Total pages in book: 92
Estimated words: 87804 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 439(@200wpm)___ 351(@250wpm)___ 293(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87804 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 439(@200wpm)___ 351(@250wpm)___ 293(@300wpm)
In the midst of the thunderous applause, I barely hear the umpire make the call. “Point, Williams. Game, set, and match.”
* * *
“Stress fracture,” my orthopedic specialist tells us while he studies the test results. Frowning, he adds, “With a TFCC tear.” The stench of rubbing alcohol and bad news in the examination room is going to make me hurl.
They say shitty things come in threes. It’s safe to say losing in the quarterfinals of the US Open qualifies as shitty event number one. When I started playing tennis competitively at the age of eleven, my grandfather sat me down and asked me what my plan was. I told him to win Wimbledon and the US Open Women’s Singles Championship. That plan has not changed.
A few years ago I realized my dream of winning Wimbledon but I’ve never gotten further than the quarterfinals of the US Open. It’s my holy grail…and also my kryptonite.
“Fuuu––”
“Language,” my manager barks, cutting me off. Katya Surkovska, aka the language police. Katya has been my manager from Girl’s Singles champion to Wimbledon champion. She’s a badass in a Dutch boy haircut. The Terminator in a navy suit. And one of only a handful of people I trust.
“Camera zoomed in on bad language.” In the heavy pause, she brandishes her signature glacial stare. “Bad language is bad for good girl image, no?”
“I’ll try to remember that next time I’m close to blacking out from a fractured wrist.” Let’s call falling on said wrist as I dove for my adversaries 128-mile-per-hour serve shitty event number two.
Turning to my doctor, I ask the question everyone in the room is dreading. “How long, Doc?” Seeing as Marty is the best orthopedic surgeon in the country, I know his next words will determine the course of my career for the foreseeable future.
On the other side the examination table, Oliver glares at the doctor. A phone rings and I belatedly realize it’s mine. Oliver takes it out of the back pocket of his jeans and I catch sight of the screen.
Coach. His concern is touching seeing as he barely waved when Oliver was loading me into the car to take me to the hospital.
“It’s broken,” he answers with no preamble.
“Can I talk to him?” I reach out with my good hand and Oliver turns, blocking me with his shoulder.
“She’ll miss serious time…”
“Can I…” My hand hangs, palm up. He stares at it and shakes his head.
“Hmm…unfortunately,” he continues. I’m a pretty patient person. I’m not prone to outbursts in my daily life. I leave all of that on the court. And yet right now I’m fighting the impulse to punch him in the eye and take my phone back. “We’ll keep you posted.” Ending the call, he slips my phone back into his pocket.
“I want you in surgery as soon as possible to repair the triangular fibrocartilage. That’ll take at least twelve weeks to heal.”
One look on his face tells me Oliver’s gearing up for an argument. I squeeze his bicep in warning and his dark blue eyes fall on my hand. When they return to me, I mouth, “Don’t.”
“Longer before you can start using it. The hairline fracture will take eight to ten,” Doc explains.
Over three months before I can pick up a racket again.
Four years ago I suffered a rotator cuff injury. I remember the overwhelming feeling of panic, of time slipping through my fingers, as if it happened yesterday. I remember the feeling of dread and the urge to scream and howl. I saw three specialists before I accepted the diagnosis.
For a competitive athlete knowing that something is out of your control is incredibly hard to handle. You can do physical therapy. You can see doctors. But ultimately time is in control. This feels nothing like that. On the contrary, an odd sense of peace wraps around me, an eerie calm, and with it comes a shameful bout of relief.
The pressure has been brutal this season. More than usual and there’s usually a lot. Truth is, for the first time since turning pro, I’ve got nothing left in the tank. That sucker’s blinking on empty.
“That’s cutting into our training for the Australian Open,” Mr. Empathy remarks.
My doctor eyeballs my boyfriend with undisguised contempt. “If you know of a way to get the bones and ligaments to heal on command, Wakefield, please share it with the rest of us.”
“Maybe we should seek another opinion, Marty. Maybe you’re losing your touch.”
“How quickly can you get me in for surgery?” I interrupt before this gets really ugly.
“How does tomorrow sound?”
“Perfect.”
Confident by Demi Lovato blasts from my phone and I know it’s my sister calling by the ring tone. Oliver once again retrieves it out of his back pocket and glances at the screen.
“Phone,” I order and shove out my good hand. Glancing at it, he places it in my palm with a frown. In the meantime, Marty waves and walks out of the examination room.