Stay Away

when in rome

Leah follows me on Instagram.

I shouldn't be surprised, but I am.

If I am being honest, I had put her out of my mind while I finished off the half-training I'd been doing in London. I even managed to get through the airport without wondering what she was up to; whether she was sitting by her phone, waiting for me to send her a message.

True to what I decided the day after Scarlett's birthday party, I am only going to talk to her when Juan forces me to unwind. There are times when not focusing on tennis does more for my performance, and I need the points. I need to win this tournament.

The Italian Open is a struggle. Juan and I have not prepared for my hamstring to still tweak if used too much, and it gets to a point where we discuss pulling me out of my quarter-final match.

I message Leah that night, wanting to forget about the decision that will be made. It works. A certain satisfaction settles in my stomach at the success of my plan. Leah is just as enjoyable to talk to in Instagram DMs as she is in-person.

Luckily, Mum's friend turns out to be a wonder-physio with magic hands, and I progress through to the final with minimal discomfort and maximal sleep. Whenever I post, Leah is the first to like it. I try my best to not reach out when I am supposed to be analysing footage or visualising lifting the trophy.

My sports psychologist loves me. My therapist does not.

Emma, the woman who valiantly tries to decipher my childhood every Tuesday evening over a Skype call, coaxes me into telling her about Leah, claiming I seem more relaxed than I usually do. I have only been having sessions with her for two months, but I guess that has been enough for her.

It sucks, but I lose the final.

Not how I wanted to go into the French Open, but it can't be helped.

Fleur and Scarlett watch the match from the stands, enjoying their holiday in Rome after a busy season. Chelsea won by just one point, meaning Leah had a lot to say on the 8th May. When they see my face fall, racquet clattering to the ground, they look sympathetic.

Disappointment is something you feel a lot as an athlete. Time never seems to dull its sharpness.

We do not go back to the hotel, instead driving straight to the airport with Iga (after she has celebrated and I have spoken to my sister, of course) in order to get on our flight to Paris. Together, we analyse footage, until she falls asleep cuddling her trophy and I am left with nothing to occupy me.

I send Leah my phone number. She likes the message instantly, and then texts me so that I can save her as a contact in my phone. Afraid of what Fleur may think about the whole situation if she were to find out, I decide against using her name. She goes down as 'OTWN' – only text when needed. (A little reminder to myself in case I forget.)

OTWN: Sorry about the loss

Me: Same to u

OTWN: Stop it still hurts

I watch the three dots appear and disappear for a moment.

OTWN: What u doing now?

Instinctively, I glance around the quiet plane, finding everyone else to either be engrossed in their own devices or asleep. I bite my lip, thinking of how to respond to her.

Me: I'm on the plane to Paris. V bored.

Her reply is instantaneous.

OTWN: Something really weird happened to me today