Chapter Text
The third and final set of the Madrid Open Final is now underway.
As she hoped - “There is no hope, daughter, other than the one I have for your sake to see results” - the tournament has been a formality up until today, with the results of her hard work paying off immensely. The qualifier she met in the Second Round, wide eyed and naive, was mercilessly dispatched in a largely unneeded show of strength, but the wins kept coming up with practiced ease until she met Dora again in the semis. While Beatrice was a lot more confident on her home turf, losing to someone, even if in widely different circumstances, stays in the back of your mind. Only a fool would deny so.
As such, Beatrice opened up on her new array of shots after some kinks in the first few games. The results were immediate, as her ability to take the ball earlier with even more aggressive spin took Dora by surprise, earning her a quick break, which was confirmed with an easy serve game. One thing that the pundits have right about her, is that giving her such a headway makes it almost impossible to come back, as her mental game takes over and offers no quarters to her opponent. They were right once again, and after a quick 6-1 in the second set, she avenged her Miami loss and set up a Final versus Shannon.
The thing is, now she’s extremely cautious to not show too much, and is acutely aware that Shannon is approaching this match the same way. At this stage of Shannon’s career, a Masters title is obviously appreciated, but will not do much in terms of her actual legacy. She is pretty pointedly gunning for Slams on her remaining career, and will usually exploit these smaller tours as a way to see where her opponents are working during that part of the season. It’s the smart play, of course, but a luxury most players who are gunning for a better ranking and the immense advantages that come with it cannot quite afford.
This became one of the rare points of contention between Beatrice and Suzanne, in fact. Her temporary coach insisted that she needs to acquire this mindset as soon as possible, as her ranking is already protected enough and only Slams will truly advance her career. Beatrice gets it, she truly does, but she has been conditioned since birth to never accept anything other than complete victory. And even then, her skills would only, at best, make her acceptable for a small time.
And, if she is honest, there is no way in hell she would underperform at home. Not with her family watching. Not with Ava watching.
But still, against Shannon, she is sticking to the gameplan so far, despite temptation. Because she might have slipped, but Shannon hasn’t seen it first hand against her. And while Beatrice is positive Shannon will obsess over every aspect of the Madrid tapes before Roland-Garros - Beatrice knows, because her own set of tapes is already prepped for her - this might be a slim advantage she can keep for a while longer.
The third set seems destined for a tiebreak, with Shannon serving down 5-6. But Beatrice decides it’s the perfect time for her specialty: some misdirection. Shannon messes up on her first serve, offering her a look on her second to start the game. Her serve ends up a little short, despite a decent kick, and so Beatrice immediately springs into action, moves to hit the ball inside out on her forehand, painting the line and making it impossible to get for Shannon.
Shannon only arches her eyebrow slightly, before turning to retrieve the next balls. A typical reaction on the court, but in Beatrice’s eyes, it is her first triumph of the day.
Shannon recovers to send her an unreturnable serve, and combines with an audacious serve and volley to make it 30-15. And yet, Beatrice feels this is her moment. She returns the next first serve well, sending Shannon fairly deep in her backhand corner. The Champion does well to adjust, but her opponent pounces on the awkward positioning immediately, takes on the shorter ball sent her way to slam an inside-out winner down the opposite end. Shannon has to rely on her second serve to survive the next point, surrendering the advantage to Beatrice early on. And she can find her training step in, allowing her to combine offensive shot into offensive shot, making sure her opponent never quite gets back in the point. Shannon’s defence, as outstanding as it is, finally flounders at the end of a 25 shots rally when Beatrice sends a backhand deep down the line, the riposte only finding the net.
Now on match point - Beatrice refuses to consider it to be a Championship point when it’s not a Grand Slam at this point - she keeps pressing, slicing down the serve return in order to get an awkward backhand. Shannon anticipates it and leverages the court in her favour, but this time Beatrice is quicker, and with a deft touch she pulls off a drop shot with all the… pazzazz Ava wanted to see from her. Shannon is unusually quick on the court, but even she cannot quite get to the ball fast enough. She manages to get her racket on it before the second bounce, but it fails to clear the net. And so Beatrice defends her Madrid title.
