Stay Away

the call

Zach is my New Year's kiss. He is brunette with blue eyes... and the six-year-old son of my cousin. But he is just as chuffed to be cuddled by me as I am by him, because we fall asleep together on the sofa not even ten minutes past midnight. The picture is circulated on our relatives' various Instagrams, until it reaches one that fans follow and is suddenly everywhere. Leah tells me that her dog, Bella, gave her a nice lick the next morning, though it is only three for her by the time we are talking. I am getting ready for a hungover hitting session while she is just starting to leave the party.

"Happy New Year," is what Juan greets me with, walking past me, into my house. The difference between actual training and post-night-out training is that one takes place at a professional location and the other happens on my own personal court in my garden. It is very useful. "Warm-up, drills, and then I have found someone new for you to train with until we fly over to Adelaide next week." The Adelaide International (2) will be the first tournament of what is looking to be a very promising season.

"Who?" I ask, eyebrows raised. My go-to hitting partner when I am home is a Dutch woman who went to Mumma for physiotherapy a few years ago. She must be unavailable, but Juan neither confirms nor denies, simply shrugging cryptically and proceeding to set up the equipment that may now be rusty. The red net has faded, meaning it has become orange. I smirk, posting a picture of it to my Instagram story captioned 'into 2023 with the best colour'.

We train leisurely, though he decides tomorrow will be a full day of conditioning. Obviously, I ensured my fitness stayed intact over the break, but Juan does enjoy torturing me. My new hitting partner is a smiley redhead who plays very cleverly and manages to occasionally get the better of my alcohol-foggy brain. It is nice to not have her understand the insults that instinctively fly her way when I lose points in matchplay.

Training goes on like this. I blink and I am in Adelaide. Leah watches me win my first tournament from England, though my phone has to be discreetly switched off mid-final when I realise the buzzing is coming from her sending me live commentary and not some person in the crowd. The trophy feels good to hold. Fleur likes my post about it, but we still haven't spoken. I am unsure if I am over the guilt, and it seems as if she is only in contact with her agent at the moment. Her move to Barcelona is confirmed, though not public knowledge just yet.

It's a tight turn-around from Adelaide to the first Grand Slam of the season, but the Australian Open is my favourite of the four. It's nice to be able to stay in my own home and do what I love. It makes the high of tennis feel even better.

Leah has just hung up when I decide to bite the bullet (with a lot of encouraging from Mumma).

She has convinced me to call Fleur, though I am worried that my sister will not want to talk to me properly in case she ends up being a distraction this close to an important tournament. I go on a ten minute jog around my neighbourhood, still convincing myself to call her.

I do a half-hearted workout.

I unlock my phone.

Fuck. I should have stayed in England. I could have looked after Leah and Fleur. I could have done it; I love them both.

The soft beat of FaceTime's dialling tone rings out as I perch on one of the chairs on the patio outside, squinting slightly as the sun is in my eyes.

"Hoi," I greet, wiping my face with a sweat towel. She must be in a hotel room in Barcelona by now. Everything is going to be sorted by tomorrow. "How's Spain? Did you take up Papa's offer to stay over for a bit beforehand?"

"Jaimie, I just got here," she remarks with a frown, settling back into the hotel bed. I realise that I must have woken her up. "Nervous for tomorrow?"