Page 67 of Best Year Ever
TAYLOR: So my recommendation is to ignore the article. Let it have its 24-48 hour social media blip and then it’ll go away.
I put a thumbs up emoji on the messages, ignoring the slight twinge of guilt I feel for not sharing the truth with her.
That guilt fades quickly, though. What’s left in its place is a wash of relief. If the story isn’t going anywhere, I’m ready to think about nothing but winning my next match.
Time to ignore all the outside noise.
The remainder of the day follows a familiar pattern for my “off” days during a tournament—a practice hit, media time, and strategy talk with Julie.
The only distinction is the level of press attention. It’s wild. Taylor is getting a ton of requests, which she’s navigating from her base in New York City. And the tournament media lead grabs Julie and my cell phone numbers as she organizes all the in-person asks from the press.
“I probably should be there,” Taylor says. “Lesson for next time.”
Otherwise, it all feels normal. I feel ready. Especially when Iget home and the whole group gathers around the back deck of the house to relax as the sun sets, with a view of our rental house’s gorgeous backyard.
“How was sight-seeing?” Maggie asks my dad and Julie as we all cluster around in the wooden chairs.
I flash her a look. They’d gone off together during my morning training session, which Julie usually skips. Maggie loves being an instigator of drama.
“We had fun,” Dad replies. “We went to Westminster Abbey and some museums.”
“That’s so cool,” Malcolm says. “I hope I can find time to see more of London.”
“Hey, not having time to play tourist means the tournament is going well for you,” Peter responds to him, with everyone chuckling at that.
While they keep chattering, I stand up and walk to the end of the deck, rolling my right shoulder. I tweaked it a bit during my practice session, doing a few more serves than I probably should have. Not a big deal, just the typical aches and pains of a pro tennis player.
I hear footsteps behind me and turn slightly. It’s Malcolm, looking concerned.
“You okay? Your shoulder hurt?”
Even though we didn’t know each other well before this grass court season, Malcolm has fit into the mix at the house really well. He’s easy going and genuine off the court, if ultra-competitive once on the court. So I appreciate his question, knowing it’s coming from a good place.
“Nothing major. Served a few more times than I should have today.”
He nods. It’s a pretty typical thing for a tennis player to wrestle with.
“Hey, I told Peter this earlier, and I wanted to catch you up on something,” he shares. “My girlfriend plays for the Orlando Surge, did you know that?”
The Orlando Surge is our pro women’s basketball team in Florida.
“No,” I reply. “But that’s awesome. I’ve been to a couple of games. What’s her name?”
“It’s Sarah Hartbright.” Oh wow, she’s the star forward. “Things are pretty serious with us, so I’ve been looking to move my training from California to Florida. It seems like a no-brainer to come train with you all at Pinnacle.”
Malcolm would click well with our group, and I know the guys would love having him there to raise the level of their games.
“That’d be really great,” I say.
“I’m pumped to come check it out after Wimbledon,” he says. “It’s been hard being on opposite coasts from Sarah, on top of traveling for the tour.”
“Yeah, I can imagine.” More than he knows. “How have you guys made it work?”
“Well, lots of time on our phone,” he says, laughing a little. “And an insane amount of schedule planning. But she’s worth it, you know?”
I smile at him and don’t pry harder for now, our friendship still new. It’s reassuring, though, to hear that things can work with situations similar to Landon and mine.
Soon we all head inside, going our separate ways. At bedtime, I FaceTime with Landon, whose flight home was uneventful. When he comes into view, I see Grover snuggled against him on the couch.