The now triple Champion closes her eyes and lets out one long, painfully shuddering breath. It’s fine, it’s done. This doesn’t mean Roland-Garros is in the bag at all, but it’s a reward nonetheless. And a first demonstration of the work that has been put in has not been for naught. She takes a moment to herself, then walks to the net to meet her adversary. Shannon is already waiting, a wry grin on her open face. Not just a show of who she is, but also of someone who truly has seen more than a defeat at a Masters.
“Congratulations Beatrice, a well deserved defence once again.”
“Thank you Shannon, for the words and for never making it easy. See you in Paris?”
Shannon laughs. “My, so confident today! I will wait for you there, as always. Oh, and please tell Suzanne hi for me, would you?” With a final wink, the World Number One steps in front of her to shake the umpire’s hands before retreating to her side.
Well, the cat is out of the bag now, Beatrice muses. Suzanne was adamantly clear about not making it to her games for this tour, firstly because she isn’t her actual coach - Duretti however made the trip, basking in his glory of not lifting a single finger for the past month - and secondly to not clue up any rival about her involvement with Beatrice. It seemed to have worked, as she got no inkling from the pundits or the locker room talk about potential links between the two. But of course Shannon would know better, both from experience and familiarity,
Regardless, what’s done is done, and Beatrice finds it hard to think it wasn’t worth it. Not when she looks at her box and sees her true family fiercely clapping for her. Jillian looks so proud, the way she usually does when her projects succeed, and so many of them had to do with their partnership recently. Michael and Diego are jumping around without a care in the world, and Ava… as she often does when Beatrice is concerned, smiles so wide and bright, as if nothing could make her happier. Her lower belly pulls at the thoughts and the feelings coursing through her, but she allows only a small smile of her own to show, sending her box a friendly wave as she sits down and awaits the ceremony.
-
The next day is far less joyous for Beatrice. First off, she has a plane to catch, which always sends her into business mode. Second, Duretti and his posse are keen on being with her every step of the way, as there is no chance he will want to miss anything about the Rome Open, his home turf and old power base. But even more importantly, she is leaving her people behind. This is completely expected from any professional player, but this year is annoyingly difficult.
“You’ll call me often, right?” Ava’s grip is still on her, firm despite her difficulties. She is slightly trembling and Beatrice can see unshed tears in the corner of her eyes, but she has no interest in mentioning it. Because then she might have to acknowledge hers.
“Of course Ava, every day I possibly can.” She murmurs, taking great care of her hands. With a final gentle press and a tremulous smile, she steps away in the direction of the car Jillian had prepared for her.
“Good luck champ! Break a leg! We’ll compare experiences!” Ava yells right before she manages to close the door. Beatrice snorts and sends one last half hearted rude gesture, before starting her journey.
“That young lady sure is loud. Young. I am not sure your parents would approve of this little arrangement.” And back to the real life of Beatrice Young, courtesy of one Roman well past his prime. “She has been with me every step of the way for the past month, Coach. Have you?” Beatrice can’t resist needling him like this, she does so every year after she proves again and again that she can train perfectly fine outside of the perfect box her parents insist on putting her in.
And as always, Duretti grumbles. “Your pointless little act of rebellion might be ignored for now, but it won’t truly matters until you actually win a Slam now, does it?” He moves on quickly, avoiding the predictable argument that would rise. “Let’s just focus on Rome for now, Mr Young will be looking to attend the Final again this year, I trust that my little break away from your childish view of independence will not stop you from winning then.”
Beatrice clenches her teeth, but the mere mention of her father is enough to quell any hope of actually getting through anything here. Because if Mr Young has no real interest in Madrid or frankly almost any tour that is not Wimbledon, his constant appeals to the Catholic Church make the Rome tournament a priority in his oh so busy professional life. And so, it is of the utmost importance that Beatrice does not embarrass him on the court. By this she understands it to mean anything less than a trophy in this second tier tournament.
