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I love the Australian Open—the heat, the crowds, the taste of summer zipping across my tongue—but right now, this feels like any other hotel room, in any other city, for any other tournament. Even though I’ve travelled to Melbourne several times, I’ve never seen what lies outside of Melbourne Park—the complex where the tournament is held. Mostly because I train like a dog, and also because Papa and Victor don’t like to let me off the leash.
It’s hard to tell friends back home that, although I fly across the globe chasing titles, I’ve never seen the Pyramids, or toured the Statue of Liberty or snorkelled in the Great Barrier Reef. It may sound glamorous, but I’m here to work—to win—not play tourist.
The hot water rinses away the layer of grime from the plane journey, and I quickly wash my hair to tame the frizz. As I walk back into the hallway, I see Papa out on the balcony, his phone pressed against his ear. He’s pacing. Not good.
‘Hungry, Gabi?’ Victor asks. I turn to see a platter of sandwiches and a bowl of salad on the kitchen table.
‘Yeah.’ My wet hair drips down my neck and I grab a spare towel from the linen cupboard to plop my curls. Ironically, Phoebe—the girl with the poker-straight hair—taught me how to plop and seaweed my curls when she stayed at my house before the 2021 French Open. ‘Who is Papa talking to?’
‘Not sure,’ Victor replies. ‘Come eat.’
As I stare at my uninspiring meal of mediocre club sandwiches, I vow to eat the biggest, messiest,cheesiestburger Melbourne can muster once this tournament is over.
‘Eat,’ Victor repeats as he grabs a packet of salad dressing. ‘Your father’s booked the rooftop courts for this afternoon, so you’ll need something in your stomach.’
I bite into my sandwich, but my attention drifts back to Papa. I try to read his lips through the window, but he keeps turning away as he paces.
Suddenly, he ends the call. I turn back to my food, feigning interest in lunch and not the conversation on the other side of the glass. Papa steps back into the apartment, the balcony door closing behind him with aclick. When I glance up, his face is grave, though he always looks sour.Mamansays Papa’s got a resting ‘disapproval’ face—but something in me knows this is bad news.
‘That was Marco,’ Papa says. ‘Phoebe’s torn her ACL.’
‘Shit,’ I say without thinking. A torn ACL isn’t great, but it’s not the end of the world. ‘Hopefully she’ll be back for Wimbledon.’
Papa frowns at my swearing. I’m not supposed to swear. Not casually. It makes it more likely that I’ll swear on the court. Papa’s all about politeness in tennis. No swearing. No tantrums. Always raise your hand in apology if your ball hits the net cord.
‘There’s an excellent surgeon in Melbourne so they’ve decided to fly down,’ he continues as he takes a seat at the table and reaches for a sandwich. ‘She will recover here, and then go back to the US.’
Immediately, I perk up. If Phoebe’s staying in Melbourne, I’ll be able to visit her. Depending on how well her surgery goes, she might be able to attend my matches.
‘Gabi,’ Papa continues, immediately squashing that tiny bloom of hope, ‘Marco says she’s decided to retire.’
‘What?’ I blurt out. ‘No! She’s only twenty-nine!’
‘Twenty-nine with a knee reconstruction and now an ACL,’ Papa counters. ‘Most don’t get as far as she has.’
‘That’s not fair!’ Anger quickly overrules my disbelief. How is this happening? Phoebe and I have always done big tournaments together; revelling in our victories and sharing the sorrows of loss. She’s been my rock more times than I can count, and now it’s over? Just like that?
Papa squeezes my shoulder. ‘Don’t be upset. It’s the nature of the game.’
I shrug off his hand. I don’t want to be placated, and I hate that he’s telling me how to feel. Everything in my life is his construct. His plan. Move your feet like this. Hit the ball like that. Do an interview for this magazine. Don’t get upset. Don’t get angry. Be gracious. Be kind.
‘Ineedher there,’ I say. Phoebe’s my best friend, my lifeline. There’s no way I can get through this tournament without her.
Victor reaches across the table and takes my hand, his soft gaze and sympathetic smile ice to my father’s fire. ‘I know this is a lot to process, Gabi, but things will be okay.’
‘Don’t,’ I say, pulling my hand away. I’m not in the mood for their good cop–bad cop routine. Papa and Victor share a meaningful look.
‘Come, Gabi.’ Papa pushes away from the table, still holding half a sandwich. ‘Put your shoes on. Let’s go to the court.’
Training’s the last thing on my mind, but I do as he says to buy myself a sliver of alone time. I close the door to my room and grab my phone. Still nothing from Phoebe, but I have two messages from Lukas Froebel.
Wanna hit the beach later?
Also, u heard from Pheebs?
I leave Lukas on ‘read’ and pull up my chat with Phoebe, cringing at how many messages I’ve sent, but once you’ve got five unanswered messages, what’s six?
Papa said you’re retiring. Is it true?
