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Barbara emails them about room assignments two weeks before they’re set to leave. It was sent only to her, but she’s sure Angie got the same one too, and the thought unsettles her more than she wants it to.
They’re friends. Friends who should be able to spend a week sharing a hotel room if needed, even if she thinks they could make it simple, and split up into a group of two and one of three. Anna-Lena could babysit the kids and Andrea can play nice with Angie, can tease her and smile for the cameras and answer questions about the history of the German team and talk about mentoring the younger kids and can pretend like she doesn’t feel the pressure on her shoulders. They’re friends, but they’re also technically married, and sometimes Andrea can’t believe that it’s a fact.
Angie will probably win. Angie is calm and almost cocky. Andrea doesn’t know how people miss that, but Angie will smirk and wink and walk onto court with her face a blank slate and get broken in the first game and look like she did it on purpose.
The crankiness won’t settle in until later but Andrea never saw it as a disbelief in Angie herself. It was the smart play to get out of your own head, to complain about the point and then reset, to place blame somewhere external and move the fuck on. Andrea remembers meeting her for the first time that wasn’t just saying hi at a tournament or shaking hands at the net. She remembers practicing with her and finding it fun to get under her skin, to compliment her winners during her practice set until Angie was scowling at her, unsure if she meant it or it was a mindgame, teasing her through drop shots and laughter, wondering if she could ask their captain if they could play doubles.
It’s been fourteen years since they debuted at a Fed Cup tournament together and she thinks this could be their last, if they don’t make it to the finals. Andrea doesn’t know how long Angie plans on playing. She’s still winning enough, is still hovering near the top ten, is still the top ranked German without a lot of pressure behind her. Andrea is the one faltering and it isn’t surprising, doesn’t feel like it should be the other way around, doesn’t feel like she’s jealous, exactly, but she doesn’t know why she suddenly feels nervous.
“You’re going to scar the children,” Anna-Lena comments. They were on the same flight and they’re waiting for Jule and Natasja. Andrea’s never met them. She texted a bit with both of them and watched a couple of their matches on shitty Youtube streams where it was hard to see the ball.
“With what?” Andrea asks. She checks her phone again. No new messages. “My face?”
“Jules warned me about you and Angie,” Anna-Lena says. She is level headed and Andrea thought she was sweet, someone who did not want to know the drama, who kept to herself and wasn’t someone that Jules would feel the need to update.
“What did she say?” Andrea puts her phone back into her pocket.
“That you’re both idiots,” Anna-Lena says grins. “And that you’re going to confuse the new kids and that I shouldn’t even bother trying to explain you two to them.”
“There’s nothing to explain,” Andrea mutters.
“That’s a lie,” Anna-Lena says says. “You’ve been in love with her for years and she — ”
“Has a boyfriend.”
“No, she doesn’t,” Anna-Lena says laughs. “You really think?”
Andrea shrugs, “Does it matter?” They’ve both dated other people. They didn’t exchange vows, it wasn’t really a wedding, just — signing papers and buying cheap rings and being slightly drunk but mostly running on adrenaline. Andrea hasn’t told anyone. She thinks Angie told her sister, but she hasn’t confirmed it.
“Yes,” Anna-Lena says sighs. “You both said you were fine with sharing rooms and now I’ve got a single, so thank you for that, but like — really? You two are old now and you still can’t even talk?”
“Is that the way you should speak to your elder?” Andrea grins.
“You’ve basically been together for the last ten years,” Anna-Lena says says. “I had to listen to Jules breakdown the timeline and then she added Sabine to the call to confirm it like I didn’t have eyes and somehow missed all of it.”
“We are not that obvious,” Andrea mutters.
“Yes, you are,” Anna-Lena says says. “Just get your shit together, it’s been long enough.”
—
They never had a beginning. Andrea isn’t sure when the lines started to blur, when she couldn’t be around Angie without being close to her, when she thought about Angie more than anything else except tennis, when Angie’s success started feeling like her own.
Angie kissed her first. It’s the only thing Andrea is sure of and it still makes her feel giddy to think about, how Angie looked annoyed before it, like Andrea wasn’t acting how she’d expected, and they’d been on a hotel bed somewhere in France. It was a clay tournament so Angie was already annoyed and they’d left all of their shoes and dirty socks on the outside balcony, staining the concrete red.
Andrea had been trying to be funny about a show they were watching, translating live for Angie even though she didn’t know any French, and Angie was laughing anyway, leaning into her before her face went into the scowl Andrea was so familiar with, and she was moving closer, carefully, and kissing her.
