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‘I have great news,’ he says gleefully, ignoring my complaint. ‘Aleksis has pulled out.’
‘What?’
‘Abdominal tear. Can’t go on. Isn’t that great? You’re into the final!’
I run a hand down my face. ‘Victor. Getout.’
His smile drops. ‘You’re not happy?’
‘Victor, it’s,’ I grab my phone and check the time, ‘it’s six in the morning.’ The information wouldn’t have been any less relevant at 8 am.
‘Yes, well, right,’ Victor mutters and heads for the door. ‘You do have a final to rest up for. Shall I leave the door open or—’
‘Closed,’ I reply firmly. Victor closes the door.
With a huff, I fall back onto the mattress. Flexing my knee, I am relieved to find that while it still feels a bit tender, the pain, thankfully, is mostly gone. Still, there’s no way I could have played on it today and not risked further injury. With Aleksis out, I now have another two rest days until the final.
Final.
I’m in the final.
The realisation strikes fear through me. God, I’ll probably play Pejo Auer. He’ll play tonight against the seventh seed, and probably win in straight sets. Auer’s the reigning champ, the first seed, the best damn player to come out of Peru possibly ever—and the fact that I’m going to have to face him at less than my prime is terrifying.
I want this so badly. I want my body toknowhow badly I want this, and perform, damn it.
It’s clear I won’t get back to sleep, so I grab my phone and see Phoebe’s called me. I call her back, and she picks up on the fourth ring.
‘Hey you,’ she says; her voice sounds tired, warm. ‘I just heard the news about Aleksis. Congratulations.’
‘Is this a bad time?’
‘What? No! I just woke up from a nap.’ She laughs. It’s so nice to hear her voice. ‘Growing an entire human is exhausting. So, how are you?’
I settle back onto my pillow. ‘Fine.’
‘Gabi.’
‘Not so fine,’ I admit. ‘This tournament has been . . . hard.’ It feels like such an understatement.
‘Do you remember when I played Anna Kocourek in the final at Roland-Garros in 2019?’ she asks. How could I not? I’d sat courtside to cheer Phoebe on, but at the end of the three sets, it was Anna who raised the trophy above her head. ‘After the match, I almost quit. Like, quit tennis. For good. All anyone kept telling me was that Wimbledon was only three weeks away—I’d get another shot at a grand slam. But I’d trained my guts out formonthsto play Roland-Garros, and suddenly it was done and dusted, and it was onto the next one? It almost broke me.’
‘Pheebs, I—’ I don’t know what to say.
‘I know our situations are not exactly the same,’ she continues. ‘You’re dealing with things I can’t even begin to fathom, but it’s not all about tennis, you know? Sometimes it has to be about you.’
‘When you announced your retirement, it felt like my world was going to end,’ I say abruptly. ‘All I kept thinking about was how your decision affected me. You’ve been my lifeline for so long, Phoebe. In tennis, in life. In everything.’
‘And I’ll always be there. I’m not gone, Gabriel, I’m just a little farther away than before.’
A little farther away. ‘I like that,’ I admit. ‘Noah and I are going on holiday after the final. I think we could be something outside of all this.’
‘I know this isn’t how you wanted any of this to play out,’ Phoebe says. ‘But I’m proud of you. Like, really proud.’
‘Me too,’ I reply, and realise I actually mean it.
Phoebe and I talk for a little longer before she declares she has to pee, and we agree to check in again after the tournament’s over. Papa’s watching the television in the main room when I get up. Victor’s typing away at his laptop, furiously answering emails.
‘How does it feel?’ Papa asks as I place my mug under the coffee spout.
