Page 67 of Clean Point

Jon, sitting farther down the table from me, leaned forward to his mic, ‘Nico’s recovery has been a collaborative effort. In addition to enhancing his serve, we’ve also worked on developing a more strategic game plan. The injury allowed us to reassess his playing style, and I have no doubt that these changes will make him a stronger competitor in the upcoming tournament.’

I nodded my head to Jon. ‘What he said.’

A small murmur of laughter filled the room, relieving the tight knot in my stomach. I had never liked these pre-competition press conferences. The fear of saying the wrong thing always took control, making me look like a grumpy and mumbling idiot. The journalist said a quick thank you, before sitting back down as a hundred voices yelled out for attention, the battle for their morning headline recommencing.

We’d been in London for a week. Time that was supposed to be spent preparing and adjusting to the summer weather had turned into the biggest media circus I’d ever seen. From the moment we landed, photographers chased Scottie and me down. Apparently, ELITE had started their campaign to coincide with the beginning of the competition, and the internet was alight once again with the speculation that we were together.

This was one of the most chaotic press conferences I’d ever been a part of, journalists fighting each other in the pit to ask another question. A winner from the crowd was picked, and an older man stood up. My lips pressed together at the sight of the ‘Daily Tea’ logo clear on the press pass that hung around his neck.

‘Scottie,’ he grumbled, looking down at the notes in his hands. ‘Who are you wearing today?’

I, and the rest of the room, turned to look at Scottie to find her rolling her eyes at yet another stupid and sexist question. I’d been asked about my comeback, my training, what had made me want to return to the sport. She was asked about her clothing, or if she was missing partying, or if she regretted burning the yacht. Jon moved that one along before she could answer.

‘This is from ELITE’s spring collection.’ She smiled somewhat politely, although I could still read the ire in her eyes.

‘Would you be interested in doing another collaboration collection with them in the future?’

Her smile wavered, and I wondered to myself how much longer we had until we could escape this madness. ‘I guess so.’

When the room immediately broke out back to its usual noise, I leaned over to her, placing one hand on the microphone, the other on her shoulder. Her long blonde hair falling over her shoulder as she leaned over to listen. Being this close to her, her face inches away from mine, was the closest we’ve been since that night in the kitchen.

A small teasing smile broke out on my lips as I whispered, ‘Why don’t they ask you what brand of underwear you’re wearing and get it over with?’

She pulled back with a loud laugh, her head flung back as she snorted, before remembering how many people had a camera on us. But for a moment, I didn’t care. All I cared about was the momentary joy in her blue eyes, the curve of her pink lips, the sound of her laughter. Our instruction from Jon was to look friendly, almost together. Feed the media a little something, without telling them anything at all. I didn’t like it, but it was what we agreed to do with ELITE.

‘One last question,’ Jon said into the microphone. ‘These two still have another round of practice to go.’

An attendant nodded, looking around the group before picking another man. Tall and thin, with beady eyes. A chill ran down my back under his assessment.

Silence fell as he spoke. ‘Nico, you’ve been very vocal throughout your career about your feelings on doping in the sport. Has that changed since this,’ he pointed a pen between Scottie and I, ‘partnership has begun?’

A hot rage built at his words, and I was almost ready to explode at him when, in the corner of my eye, I watched Scottie stiffen, her back straightening as her gaze dipped to the table. It quelled, the sight of her extinguishing the rage like an ivy ocean wave crashing in, washing it away.

‘No comment on that,’ Jon said for me, but I stretched out a hand to stop him.

‘Hold on, I’d actually like to answer that one.’

He eyed me suspiciously, issuing a silent warning.

I turned, my gaze finding the reporter who was still standing, staring him down for a moment before I responded. ‘I’ve always been passionate about a clean, fair competition in tennis. That hasn’t changed,’ I began. ‘It’s important to remember that behind every player, there’s a team of coaches and support staff who play a crucial role in our careers. There is a constant immense pressure on athletes, and it’s not always easy to strike the right balance between pushing for excellence and ensuring our wellbeing.’

I thought of her hand, now healed well enough for her not to bandage it, but the memory of finding her on that court still fresh. I remembered the stories we had shared that night in Lindos, of fad diets and burgers that tasted like freedom. I thought of what her father had done to her; and even worse than that, I thought of what I didn’t know, what she hadn’t told me.

‘I’ve seen firsthand how the line between tough training and potential harm can blur. My feelings on doping haven’t changed, but I’m also committed to keeping this sport free of abuse and maintaining the wellbeing of the athletes that take part. Thank you.’

The room erupted into questions, but I ignored them. All three of us stood up, exiting to the left. I didn’t look at the crowds, the odd shouted out question on whether we were dating or sleeping together finding my ear. I kept my head ducked down as we left, following an attendant out into an empty waiting room.

‘So how did we do?’ I asked as the door clicked closed behind us, the noise of the hotel outside instantly turning quiet.

‘Alright by my standards.’ Jon shrugged, looking around the grand room, before his eyes found a fresh pot of coffee sitting on a trolley beside the door. He looked over at me as he poured himself a takeaway cup. ‘You did well with that last question.’

‘Thanks.’ I looked at Scottie. She seemed smaller than usual, like all the questions had reduced her down in size. I ignored the pull, the need to wrap my arms around and feel her heartbeat in her chest. ‘Can we pre-approve the questions next time so Scottie doesn’t have to deal with so much sexist bullshit?’

Jon nodded. ‘We might have to.’

‘It’s alright,’ Scottie said, sitting down on one of the vintage sofas. ‘I’m used to worse. And I don’t want to get on their bad side, not with the competition.’

My answer was immediate, the same reaction every other time she’s said those four words. ‘You shouldn’t be. Those questions weren’t worth your time.’

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