They never had an end, either. They never broke up as much as they stopped being together, slowly going from wives to friends to people who barely knew each other, and Andrea couldn’t trace the steps of how it happened, didn’t understand how one day things were fine and the next she realized they were barely talking.
They were friends, definitely, and something more, probably, but they weren’t good at talking about it, even if they were legally married. Andrea broke into the top ten but never made it further. She was good with the press and good on social media and decided to lean into being funny and self— deprecating. She wasn’t worried about anyone finding anything about her. She revealed enough that it felt like a lot and people didn’t feel the need to speculate because they already had enough to satisfy their curiosity. She didn’t care about hiding anything, if she thought it was funny she would tweet it or post on Instagram. She would pull Angie closer to her and wait until Angie was holding onto a wink before taking the picture.
Andrea does it again when they’re in the elevator. It’s just the two of them. Anna-Lena says brought the kids down by herself and Andrea knows they’re not that young, but one of them is still a teenager and the other one is barely into her twenties, and looking at them makes Andrea feel like she should’ve retired five years ago.
Angie leans into her and smiles, eyes crinkling up but mouth hidden by her mask, and Andrea takes the picture. She probably won’t post it. She feels silly about it but Angie mutters something about her social media presence and Andrea rolls her eyes, feeling something settle inside of her.
They eat dinner and Barbara tells slightly embarrassing stories about when Angie and Andrea were the rookies, then when Anna-Lena says showed up. Andrea thinks it makes things sound more embarrassing for Sabine and Jules than herself, so she isn’t put out about it, just settles back into the booth with her thigh lined up next to Angie’s and smiles.
Somehow, her arm ends up around Angie’s shoulders. Angie seems more exhausted than the rest of them, sinking against her, and Andrea flips Anna-Lena says off when she catches her staring. Jule and Nastaja don’t seem to notice anything out of the ordinary. Rainer and Barbara are used to it anyway, and Andrea feels more reckless than she expected to.
Jule rambles about her thoughts on Vondroušová and Barbara smiles at her, agreeing and disagreeing, and Andrea knows she should be listening, that she isn’t expected to win but she’s going to try, but Angie slides her hand over her knee and yawns, “Think we can use old age as an excuse and go to bed?”
“They’re going to think we’re using it as an excuse to do something else,” Andrea mutters.
Angie grins at her, “Is that a problem?”
—
“I think I’m offended that I’m considered as old as you two,” Anna-Lena says says.
“You’re close to thirty,” Angie grins. The couch they’re sitting on isn’t small, by any means, the three of them can fit together easily, but Andrea and Angie both have their legs crossed and their knees touching, and Anna-Lena says keeps shooting them looks.
Andrea thinks she’s texting Sabine and Jules updates, which is rude, because there’s nothing to update. “You’re a vet now, kid,” Andrea drawls. “Number one babysitter.”
“You two require more attention than they do,” Anna-Lena says mutters.
“That is a complete lie,” Angie says. “We are perfectly well behaved.”
“Jules said she caught you two in the equipment room last time you were all on the team,” Anna-Lena says says.
Angie goes red. It’s a good memory, mostly. Jules was almost as fun to annoy as Angie was and she wasn’t exactly as embarrassed to be caught with her hand down Angie’s pants as Jules wanted her to be.
“Well,” Angie says. “We have our own room, this time.”
Anna-Lena says groans, slumping back against the cushions. “Horrifying.”
“You’re not right next to us,” Andrea says. “You won’t hear anything.”
“Please stop talking,” Anna-Lena says says. “I don’t need to know the details.”
—
Angie hovers when Andrea gets her knee taped.
“This is another sign that we’re old,” Angie sighs. There’s hot pink tape up along the back of her calf. Andrea snorts, “We’re not that old.”
“Knees held together with hope and KT tape,” Angie goes on. “I’m going to have to start wearing ankle braces every match. My warmups last longer than the kids’ workouts these days.”
“You’re so dramatic,” Andrea says. The final piece of tape is pressed on and Andrea flexes her thigh. Her knee is fine. It never feels right but she’s seen multiple doctors and it doesn’t seem like she’s likely to injure it further. The focus is pain management and yes, it does make her feel ancient, but she finds it easier to ignore her knee than her shoulder.
Angie leads the way out onto court. The stadium is mostly empty for practice, echoing, and they sit on the same side of the court. “We were uninvited from Anna-Lena says’s museum plan.”
“She didn’t used to be so mean,” Andrea sighs. “I’m blaming Jules.”
“We’re supposed to go on a date,” Angie continues. Andrea doesn’t know how to read into her tone. She’s smiling but it’s almost shy, and her eyebrows are raised.
“Did you plan it?” Andrea asks.
