Work Text:
Merde.
The heat beats down against the clay. Bouncing off the thick, orange surface and onto her face. Sweat runs down her face. Following the contours of her cheek and jaw, dripping off of her chin and mixing with the court below. She is the court. She breathes in the dust that flicks up when she slides into a forehand. She is the court. But now, she is losing.
She throws her racquet down onto the clay, feeling all the anger and frustration drain out of her body at the therapeutic snapping of the graphite and fibreglass. This is accompanied by a guttural scream that rips the lining of her throat on its way out of her mouth.
She shouldn’t be losing to anyone. Not with her skill, grace, power and athleticism. She is Delphine Cormier. She definitely should not be losing to Heather Watson in the Quarter Finals of the French Open. This is her country. Her stage. Her home.
Sitting down heavily on her bench she barks at the ball girl to shade her from the sun. The petite, dread locked girl hesitates for a second before running up and opening the umbrella above her. She leans back and rubs her wristbands over her face to wipe off the sweat. “Pouvez-vous me passer mon eau s’il vous plaît?” She motions towards the ball girl. The girl stands still. Delphine opens her eyes and turns her head to face her. “Sil vous plaît?” She repeats, thinking that this hesitation is some form of response to the aggression Delphine has shown.
"Um, I’m sorry, I dont speak French" The girl replies. Looking down at her shoes as if she is a child who has been caught doing something she shouldn’t. "Sorry Miss Cormier."
"Can you pass me my water please?" Delphine asks, putting on her best English accent so that this girl can understand, retreating back into her seat and covering her face again.
"Yeah, of course, obvs" She darts behind the bench, reaching into Delphine’s bag and pulling out a cold bottle of water.
"Merci," She takes a long, satisfying drink, hoping that somehow this water will get her head into the game. Maybe she is too hot, too de-hydrated. She will not be be beaten on skill and hard-work.
"Can I just say?, I think you’re still gonna’ win" The ball girl chips in, still holding the umbrella over the bench. Delphine looks up at the girl confused, not only are ball girls and ball boys permitted from speaking to the athletes first but Watson has just taken the first set 6-2. "Seriously. I’ve been watching you play for years. You are seeded number one in the world for a reason" The smile that is plastered on the young girls face shows Delphine she truly means what she says.
"Thank you…" She trails off, hoping the girl will introduce herself.
"Cosima" She nods, and goes to extend her hand but thinks better of it.
"I just need to focus." She doesn’t really know whether or not she is talking to herself or to Cosima, but she needs to vocalise her thoughts."It’s like I’m running through sand. I know what she is going to do and yet I still cannot react quick enough"
Cosima nods as Delphine continues to rant at her. Describing all the things she should have done and needs to do. “Can I make a suggestion Miss Cormier? Please?” Delphine whips around again to look at her. She cannot believe the confidence of this girl. Most would have stood by Delphine in awe, too scared to even talk. Her reputation with ball boys is not the best, but this one…this one intrigues her.
"I suggest, if you don’t mind me saying, just let your head go empty. Don’t think too much about what she is doing. You are faster than her and you have better technique than any player I have ever seen. Just…do". It is Delphine’s turn to be in awe. This ball girl, this dread-locked, American ball girl, this…Cosima, has managed to inject her with a level of confidence even the best coaches couldn’t. She can tell by the seriousness of her eyes mixed with the smug grin on her face that she whole-heartedly believes in Delphine Cormier.
The umpire calls for the start of the second set. Delphine pulls a new racquet from her bag and starts to make her way across to the service line. “If I win this set,” she calls back to Cosima, “You will sit with me instead of standing next to me, yes?” Cosima nods, trying to hide her blush and grin from the cameras.
The rustle of the crowd dies. There is now perfect silence. Delphine bounces the ball 5 times, stops, and bounces it 5 times more. It is her ritual. Although she does not believe in fate, or luck, or God, she cannot bring herself to stop this routine. The ball sails vertically, her trained, brown eyes follow it all the way as her lean, muscular arm batters it across the court. 124 mph. Watson has no chance. Ace. 15-love to Cormier. She glances across to Cosima, who gives her a small thumbs up and a wink.
_
She screams and punches the air triumphantly. She has won the second set, and all the frustration an hour ago has turned into pure joy. She’s found her rhythm, her speed, her finesse. Her drop-shots and backhands could leave marks on her opponent they are that sharp and precise. 6-0. Delphine Cormier has not only taken the set, she has pummelled Watson into oblivion.
