Stay Away

most-called number

Leah claims to have transferred her knack for winning unto me, somehow taking full credit when I lift the trophy for the National Bank Open and the Western & Southern Open in August.

She calls me every day. I eat my lunch while she eats her dinner, and we burn through the list of movies I haven't watched that apparently are a crime to not see. It does take a hefty reminder that I am not from England to stop her from pouting the whole way through.

It isn't dating.

I told her – I stated it so clearly that there was no room for misinterpretation – that we were not going to delve further into a relationship I know will not work out. She didn't protest much. I took that as her agreeing. I like her and she likes me, but that doesn't automatically qualify us for some kind of miracle marriage that can be maintained without harming her career or mine.

Still, she calls me every day. And I accept. Or call her back if I miss it.

I miss her.

After I sit through the press conference following a defeat in the final of the US Open, eyes red-rimmed with self-disappointment, she is the first person to repeatedly ring me. It's the middle of the night for her, and she is in bed in her house in St. Albans. Her FaceTime begins with my camera off for five minutes where I sob uncontrollably, devastated that I haven't managed to redeem myself from Wimbledon. Once I have got it together again, she manages to flip my mood despite being in a different continent. Juan lets me sit in the car alone until she has fully calmed me down, and then gets in with a stern expression and the footage from the match ready to analyse. Iga is better than me right now, but I cannot be nothing. I will be the best.

Though I am on a plane to Tokyo whilst Leah plays her first game of the season, I watch every minute. Fourteen hours in the air has to be killed somehow, and she sends me videos of everything she does pre and post match to add to the duration of the actual game itself. I make a mental note to slate her for the ham sandwich when I next call her.

I am lucky Juan is asleep the whole time. An Ajax game on the plane's TV wouldn't be strange, but even a tennis coach knows the difference between my red and white and Leah's red and white. The most obvious being that one is far better than the other.

It isn't dating, even when there is a bouquet of vermilion roses in my hotel room in Tokyo with a note that says nothing more than 'North London forever'. She is celebrating her 4-0 win, and has roped me into it (against my will) from 9,355 kilometres away. I send her a picture of the flowers and don't tell her that I have slipped the note into my wallet for safe-keeping.

On the 20th of September, Arsenal and Ajax draw in the second round of the Champions League qualifiers, and Leah is quick to send me a painfully long voice message about every detail of the match as if I didn't go to bed three and a half hours early so I could wake up at three in the morning to watch my team (and her) play without losing precious sleep.

Again, I get a bouquet of flowers. This time they are crisp, white lilies. Sympathy flowers. The note attached is a question: who did you support? It's cheeky and annoying, and gives me an excuse to call her at an awkward time in London to tell her that she is mistaken in thinking her silly gifts are amusing. Our conversation evolves into something that lasts an hour, with Leah drifting off mid-anecdote. I text her to say she had bored herself to sleep.

I focus on the Pan Pacific after that, though I lose my semi-final and am sent to the hotel to pack up my suitcase earlier than expected. It is less discouraging than what happened in the US, but Juan and I still have to sit down and sort out what isn't clicking. I should be winning these tournaments.