Angie shrugs. She pushes herself out of the hair and bounces on her feet. It sends her braid flying into her face and Andrea laughs.
“You know how Jules fell in love and then retired in one year?”
“Sure.”
“Everyone keeps asking me about it,” Angie says.
“Falling in love or retirement?”
“Retirement,” Angie rolls her eyes.
“And?” Andrea asks. She doesn’t get asked about it by the press. There’s no articles written about how much she has left. The message is that she has nothing to give. Angie is different because Angie is confusing and Angie has three slam titles and Angie’s been number one in the world and Angie still sometimes looks like she’s back.
“I don't know,” Angie shrugs. “I think Jule wants to ask me to consider being her coach but she’s too scared to ask.”
“Rainer’s not going to be captain for long,” Andrea says. “They’d give it to you tomorrow if you retired today.”
Angie looks over her shoulder towards Rainer. He’s talking to Barbara and James and they keep looking over, but they won’t call them over yet. They’re still early, practice isn’t supposed to start until 10.
“I think I want to play until I’m thirty-five,” Angie says. “Maybe until the next Olympics.”
“Yeah?”
“Think so,” Angie shrugs. “It’s still fun, yeah? You should keep up, we can play doubles there.”
“And what about love?” Andrea asks. They used to be on the same page. They both had top ten talent. Andrea was supposed to win something, a premier tournament or get to at least a slam semi— final, was supposed to do something to anchor herself as one of the best players of a generation. Angie did. Angie has the resume to back it up and Andrea isn’t jealous of her as much as she’s proud of her but she doesn’t think she’s been able to understand Angie’s thought process in years.
Angie grins at her, “You’ll see.”
—
Nastaja is the one bold enough to ask. She takes off her mask and grins, sitting across from Andrea at the table. The restaurant isn’t busy. Andrea showed up early, without Angie who was still stuck in the hotel room that’s been converted to a physiotherapist office, and she wearily looks up at Nastaja.
“How was your date?”
“Who said it was a date?” Andrea shoots back.
“Jules, Anna-Lena says,” Nastaja starts. “Jule agrees. Angie kept smirking — which, I don’t want to know about, by the way, Barbara, Sabine, Garbi texted Jules about it who asked Anna-Lena says — ”
“Why does it matter?” Andrea sighs. “It’s not — this isn’t a big deal.”
“You’re in love with her,” Nastaja states. “It’s obvious. And she clearly is in love with you too, so we don’t get why you’re being stupid about it.”
Andrea hums. She wonders how people would react if they knew they were married. She doesn’t think anyone would believe her right away, that wives aren’t supposed to be pining openly for each other for half a decade, but she wouldn’t be surprised if Sabine somehow figured it out.
Angie shows up next. She still has an icepack taped around her knee and tape slipping up her neck. She smiles and sits down next to Andrea, hand immediately going to her thigh, and Nastaja smiles back at her. Andrea doesn’t understand how they’ve all decided that Angie is the intimidating one. She knows they aren’t pushing Angie on their relationship, that somehow they all believe Andrea’s the one who should make the move.
Angie teases Natasja about her backhand and asks about her schedule for the rest of the year. Andrea is done after this, she knows Angie is too, but she has no idea where she’s planning on going. She assumes Poland. Andrea’s only been once and thinking about it makes her feel ill. It’d been before they were married, back when things were new and exciting and not yet scary, when Andrea had been closing in on the top ten and Angie was moving up from the ITF rung.
“Have you played her before?” Jule asks. Andrea didn’t realize that everyone else showed up and Angie squeezes her leg. “Marketa, I mean.”
“No,” Andrea says. “I have too much practice against lefties though.”
—
There isn’t anything good about losing, but it’s worse when it feels like it means so much more, when she has people counting on her sitting right behind her. She feels herself crying and can’t hold it back, pokes at how tender her knee feels and tries to focus on the pain instead of how fragile the rest of her feels.
Angie isn’t behind her. Angie is somewhere in the back halls, running through high knees and skips and leg swings. She’ll have to win, but that’s always been true. Andrea was supposed to put up a fight, but she wasn’t favoured. They’re a weaker team now than they were before, still old with rookies that are too green, and even though there wasn’t a controversy, that Angie and Andrea at only 70% of their health are more likely to win than anyone else.
Andrea loses. Barbara rambles as they walk back to the locker room. Andrea doesn’t even think it’s about tennis. Angie is still waiting in the locker room, sitting in her chair with headphones on, and she smiles when she looks up.
“I’ll distract the others for a minute,” Barbara offers.
“How’s your knee?” Angie asks. Her jacket feels cold when she wraps herself around Andrea and Andrea only resists it for a second.