She then settles down, looking outside the window at the retreating Salvius villa, and tries to put it all to rest.
-
“C’mon Bea! That was a good win! At least Michael and I sure did think so, don’t you bud?” Ava asks her small brother, whom Beatrice manages to see nod his head vigorously in the corner of the video call.
“Thank you both, I admit it was a productive time on the court today.” She glances away from the screen, looking around her small hotel room, devoid of any charm she was surrounded with recently. “You are right, I’m just…” She trails off, looking at her friend helplessly.
Ava takes the hint though. “Alright bro, think it’s time for bed anyway! Now now.” She takes a fake stern tone as Michael starts protesting. “You wouldn’t want to force me to carry you. These guns aren’t just for show!” She attempts a threatening flex, which just ends up being a little too trembling for a proper execution. To his credit, Michael acknowledges the attempt, and after wishing good night to Beatrice, walks off to his bedroom. Ava watches him go with a sigh. “They grow up so fast, he won’t respect my top form for long… Now, what’s up?” She doesn’t disguise the concern anymore.
“I don’t know Ava, I should be fine, really I should. It was a good win! But… I don’t know, I feel like something is missing and it’s impacting me more than I’d like to admit.”
“Does this have anything to do with your coach? I know you have your issues with him, I still don’t know why you put up with him like that when we both know Suzanne is just waiting on a call-”
“Because it’s what my parents want Ava! I get one small thing every year, and the rest is just whatever they think they know best!”
“Ok fine, but that’s not helping you now is it? Or has it ever helped?” Damn it Ava, Beatrice thinks, when has she been so easy to figure out?
“But of course it did! I got to be a professional because of it, it clearly has not been for nothing.” She keeps going, the floodgates truly open now. “Maybe that’s what I need, to focus on what they think is best, and just stop thinking I’m not a silly little girl-”
“Ok no, stop with that bullshit.” Beatrice truly doesn’t think she has ever seen Ava angry, and the realization is enough to hold off for a moment. “What I am seeing right now is not good in any way. The woman I have been around is you, Beatrice, strong and courageous, who stops at nothing to get what she wants. This right now? It’s not fucking okay. This cold as hell room is not you. And it wasn’t me at the orphanage.”
The reminder gets through Beatrice, if only slightly. She’s been so focused on herself she forgot Ava could actually relate to the picture she’s seeing now. “I’m sorry, I get what you mean. It’s just… being here and I keep thinking about the Final…”
“Let’s just focus on getting there first, yeah Champ?” Ava sighs, looking almost as tired as she was the night they stayed up talking about her accident. “Anyway, I understand you want to please these people, even if God knows even himself would struggle to, but when is Bea going to put herself first? Like, truly?”
Beatrice has no reply to that, nothing that could actually help at the moment, at least. Her friend gives one last nod, a frown pulling at her expression. “I get it. Good night, yeah? We’ll talk more soon I promise.” She still blows her with a kiss, a habit she got into since the first video call. It pulls at Beatrice that her hands are shaking more than usual tonight, but she still returns the motion with a smile before closing the window.
She sighs again, looking for any salvation in the austere room, to no avail. This Rome Open has been a disaster everywhere outside of the court. Duretti has been on her like a rabid dog in every training session, but as usual recently his advice has not left her with any positive feedback she feels she can build on. Where Suzanne was harsh, she was also constructive, making sure Beatrice could see a path forward. Duretti might have been such a trainer in the past, but at this juncture he simply is way too scared to lose the last remnant of his old prestige. Then there’s her Father, who’s mere arrival is enough to set her on edge.
But the real kicker is how empty she feels without anyone she cares about around. Jillian, Michael, Ava, even Camila was a far more engaging training partner than the journeywomen Duretti sets her up with. But if she’s honest with herself, it’s mostly Ava. Ava that she knew nothing about before Madrid, and she still longs to know more every single day. It’s… incredible, honestly, to feel something like this. And frankly terrifying. Maybe it would be best if it never happened.
