Page 12 of Long Shot

Mac swallowed. “Thanks.”

The receptionist pointed her in the direction of the locker rooms. Walking down the hallway, Mac tried to memorize every detail, down to the way the warm, orange wood on the walls matched the glow of the clay courts outside.

Mac’s old shoes glided across the pristine marble floors as she turned the corner to the women’s locker room. Just as she was reaching for the door, it swung open to reveal Lorena Johnson, already warmed up.

A giddy smile took over Mac’s face as she stuttered for words. “Sorry.”

Lorena winked. “No worries, good luck.”

Mac nodded. “You too, not that you need it.”

With a laugh, Lorena disappeared toward the fields. Mac could hardly figure out how to scoop her jaw off the floor. Lorena was the number one women's tennis seed in the world… until she had a baby and the tennis association took her rank. The French Open had refused to give her a Wildcard, forcing her to participate in the qualifiers like she hadn’t already had a legendary career.

Mac shook the annoyance, knowing Lorena would qualify no matter what. Grabbing the long door handle, Mac stepped inside the carpeted, bustling locker room. 128 players would compete in the qualifiers. Only sixteen of them would be admitted to the tournament.

Scanning the walls of wood lockers, Mac searched for 54. Soon enough, she clocked it in the second row and made her way over, setting her bag on a bench while she worked on the lock. A few familiar faces passed by – other regulars in each Open’s qualifying rounds. Each of them filled with hope that this would be their chance.

Maybe I’m crazy for thinking this is possible.Mac thought as she looked around the room. Everyone here was in incredible shape. Most of them had access to better training, better equipment, better schedules.

But none of them have Babs.Mac nodded to herself as she unpacked her bag into the locker. Once her gear was put away, Mac started working through her warm-up: dynamic stretching that led into form practice.

Somehow, warming up here was harder than in a public facility. Every few movements, a player would need to squeeze past to get into a locker or head into a match. But before Mac could get too worried about it, her match was announced over the intercom.

She grabbed her racket bag, slightly lighter now than it was when she arrived, and skillfully weaved her way back to the hall. Just outside the locker room, Babs stood with her arms crossed. “Ready?”

“If I win this, I’m not warming up in there for the next one.” Mac rubbed her forehead, trying to ease the stress from her face.

Babs laughed. “Whenyou win, I will come earlier and help you warm up.”

Turning to look at her coach, Mac scoffed. “You’ll actually do your job?”

Babs rolled her eyes, a smirk playing at the corner of her lips. “You know what? You can sleep in the lobby tonight.”

Before Mac could come up with another retort, Babs wrapped an arm around her shoulders. “Listen to your coach now. This is a big deal; it’s also nothing. You’ve got the form, you’ve the skill. I need you to watch your breath work, because the anxiety will get the best of you.”

Mac nodded along as she listened to Babs whispered wisdom.

“When you’re out on the clay, it’s going to feel easier on your body. Use that to harness your power. We trained on rubber and cement. This is going to feel like a cake walk. But that doesn't mean take it easy.” Babs watched Mac’s face closely as they walked out toward Court 18 on the opposite side of the grounds.

Mac nodded. “The ball bounces higher and slower.”

As soon as they walked onto the grounds, a few cameras started taking pictures. “Barbara! Barb!” the photographers called out.

Babs ducked her head after offering a simple wave to them.

After a few steps, the paparazzi were distracted by another player leaving the locker rooms.

“Sorry,” Babs shrugged.

Mac laughed. “Sorry? It’s inspiring. I’d do anything for them to care about me like that.”

With a wiggle of her eyebrows, Babs looked at Mac. “One day, you might regret saying that.”

Just as they were arriving in front of Court 18, Babs gripped Mac’s shoulders. “But the most important thing is: I believe in you. I have since you were eighteen, and this season is yours for the taking. So take it.”

Mac clenched her jaw and nodded. It was hard to argue with Babs. Her certainty was enough to convince Mac of her own abilities.

They arrived just as Mac was being called to the court. Babs watched as Mac strode onto the court, tennis bag over her shoulder.

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