“Fine,” Andrea mutters. “Just — win, okay?”
Angie snorts, “Sure.”
—
Angie wins.
It’s a long match and Andrea feels restless watching her. She doesn’t know where Angie keeps the ring. Andrea would’ve kept it on a chain around her neck if it wouldn’t be obvious to Angie, but now it’s in a zipped pocket in the bag she brings everywhere. She was too nervous to keep it in her tennis bag in case it got lost when she checked it.
Angie hugs her afterwards and Andrea hangs back with her until she’s showered and changed, in a Team Germany hoodie with Petkovic on the sleeve, almost a challenge, even if she pulls a jacket on over top.
They barely lose the doubles match. They all know it’s over, that even if they beat the Swiss, they probably aren’t making the finals anyway, and they end up with all the players in their room. It’s annoying how they all walk in and immediately look at the state of the two beds, like they’re going to be able to tell if they share or not, but Andrea is already half— asleep anyway, in her own bed with Angie slumped next to her.
Anna-Lena says chooses the channel and they half— assedly watch a football game which Andrea isn’t sure is a replay or not. Angie climbs off the bed and takes the ice packs into the bathroom. She comes back and tucks herself against Andrea again, more obvious, but Andrea only catches Jule smirking.
Andrea falls asleep with Angie’s fingers tracing patterns along the side of her stomach, too light to be ticklish, but enough to be aware of it. She wakes up with Angie still curled around her, both of them now under the covers, with too much blonde hair in her mouth, and sunlight stinging her eyes.
“Do not wake me up,” Angie mutters.
“I don’t think you talk in your sleep,” Andrea says. She pushes Angie’s hair back behind her ear and stares down at her. Her nose scrunches up and she nudges it along Andrea’s collarbone, shifting until her leg is further across Andrea’s thighs, and their hip bones are almost pressed together. She’s beautiful and still as cranky as she was as a teenager and Andrea’s been in love with her for so long she doesn’t know what to do about it. She blinks the sleep out of her eyes and tries to think but the words are out of her mouth before she can even parse through them, “Should we get divorced?”
“What?” Angie breathes. She’s off the bed in seconds, squinting down at Andrea with a pout on her face, her hands twisting into the pocket of her hoodie. “Divorced?”
“I didn’t — ”
“You want to get divorced?” Angie repeats. “That’s — now?”
“Angie — ”
“Don’t,” Angie says. “I — God, we have to play in like four hours, how can you — ”
“I’m not saying I want to,” Andrea says. “I just — ”
“Later,” Angie shakes her head. “I don’t — tonight, we can — talk, you can dump me then.”
“Do you actually think we’re together?” Andrea asks.
Angie doesn’t answer. She nods, seemingly to herself, and starts shoving clothes into a bag. She moves quickly, faster than Andrea’s ever seen Angie in the morning, and Andrea can’t think of something to say. If Angie thought they were still together, then Andrea missed something. She hasn’t been openly trying to find someone else and sure, sometimes one of them will show up at the other’s hotel room, but they don’t talk. Angie won Wimbledon and called Andrea afterwards, asking if she was still in London, and Andrea met her at her rented house, unsure of where the rest of her team was.
They had breakfast with Angie’s parents in the morning. Wim was there with his wife and kids, with the young kid who was endeared by Andrea inexplicably. It felt real. It wasn’t really that long ago, but it feels like it.
“Later,” Angie says. “I just — I can’t think about this now.”
“Okay,” Andrea nods.
Angie nods back. She doesn’t force a smile and Andrea winces when the door closes, flopping back against the pillows.
—
jules ⋅ 11:10am
Did you actually just dump her before a match?
jules ⋅ 11:11am
Answer me or I’ll fly over, you know I will.
andrea ⋅ 11:15am
Did you really think we were together?
Jules calls her. Andrea waits until the call almost ends before answering. She ate breakfast with Nastaja who didn’t seem to know and figured Angie was in Anna-Lena says’s room.
“Explain,” Jules says.
“Half of you think we’re together, and the rest think we aren’t but should be, and none of you actually know anything so I would like it if you'd let me handle this myself,” Andrea mutters. She flexes her foot. It makes the spot just below her kneecap and to the right pulse with pain.
“You’re married,” Jules states. “She’s been — sure of you, and I know you have like — a weird relationship, but she 100% thinks you’re going to retire and have stupidly smug babies with giant mouths, so I would get your shit together.”
“I — wait, you knew?” Andrea blinks.
