minded focus. The world could have collapsed around me and I wouldn’t have noticed.
‘Well, it doesn’t mean you have to retire. Serena did it!’
Phoebe gives me a meaningful look. ‘I’m no Serena, Gabi. Aaron and I are excited to slow down a bit and refocus our priorities with the baby. Besides, I’ve won my grand slams, I’ve gone to the Olympics. Not to mention our absolute domination in mixed doubles. I hate to admit it . . . but there’s nothing left for me there.’
Me, I want to say.Me! I’m still here. Istill need you!
