Page 68 of A Summer of Stars

“I don’t disagree, Ed. I definitely wasn’t originally betting on her. But I’ve never seen her this focused, even more than her first Wimbledon, with the exception of the slip-up toward the end of the second set, of course. When Jeolt shot that ball past her in the first serve of the second set, Aldridge didn’t let it bother her. Her first four rounds flew by last week, each of them won in straight sets. She’s giving these players a run for their money.” Lou whistled.

“She’s won five consecutive Wimbledon titles during her career, which only four other women in history have done. But despite that, she’s really become the underdog of the tournament. I don’t think many of us expected her to come back this year after everything. I may be in the minority saying this, but I’m rooting for her,” Ed finished.

Shutting off my phone, I grabbed my bag and jogged out of the locker room to the practice courts. There were eighteen courts at Wimbledon, all grass, and all accessible to reporters and a limited number of fans. They existed outside of the main arena in a grid format, each stacked beside and above one another, a fence dividing them all.

“Hello!” I waved to the group of girls standing outside the fence as I walked out to the set of courts, the sun instantly striking my shoulders like a heat lamp. Most of them looked young, teens maybe. You didn’t see many men unless the male tennis players were practicing.

“How are you all?” I shouted as I stepped across the court, cupping my hands around my mouth. “It’s too hot for you to be waiting out here!”

“We’re fine!” and “No!” blended together as they argued back with smiles.

“Will you sign my ball!” a girl shouted from the far end of the fence.

“Only if you’ll go somewhere with AC or shade after!” I finally reached the fence, close enough now to see blushes on their cheeks, bright colors on their nails, and logos on their hats. It was a sharp contrast from the mature, sophisticated adults sitting in the stands with their matching linen sets watching me sweat on the court for two hours.

“I will, I will!” the young girl, maybe sixteen, promised.

“Deal,” I said, accepting the ball and running my signature over it with a marker. “What’s your name?”

“Lucy.” She smiled as I returned the ball.

“It was lovely to meet you, Lucy. And I’m sorry for making you wait in this horrible heat,” I said, accepting another ball.

“Wait! I have some questions! I’m doing a school project on you, and I’ll absolutely fail if I don’t get your answers,” she spoke up as I moved farther down the line.

“Well, I must know these questions, then!” I signed another ball, another hat, as they were pushed in front of me. I felt like my father when he’d spend hours signing off on (allegedly) important documents for work.

“How long do you practice on a daily basis?” She didn’t have to shout, because everyone quieted, waiting with curiosity.

“About six hours.”

A pause passed as she scribbled down my answer in a small notebook.

“Do you have any pre-match rituals?”

“Hm. I don’t do this on purpose, but I love to listen to the Spice Girls before I go out, pretending I’m Sporty Spice preparing for a performance. That sounds embarrassing now that I’m saying it aloud. Don’t share that one,” I responded, scrunching up my nose. “Just write stretching!” They all giggled, many of them sharing their love for Sporty Spice.

“Okay, and lastly, what is your biggest goal for this tennis season?”

“To have fun.” I shrugged my shoulders with a smile. “And to win a few tournaments, of course.”

“Wait, I have a question!” another girl shouted from the back.

“Go ahead!”

She smiled brightly before asking, “Are you dating Kieran Alexander?”

Everyone vibrated with excitement, turning to one another with whispers. I returned another signed hat, running the back of my hand over my forehead.

“Is this the BBC? My publicist will kill me if I answer that! No comment.” They were all giddy now, comfortable.

“Can you at least tell us if you like him, then?” a different girl piped in.

I wiped away the memory of him drunkenly looking down at me after we kissed.

“Isn’t that the same question?” I argued.

“We just want to know if you like him.” A small girl in front of me with pigtails pouted persuasively.