… Even if Beatrice is sick at the thought. But is she wrong? Her own personal training camp has always been a fantasy, she always admitted it to herself. A personal indulgence that this year, took the form of probably her perfect life. And so has never been this dangerous. But this is pointless to delve into now. She has a match against an arrogant upstart tomorrow, and she cannot be distracted from the simple task at hand.
-
Beatrice is struggling.
Not with her coach, or her family, or with the press, or with her repressed feelings about… a lot frankly.
No, she is struggling on a clay court.
Her opponent, a certain Crimson Irons, isn’t someone Beatrice knows extremely well, and Duretti was standoffish when she wanted more information on her. From what she could gather in her past research, Crimson is seen as a very good indoors player, in large part due to her incredible power off both wings, with a serve to back it up. On the faster surfaces, this obviously can get overwhelming very fast. Unfortunately for her though, her mentality is… not the best. She tends to get frazzled the moment she misfires, which leads to rather impressive meltdowns on the court.
Unfortunately for Beatrice, she is exactly the kind of player where, if she somehow manages to hold off these tendencies and just hit the crap - Sorry Mother - out of the ball with no care, well, this could prove troublesome. And Crimson is clearly having one of those days today.
So far, both players have been able to hold their serve, but Beatrice lost the first set on a tiebreaker, where she flubbed a ball after an obscenely powerful serve return from her opponent, who proceeded to give her absolutely zero look on her own serve. She is now down 4-5 in the second set, staring at an uncomfortable 30-all as she tries to hold serve. Her first serve is out wide, and Beatrice breathes in slowly, bounces the ball one, two, three times, before sending it in the air with hopefully enough kick to bother Crimson….
Except that Crimson turns it right into an inside out winner down the line to earn herself a Match Point.
Beatrice tries to chase away the uncomfortable tightness in her belly, tries ignoring the raised whispers in the crowd, all witnessing an upset happen in real time with the defending Champion. Her first serve is good enough, and the rally begins. She settles into well, all things considered, but whereas Crimson would usually have made a mistake by now, she holds on very successfully. A shorter slice sent her way has Beatrice believe this is her opening, and she gears up for a deep shot from slightly inside the court…
Only to actually hit it too short, the way she always has done when pushing rallies to their limit of endurance, not how she tried to create winners the way Suzanne and Jillian told her to do. And so Crimson has no real problem getting to the ball, crushing it so deep crosscourt it skims off the backline. Beatrice had no real shot at this from her positioning.
And so she lost her title before even getting to the Quarters.
She meets Crimson at the net, manages to hold eye contact as her opponent has a vicious smirk plastered all across her face, before turning back to her bag and getting out of the court as fast as possible.
-
“What the actual fuck was that??”
Beatrice flinches as Duretti storms in the locker room, she did anticipate this but… “I lost, she hit everything right, it happens.”
“Oh thank fuck it happens!” Beatrice flinches again as he smacks his foot against a locker. “Why would I be concerned with being your goddamn coach when I can just relax about things happening? Maybe one day you’ll “happen” to win a fucking Major!”
For once, Beatrice has enough. She is afraid, as she usually is the moment Duretti shows her the ugly side of his bolstering personality, but it’s enough. Because the people close to her are right. “Coaching? You haven’t coached me in years. I never have a plan to improve!”
“Maybe if you could hit a fucking ball to win a point instead of hoping your opponent will choke and offer you a trophy with the kindness of their heart, you could improve! I should just coach Crimson at this point, she “happens” to knock how to hit a forehand!”
And really, that’s the answer she wanted. “You are wrong. I beat Shannon. I KNOW” She yells knowing what objection Duretti was preparing. “It wasn’t a Slam, I know! But I felt I was improving, and no thanks to you. So you know what, go coach Crimson, you’re fired.”
