Page 11 of Breakpoint
“With the media. You did nothing, and I had to carry our water,” Daniela exclaimed. “A gaggle of reporters firing questions, and you just sat there, staring into space like you were meditating on the perfect drop shot!”
Jaz could admit she was impressed by how Daniela handled the press back there. It was one of the easiest press conferences Jaz had been a part of in years. She didn’t have to do much but stand there while Daniela answered the bulk of the questions. But she wasn’t going to back down and let this chick come at her like that.
“Oh, so you take that seriously? Not practicing or working hard when you show up late obviously hungover. So I was letting you shine because that’s all you seemed to care about being on point for. Not your tennis game. You had every angle covered, every quote pre-packaged.”
The silence that followed was thick. Daniela let out a long breath and put her hands on her hips. “Why do you hate me so much?”
Jaz was taken aback. She knew she could be abrasive and grumpy on a good day, but she didn’t have hate in her heart for anyone. Well, except that one journalist who called her a black monkey. And they were going to have to spend a lot of time together, and she didn’t want anyone to feel beneath her personally while they were together. Yes, they were beneath her as tennis players, but not as humans. She knew what it feels like for hate to be spewedher way, and Jaz Mason was above that. “I don’t hate you. I don’t even know you. We’re playing tennis, not braiding each other’s hair.”
“I understand if you don’t care about being a bitch, too well everyone, but some of us would like the press to stay on our good side.”
“Do you think I care what the media thinks of me?”
Daniela scoffed. “Obviously not.”
“My game speaks for itself,” she shot back.
“Well, you haven’t won anything lately, so maybe it’s saying you should hang it up and retire.” Daniela slammed her locker shut, the metallic clang echoing like a gunshot, as she stormed out of the locker room.
Chapter 5
The flashing lights of the Paris nightclub reflected in Dani’s bright eyes. Across the pulsating dance floor, she caught the gaze of Sascha, whose laughter rang out above the din. It was a familiar scene: Dani and Sascha Rudd, out on the town enjoying the spoils of being young tennis stars on the rise. Their social media feeds, already vibrant, exploded with snapshots of the night.
Tonight, Dani was a vision in a shimmering silver dress and strappy heels that made her calves look amazing. Sascha, her blonde hair usually styled in a sleek ponytail for matches, was now a cascade of waves tumbling down her back. Over six feet tall like Dani but with sapphire blue eyes, Sascha was as known for her curated Instagram feed as much as her blistering forehand. Her IG was a tapestry of courtside poses, sponsored outfits, and boomerangs from exclusive nightclubs.
Dani met Sascha at a sponsorship event for the sports clothing brand that outfitted their on-court gear. The Norwegian was in her early twenties, like Dani, but had already been playing on tour for close to five years. Sascha had yet to win a singles title on tour,but was attracting significant attention because of her athleticism, beauty, and early success in the junior circuit. She had been dubbed the ‘next big thing’ in tennis when she broke the top fifty, though her sponsorship money dwarfed her on-court earnings. Fame, for Sascha, was a delicious cocktail, and she was eager to gulp down every drop.
Dani quickly learned the professional tour differed from the camaraderie of college. And for all its glamour, it could be an isolating place. Especially when she was still trying to find her groove and where she fit in. It was also difficult to make and be friends on the tour. She was constantly competing and trying to prevent the other women from succeeding in their goals.
But Dani found a kindred spirit in Sascha, and she appreciated that Sascha loved to enjoy the spoils of her newfound celebrity. Namely, she was always up for a party. Sascha commanded the room’s attention, her laughter echoing above the thumping bass. Their bodies swayed to the hypnotic beat of the DJ, bathed in the flickering glow of neon lights. She raised her cocktail glass and screamed over the music, “Cheers to making it to the second week!”
“Fuck yeah!” Dani yelled.
They both downed their drink and continued to dance to the music. They were celebrating because both Dani and Sascha had made it to the fourth round at the French Open. The tournament started with one hundred twenty-eight players, and now there were only sixteen left. And Dani and Sascha were both of them. So, here they were, in the heart of the ‘City of Lights’, thebass thumping in their chests, hours after they had stepped off the court with some of the world’s best. Dani wondered if life could get any better.
Some would call it reckless, even irresponsible, partying during a Grand Slam tournament. But Dani didn’t care. She partied while in college and was the NCAA champion two years in a row. So why should she stop now? Thankfully, they had an off day tomorrow before their next match. Tennis was a game, after all, and Dani and Sascha were determined to play it on their own terms. They were young, talented, and having the time of their lives.
As Dani and Sascha danced, a few guys started to get a bit too close and aggressive, touching Dani as she grooved across the dance floor. She gave Sascha the look and a head nod towards the door that said, ‘Let’s get the fuck out of here.’ Sascha understood the signal, grabbed her hand, and directed them towards the exit.
Exiting Le Ciel, a pulsing club hidden behind an unassuming door in a narrow alley, they burst out into the street and were met by a gush of fresh air. The low thrum of Parisian nightlife vibrated through the cobblestone streets and into the soles of Dani and Sascha’s stilettos.
“That was awesome. I love Paris,” Dani slurred into the night.
“Girl, who doesn’t?” Sascha smiled at her through hooded, intoxicated eyes. “But I definitely thought you were going to leave and abandon me with that blonde chick who kept eyeing you. She was not at all subtle that she wanted you to take her home.”
“Nah, not tonight. It's about celebrating us. I wasn’t going to ditch you. Plus, I don’t need Tom catching another woman leaving my hotel room.” When Sascha learned Dani was queer, by catching her making out with a girl in the back of a club, she just shruggedher shoulders and said, ‘Isn’t everyone a little fluid?’ And that was that.
“I wouldn’t want to piss him off either. Does Tom ever smile?” Sascha found a seat at one of the sidewalk tables of a closed cafe. “My feet are killing me. But I can rally for the next club. Just give me ten minutes.” She slipped off her stilettos and rubbed her feet.
“I’m sufficiently drunk, Sascha. I might have to tap out.” She already knew tomorrow’s practice was going to be a little rough. Her serve might lack some of its usual power, but Dani could always bounce back.
“Come on, Dani,” Sascha cried drunkenly, tossing her blonde hair over her shoulder. “We’ve been killing it. We deserve one or three nights of Parisian debauchery for making it to the second week of the French Open. Plus, we should celebrate now, you beating Jaz Mason in the next round.”
That was right; Dani would be playing Jaz in the fourth round of the French Open with a chance to make it to her first Grand Slam quarterfinals. Even though Jaz had won seventeen Grand Slam titles, Dani felt pretty confident. She knew clay wasn’t Jaz’s best surface, and Dani had made it farther than Jaz at the Madrid Open. She got to the semi-finals, and Jaz lost in the quarters. Plus, Dani had played the tournament in Rome right after Madrid and also made the semis there. They were both great tune-ups before the French Open with valuable rankings points.
Clay had always been a great surface for her, unlike most American players who dominated hardcourts. But her dad was a clay court specialist during his career and Dani spent many summers in Greece playing on clay at their family house in the Greekcountryside. She knew she was better than Jaz on clay and had even got the best of her when they hit together in Madrid in front of the press.
The media had already dubbed them “Fire and Ice,” a catchy phrase that did nothing to capture the simmering animosity between them. This showdown was already making the headlines in the tennis press. Every question in her media session after her last win was about the upcoming match with Jaz.
