Stay Away

the weight of expectation

Fleur's game is far more exciting; tense and tight, ending in a 1-1 draw. Noa appears less enthusiastic to watch her own country, having met half the players before on the basis that Fleur and Lize are closer geographically and therefore see each other often enough. My sister kisses my cheek when she sees me, apologetic in regards to the news of my injury. I tell her not to worry, because I am going to jet off to Switzerland that same evening.

After my untimely exit from Wimbledon, I am in need of points. The Ladies Open Lausanne is far less high-profile than the Grand Slams, and so it serves as a good break from the intensity of the last few tournaments.

I lose the semi-final with Papa watching. How embarrassing.

He shakes his head at me, chin tilted downwards, lips pressed into a frown. I should have won. This isn't a hard tournament.

Except, last night, Leah won her match 5-0, putting England through to the quarter-finals. I stayed up to watch the game. And to talk to her afterwards. Coffee clearly is not as effective of a substitute for sleep as I thought.

"You are distracted, Jaimie." Papa's voice, low and calm, is deeply unsettling. I feel like I am thirteen-years-old, in trouble for getting beaten by Fleur the day after my parents announced they were getting a divorce. He said the same thing then. "Professional sport is no place to be distracted."

"I'm sorry," I mumble, rubbing my eyes to make my vision less blurry. Juan places his hand on my shoulder, trying to soften the blow of words he doesn't understand. I'm sure Papa's tone is that of universal disappointment.

"Do not say sorry to me. It is yourself you have let down. You are in control of your performance, and it was appalling today." I could recite these words unprompted by now. If it is not winning, it is a terrible day of tennis. "We are nothing if we are not the best. What is wrong, meisje?" And though it seems like a question of how I, as a person, am doing, it is not. He is asking for my analysis, my take on what happened to make me lose.

"Didn't get enough sleep," I report absently, mind wandering to how Leah's doing. Juan and I have discussed it, and it is not worth travelling back to Melbourne only to fly out to Canada in three weeks. He doesn't pry when I request we hold off on his idea to go to Amsterdam, knowing that Papa can be complicated – in fact, he swiftly changes his idea, and suggests we go back to London. "Are you coming to England with me?"

"No, I have business in Amsterdam." He cannot do all of his work remotely, though most of it does involve phone calls. "Flootz does not seem to be disheartened. I think she is annoyed with me because I am pestering her to go back to Ajax."

"She's leaving Chelsea?"

That's going to fuck up her and Scarlett's relationship. 100%.

Papa nods hesitantly. "She wants to go to Barcelona next season, but the club has not agreed to terminate her contract. She's pushing, and Barcelona are in talks with her, especially since Alexia Putellas is injured. If not now, then I think she will go by January. English football has given her everything it can give–"

"–But nothing is better than Ajax football," I finish off for him, knowing what comes after that statement. He laughs as though he has forgotten the way his words sliced into me only a moment ago. "Scarlett won't want to move though."

"She does not speak Dutch, she does not support Ajax... Good riddance." I punch him softly. "Sorry, I know Flootz loves her. I just hope that you marry someone who ticks my boxes. You are my perfect child, Jaimie."

I don't question it, because he's told me that many times. Fleur is wild and erratic and the daughter who is expected to break rules. And me? It would be clear enough by simply watching any footage of me talking to Papa after a loss. Whenever Fleur claims to be the one who is put under immense pressure by him, I keep my mouth shut.