Duretti just looks at her, the fight leaving his red face… and laughs. Laughs and laughs. “Fired? Daddy will never allow it. When have you ever stood up to him?”
But Beatrice does intend to. She has to, she cannot keep living like this. “Guess there’s a first time for everything. “Daddy” is not in our legal agreement, I am. And you are fired.” She stands up with her things packed, spares one last look at her former coach. “Thank you for the years together, Francesco. May you bounce back from being stuck with a weak little girl who cannot hit a winner to save her life.”
Beatrice holds on until she’s back in her hotel room. After locking the door shut, she finally collapses, knees giving out and breath shuddering until she hits the floor. Fifteen minutes and a proper cry later, she sits up, gulping air as if she ran a double marathon, before shakily pulling out her phone and sending a message before booking a spot on the training ground.
-
“Before we start, I’d like to talk about what happened” Suzanne says the moment she spots Beatrice waiting on the court.
“Fine, if we must.” Honestly this is very far from what the tennis player wants. She already made the biggest change in her career, she doesn’t want to delve on it further. She just wants to hit tennis balls very hard and convince herself this is going to set her back on track for Roland-Garros.
“In fact, I truly insist we do.” She walks over the bench, gesturing to Beatrice to sit beside her, nodding in approval at the quick compliance. “But first, I would like you to tell me what happened.”
“I lost.” Beatrice simplys states. “Duretti came in there to yell at me after, and I decided I couldn’t take it anymore.” Suzanne nods. “Succinct, and you will never win a prize for your prose, but essentially correct. Why ask me to take over?”
“Because… I have to trust that what I did in preparation wasn’t for nothing. I thought we worked well together. I’m not entirely sure what happened versus Crimson but it can’t be-”
“And that is your problem here.” Suzanne interrupts, having found exactly what she was looking for. “Your preparation was solid, I agree, and if I did not approve of what I oversaw in those weeks I would not have agreed to come here on such a short notice. But you know what happened versus Crimson.”
“I don’t think I do? I got beat, I couldn’t really anticipate her strikes, she was hitting a lot earlier than I would have thought someone would… Oh.” Beatrice winces, then turns sheepish. “So I guess I do know?”
Her new coach hums. “Indeed. Here’s what happened, Beatrice. You were surprised. You did not have a good read on your opponent, whereas she very clearly knew how to play you. It happens all the time. We talked about this earlier! You think Shannon wasn’t stunned by the way you played her last year, in Madrid? Beatrice you beat her cleanly in two sets, that doesn’t happen very often.”
“And I lost in Paris, because she adjusted.” Beatrice grudgingly sees the point. It’s honestly something so basic to all tennis players, something she thought was drilled into her too much right before Madrid, and it is frustrating her that she needed to hear it again. And yet, she clearly did.
“Indeed. It was one of the best matches I have seen in a long time. You were great, but I thought Shannon was spectacular. Why is that?”
“She… played the big points better, and even on the few she lost that gave me a set, she always bounced back. I got some looks, but never quite was able to chain those moments, and she knew what I would do to try and get that to happen.” Beatrice realizes. She’s reminded of what Ava said to her on the day they met: Things change when you realize not everything is about you.
“Precisely! Duretti is a good coach, or well, was, but he was never good at making players understand that they consistently have to adjust to others, that it’s not just about training better or hitting a serve faster, every two bit coach can tell you that.” The look in Suzanne’s eyes turns from fiery to nostalgic, as she admits something else Beatrice did not expect. “When I retired from the tour, it was when I realized I quite couldn’t do it anymore. But I could help others see, and working with Shannon for all these years was a privilege.” She stands up then, motioning towards the practice court. “So let’s work on adjustments then, shall we?”
“Sure, coach.” Beatrice goes to stand up, but hesitates again. “... You were truthful with your evaluation, right? I prepared well? I still feel that I could have done more time instead-”
“Don’t, Beatrice.” Suzanne interrupts again, harsher as Beatrice slightly recoils. “Just, don’t. You take the sport seriously, and that’s all I ask. I have seen way too many players lose themselves to the sport and their mind struggling to remember what being human means. That you enjoyed yourself with people you care about is perfectly natural, all I want is a serious commitment when it’s time to work.”
