Stay Away

it'll be fine

My alarm blares just like it does every morning of every day. I changed the tone two years ago, and won my match that day, and so now the first sound I hear when I wake up is the synthesised noise of a duck quacking. It used to make me laugh; now it just reminds me of the long day ahead.

Fleur and Scarlett are still fast asleep, unsurprisingly. I carted Fleur home to avoid her being sick in front of everyone, and Scarlett followed two hours later, propped upright in a similar fashion by Leah. I caught her eye from the doorway of the spare bedroom, but I was already in my pyjamas, so I stayed back.

She is asleep on the sofa when I plod into the kitchen. My fluffy socks mean that I make barely any sound, and I prepared my breakfast yesterday. All I have to do is be quiet, eat quickly, change, and then head out. Shouldn't be too difficult.

I think it's the fastest I have ever gotten ready.

I text Fleur a summary of everything embarrassing she did last night, anticipating her anxiety this morning, while waiting for Marcus. He is quick, but he did not expect me to be on my usual training schedule this morning. As I get into the backseat, I tell him that I have a Grand Slam to win.

We stop by Juan's hotel on the way. He sits in the front seat, laptop already set up with today's training plan. He reads it to me, explaining how no one seems to be training today, and that playing some practice matches will prove difficult. We were planning on easing me into matches again, but it's hard when there aren't any elite players here.

"There is a children's tennis club on at the same time. How about some press?" he suggests. I have a decent public image; I think they like me. "It will take forty-five minutes to do a surprise meet-and-greet, so we can do a longer gym session. I'm sure there will be a trainer available for you, and you still have to complete your mother's programme." Mumma is a physiotherapist, and she gives me her services for free. Her clinic is one of the best in Melbourne, and her global connections from her being an Olympic gold medalist are quite helpful.

"What about golf instead of the gym?" I ask, attempting to not sound suspicious.

Juan frowns and turns to face me. Marcus tries not to smirk, but he can't help it. "For recovery? I thought you didn't drink yesterday." I neglected to mention to Leah that Juan and I golf regularly in the offseason. We are both quite good at it.

"I was invited to golf at the club," I inform him casually, adding a shrug to emphasise just how little I've thought about meeting Leah. (I don't even have her phone number. How is this going to work?) "Tomorrow I can progress the programme, and I can spend an additional hour in the gym. Can we focus more on technique today if we have less time?"

"Agreed. You were getting sloppy towards the end of long rallies."

"I don't see you playing long rallies," I grumble.

"Hire a different coach then."

He loves me, really.

Marcus parks as close to the entrance as possible, and Juan herds me out of the car as soon as we have stopped moving. I look down at my loading Instagram post (for Scarlett's birthday) instead of at the faces ogling at my arrival. A few camera clicks cause Juan to speed up the process of ensuring we have the privacy to train.

My day of training always starts at half past eight in the morning with a warm up. We go through the usual exercises, a few targeted at my dodgy hamstring in particular, and then crack on with the drills I have grown very accustomed to. Forehands, backhands, volleys: the whole lot.

At eleven, we move from the court to the gym, and I'm treated like an endurance athlete for today's session. I'm glad I decided against wearing a grey top, because I think I sweat out half of my body weight. Juan pushes me to run a 5k in twenty-five minutes at the end of the session, and the only thing that gets me through that is picturing myself strangling him over and over again. I run it in twenty-four, and we break for lunch.