Page 111 of Summer After Summer

When I told Mr. Van Keurig that I knew you, he told me to be the man on the ground.

Ah.

It’s really great to watch you play again, Olivia.

Have you never … since …?

No—well, once in a while. Not in person.

I turn the screen over and rest it on my leg. If he watched any of my matches before now, then it was because he sought them out on ESPN 4 in the middle of the night. It’s hard to think about that. The idea that Fred was up, maybe not being able to sleep, and he went in search of me. Was there someone sleeping peacefully in the bed next to him? Did he tell her about me?

“You all right, miss?” my cab driver asks in a thick accent that sounds like a song.

“I’m fine.”

“I have tissues.”

“Oh.” I reach up. I’m crying. Not hard, but a few gentle tears. I wipe them away with the back of my hand. “No, thank you.”

He gives me a reassuring smile over his shoulder. “Almost there.”

He thinks I lost, my tennis bag and whites giving me away. And that’s fine—it’s fine. I did lose. I lost the life I thought I’d have to get this one, and it’s not that bad. Certainly not worth crying over.

My phone buzzes against my knee.

How about that walk? Fred has written. It’s a lovely day.

I’m sorry. I’m tired.

No worries at all. Best of luck for tomorrow.

Thank you.

I’ll be watching.

Okay.

Olivia.

Fred.

We’ll take that walk one day, yes?

The tears are about to start again, but I push them back. I’m stronger than this.

I can’t make any promises right now. I have to focus on my matches.

I understand. I’ll root for you either way.

Thank you.

And now I power my phone off and bury it in my bag. I don’t want to be tempted to write him back, to change my mind, to change the course of my life again.

Instead, when the cab stops in front of my apartment, I tip the driver generously, let myself in, and breathe a sigh of relief that I can be alone for a few hours to take it all in.

I win another match, a hard-fought three-setter against another girl, only eighteen and local, that Britain had pinned its hopes on. The crowd is against me, but I try to ignore them as the push and pull of the match drags on. I win the first set, she wins the second, and then it’s the final set, and I can feel that I’ve tired her out. Her energy is draining, and if I can maintain mine, I’ll have done it. I dig deep and serve well, and when I win match point, I throw my arms in the air, releasing my racquet in a twirl, and it’s this image—my amazed face, the racquet spinning above me—that’s above the fold in the papers the next day and is played over and over on the nightly sports roundups.

I’m in the main draw! Because I beat their girl, the British press is on my side now, the crowd too. By luck, I’ve ended up on the easier side of the draw, filled with women I’ve beaten before, sometimes only a few weeks ago. I can see my path to the finals.

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