“But… What if I was told it was not natural?” Beatrice shifts, nauseated at what she just implied, but she has to know .
And Suzanne contemplates it with a slight pause, before leveling her with a stare that holds a truth she simply believes. “Well, fuck whoever told you that. And now, let’s truly begin.”
-
It’s only a day later she sends a request for a call, which goes answered after a frustratingly terse minute.
“Hey, Bea.” The Ava that greets her is smiling but looks… awful. She has slight bags forming under her eyes, but Beatrice is far more dismayed by the fact that, despite it being early afternoon, she is sitting in her wheelchair to greet her. She never had to use her wheelchair in the middle of the day when she was around.
“Ava, hi. Are you… alright?” She cringes asking that, such a stupid question…
“Oh, I’m fine, the old hardware had a bit of a struggle, nothing a soft reboot can’t improve.” She looks away, considering her words. “I was… not great after what happened to you. I’m sorry, I just knew you wouldn’t take it well and when you just disappeared…”
“No Ava, I’m sorry. And you are right, I did not take it well. But I am trying to improve on this. It’s… not easy. Probably the hardest thing I could do actually.” A thin smile plays at her lips, Suzanne’s work paying some amount of dividends. “Thank you for giving me space, though I am sorry this happened and that you felt discomfort from my belligerent attitude.”
Ava snorts. “For fuck’s sake, I’m sure there was an apology there Jane Austen, but really it’s fine. Guess we’ll agree we did not handle things as we could have but it’s all understandable.” Beatrice nods, relieved to maybe move on.
They talk for a fair amount of time, about inconsequential stuff really. Michael messed up his room trying to lure a bird through the window - Adriel, he now calls it - to the absolute dismay of Jillian, a noted bird hater. Diogo sent Ava some funny TikToks of Beatrice edits, thankfully keeping away from some of the rather… thirsty ones. Ava also kept in touch with Camila, who has finished her prep for the Junior Roland-Garros and should be around for Beatrice’s matches provided she makes it deep in the tournament. They don’t talk about Beatrice’s training. Or Ava’s issues in physiotherapy recently.
Their conversation is stopped by a rather sudden knock on Beatrice’s door, bringing with it a twist deep in her gut. She hurriedly but politely tells Ava her goodbyes before moving to welcome her visitor.
“Daughter.” Crap.
“Father, please come on in.” Daniel Young moved briskly past her stoic, upright form. Never give anyone anything they could use against you.
“Francesco has tried upon himself to waste as much as he could of my precious time recently. Or rather, how much we all wasted our time on you. Is this accurate, daughter?”
“No, father.”
“No? So you think what we have been seeing is a valuable return on our long term investment?”
“... No, father.”
He hums. “Always the picture of consistency, even in blatant hypocrisy.” He takes a look around, her hotel room in pristine condition as he always stressed upon her. “We have all been rather disappointed with the course of events, of course. And I am unsure how much more disappointment we can take, as I am sure my bright daughter can understand.”
Beatrice swallows, trying for once to stand up for herself. “I understand Father. The current course of action is rather unexpected and frankly not desirable at this juncture. But I truly do believe moving on with Suzanne is the right call at this juncture. Early returns were promising and suggested a strong course going forward.”
Father considers her for a long time. She stays still, hiding the trembling of her hands behind her back in her perfect posture. Finally - finally - he nods. “The early returns as you called them will have to pay dividends fast, but I am willing to reconsider until the end of Wimbledon. Ms De Fanti after all is highly commendable, though her tactics can be… unusual. Very well then, I suppose it is all?” She confirms and makes way for his exit.
That’s how it always goes with him. Quick meetings with no feelings nor care. But for once, Beatrice did hold her ground. A small win, of course. But a win all the same. She just needs to make do with the time frame she now has.