"Sit" She gestures towards Cosima, who is still stood by the side of the bench. The smaller girl is much too happy to oblige, and nearly trips on her own excitement. When she thuds down, Delphine notices just how close she is. Not too close to raise attention or suspicion, but close enough that Delphine can see the blush of her cheeks and the glisten of ecstasy in her deep, brown eyes.
"What did you think?" She questions, gesturing towards the court in front of them. She’s not sure why she cares about this girls opinion. She has only known Cosima for over an hour, but she feels comfortable. Like she has known her for years.
"You were amazing, Miss Cormier, absolutely amazing. I think she might be crying actually." She replies, handing Delphine a bottle of water instinctively.
"You," She pauses, pushing Cosima’s shoulder with her hand, "Are such a brat." Delphine takes another long drink of water. Her hands run across her face and push her curly, blonde hair back, matted with sweat and salt. "Why are you here?" She finds the question slipping out of her mouth before she can stop herself. She wants to find out more about this strange, mysterious, American girl who literally ran into her life. What was the girl doing in Paris and how did she manage to get this job?
"I have family who live here. A sort-of sister. Danielle. I’ve been staying with her whilst travelling around." The broad grin had wavered a little. Delphine could tell she didn’t want to talk about the intricacies of the ‘sort-of’ sister, so she let it be. "But yeah, I love tennis so…" She gestures around them with her free hand, the other still covering the pair of them with the umbrella, "Here I am."
"I am glad that your sister is French." Delphine admits honestly. "You won the last set for me." She smiles whilst looking down, avoiding eye-contact with the girl. Cosima says nothing. Just nods before taking the empty water bottle from Delphine’s hands and handing her racquet back. Their fingers brush for a second. Neither linger, but neither pull away. They both simply enjoy the contact.
"Can you just win this thing already? I am sweating like a pregnant nun."
_
It’s the best she’s felt in years. The crowd is jumping and chanting her name in French. Applause fills the stadium and over-zealous, biased commentators squeal with excitement over ‘the best player in female-tennis history’. But she couldn’t care less.
The reason that Delphine Cormier cannot stop smiling is due to the feel of dreadlocks beneath her fingers. The brush of Cosima’s cheek against her own and of the words of complete euphoria the smaller girl is whispering to her. It is odd, she tells herself, to run over and hug the ball girl after a victory like this. Most athletes run to their coaches, their families, their friends. But Cosima has given Delphine more encouragement, more self-worth and confidence in the last 2 hours than anyone else has in her entire life. Cosima won this match.
After their embrace, Delphine reaches into her bag and pulls out her broken racquet and the black marker pen she uses for autographs. She signs her name in her signature, cursive font before handing it over to Cosima. “Miss Cormier, I didn’t do it for your autograph.”
"Delphine. Call me Delphine" She smiles, pushing the racket towards Cosima. "Baise moi! Take the racket Cosima" She laughs at the way Cosima is star-struck now. After everything she has said and joked, it is now that Cosima chooses to freeze.
Delphine feels a hand on her shoulder. It is cold and firm. Her coach, Aldous Leekie. The tall man leans down and whispers in her ear, telling her that she has 10 seconds, the media is waiting. Leekie’s words bring her hurtling back to earth. With a gulp she nods and promises him that she will be there. “I have to go, Cosima.” She leans in and pecks her on the cheek, lingering for a few seconds too long. “I hope to see you again.” Then she is gone, slinging her bag over her chest and jogging down the tunnel towards her press conference.
_
Before Delphine can properly sit down, the worlds press is shouting at her with obnoxious photographers snapping photos of her every second. She is used to this. But she is not used to these questions.
"Miss Cormier, who is that ball girl to you?"
"Why did you invite her to sit down?"
"What is her name?"
"Is anything happening between you and the ball girl?"
_
Cosima is home when she finally looks at the racket. The grip is almost completely separate from the shaft, but with the help of Alison’s glue gun, she’s sure that can be fixed. She stares down at the thick black letters written delicately on the grip and traces it with her finger. This is not the scrawl of an athlete signing as many autographs as she can for her fans. This is delicate. It is precise. It is thought.
She spins the racquet around to inspect the damage to the other side and that’s when she sees it. On the reverse side of the grip, in that same black pen, a phone number.