Page 106 of Best Year Ever
“And frustrated. I’m frustrated that she didn’t trust me, trust us, to figure it all out.”
She nods, but still stays silent.
“Now it’s football season though, so I’m sucking it up. A little time has definitely helped, being able to focus on the guys, the team. I’m largely pushing the stuff with Rori to the side. At least when it comes to football.”
Grace speaks up then. “It’s natural to compartmentalize. You know, I’m the queen of that. Just get stuff done. Keep talking with me as much as you need to when you’re home, though. I’m here.”
We move onto lighter topics, but it feels good to have given words to some of what I’m thinking.
Still, once Grace leaves for her condo, the nights are hard. It isn’t the sex I miss as much—though that, too, my hand’s getting a workout—I miss our late-night conversations even more. By the time I left for training camp, we could talk about anything and everything, for hours at a time.
Not to mention the understanding that we shared of what it took to navigate our unique lives as pro athletes. The pressure, the drive, the commitment, the reality of losing, the fame, the scrutiny, the critics—it’s incredibly difficult to comprehend the lifestyle unless you live it too. For the first time, I was with a woman who “got” these dynamics, and I, in turn, really connected with what she faced.
I could also let my guard down with her. I knew she wasn’t using me, a trust that I didn’t take for granted. I recognize that this trust allowed us to relax into our friendship and to be ourselves, even in our goofy, fun moments, in a way hard to duplicate with others.
As I head to my home gym to get in an evening stretching session for the off-day, I turn on the TV.
The universe must be angry at me today because who is on the screen? Rori.
The highlight shows her pumping her hands in elation, having won her match in Ohio, during a smaller tournament that’s prep for the U.S. Open.
“Reilly wins the Cincinnati tournament in straight sets, 7-6, 6-4, against a very tough opponent, world #3 Ilsa Gregorvic. Nice bounce back from the early loss in Canada, and a positive sign for the U.S. Open,” the announcer says.
They cut to a shot in the stands of Julie standing and clapping. Oh awesome, she’s there for Rori.
The announcers move on quickly to baseball updates, but the image of Rori doesn’t leave my head. Her beautiful hair in a bouncing ponytail, a light green tennis dress on, and a big, happy smile.
The visual re-tears a piece of my heart.
Snap out of it, Battle,I tell myself.Thinking about it isn’t doing any good.
I force myself to the mat to start stretching and push on.
CHAPTER 39
Rori
Winning Cincinnati, the last tournament before the U.S. Open in New York, has me back on track in terms of my tennis. As I hoist up the trophy on the court, my confidence clicks fully back into place. U.S. Open, here I come.
Plus, Tessa’s gone from the picture. She’s gotten what she deserved. There’s lots of grateful locker room chatter about her ban.
Up next, a few days at home. I fly back with Julie, and she’s brimming with pride as we debrief about the tournament.
“You shook off all that drama and took care of business,” Julie says. “First time you beat Ilsa, and frankly, she never had a chance. Let’s find ways to keep you in the zone.”
A big group of us from Pinnacle have dinner the next day at Maggie’s house. Everyone’s headed to New York in the coming days to start their own U.S. Open journey. The chatter across the group is excited and upbeat.
“Rori, I told you, this is going to be your first win at a Slam,” Peter says, his arm around Maggie. “I feel it.”
“Totally is,” Maggie agrees. As I nod and walk to the kitchen for more water, I notice them move to a full embrace, Maggiewhispering something in Peter’s ear that makes him follow up with a kiss. In another corner of the room, I see Malcolm talking with his girlfriend Sarah while rubbing softly on the back of her neck.
I’m happy for all of them, truly. But watching the couples canoodle shoots a wave of longing through my chest.
I’ve told no one—who could I even talk to about this—but I miss Landon terribly.
I miss talking to him after matches.
I miss laughing with him at dumb TV shows.