“Who the fuck did you think was your witness?” Jules groans. “Oh my God, Andy, most of us know. We were all mostly drunk at that fucking weird German tournament that lasted like two years and you two just — suddenly wanted to get married and nobody had the idea that we should stop you, so yeah, Sabine was there, I was there, Caro was there, and somehow, you only remember Angie.”
“Well, it’s not like — whatever,” Andrea mutters. She doesn’t remember them at all. She remembers Angie grinning at her and not sleeping the entire night. She remembers eating a disgustingly sweet fruit salad in the morning and splitting a plate of pancakes because they had to be in Sweden the next day.
“So, divorce?” Jules asks.
“I don’t want to divorce her,” Andrea huffs. “I just — we haven’t been together in years.”
“I know,” Jules says, softer. “But you want to be.”
“Yeah,” Andrea sighs. “I can’t — I have to play soon.”
“You don’t start until four,” Jules says. “And you’re warming up with Natasja, I know, but God — just, tell her you love her or something, Jesus, you two have been a mess since I retired.”
“Ah yes,” Andrea hums. “You were the most important part of our relationship.”
“I know you miss me,” Jules sighs. “Just — don’t be stupid, okay?”
“I’ll do my best,” Andrea drawls.
“Good,” Jules says. “Now please stop trying to hit your backhand down the line so much, it makes my head hurt.”
—
Angie goes back to the locker room.
Andrea wants to follow her, but she doesn’t think she’d be helpful, and Anna-Lena says keeps scowling at her whenever they make eye contact. Angie loses the second set and she looks more miserable than cranky, nodding along to Rainer’s comments and staring blankly ahead of her.
There’s less people in the crowd than the day before. The entire arena feels too quiet and their stupid chairs squeak whenever they turn. The third set doesn’t start off any better. It’s over quickly, 6— 2, and Andrea is the first to get to Angie, to hug her, even if Angie feels stiff against her.
“Angie,” Andrea breathes. “I love you, I don’t — ”
“Here? Really?” Angie laughs. But she relaxes, one arm looped around her back, and the press of her racquet against Andrea’s hip. She gets pulled away to the rookies before Andrea can say anything else. They sit through a press conference. Angie gives short answers after someone asks her about retirement, if she thinks she’ll ever play the Billie Jean King Cup again. She bikes longer than normally afterwards, answering Timo’s questions about her calf, and Andrea tries to pretend like she isn’t hovering.
Timo leaves her alone and it’s the two of them in the gym. “Where do you keep the ring?” Andrea asks.
“Necklace,” Angie shrugs.
“What?” Andrea says. “I would’ve noticed.”
“You didn’t,” Angie says. She tugs the chain out, it’s longer, nearly double the length of the one with the tiny elephant on it, and Andrea frowns. “Are we really not together?”
“Angie, we haven’t — we act like friends who knew each other in high school,” Andrea mutters. “Except, like — I know we sleep together a few times a year, but that’s not — marriage.”
“Are you in love with someone else?” Angie asks. She’s barely pedaling anymore. She stops altogether and reaches down to rip the tape off her leg.
“No,” Andrea says. “I thought you had a boyfriend.”
“I didn’t,” Angie scowls. “I don’t — okay, maybe I didn’t realize it was this bad, but I thought we were just — waiting, until this was all over, and then we’d be fine again.”
“Until tennis was over?”
“Maybe,” Angie shrugs. “You talked about working in broadcasting a lot. You did the whole ZDF thing.”
“That’s not — ” Andrea sighs. “I thought about one more year.” She hesitates and Angie waits her out. She climbs off the bike and tugs a hoodie on. Her hair is still up in the braid but she starts undoing it. “You broke up with me, by the way,” Andrea says. She suddenly wants to fight about it and Angie scowls again, pulling her hair over one shoulder.
“When the fuck did I break up with you?” Angie hisses. She grabs her hand and tugs her towards the locker room. The hotel is within walking distance. Most of their things have already been transported back but Angie grabs her bag and waits until Andrea grabs hers.
“At the French Open,” Andrea says. They smile tightly at people in the hallway. Angie lets go of her hand and adjusts the strap of her bag. “You lost in the first round and so did I, and you said we probably needed a break.”
“A break,” Angie repeats. “Not a fucking divorce.”
“I didn’t want a divorce,” Andrea says. “I still don’t want a divorce.”
It’s cold outside. Angie flips her hood up and sighs, “Then what do you want?”
“You to be my wife,” Andrea says. She tries to grin. She still feels too nervous, too unsettled, too unsure of what Angie wants. It works, Angie softens and glares at her but it slips into something pleased and annoyed about it, and she reaches for her hand again.
“I’ve missed you,” Angie mutters. “I just — sometimes, it felt like we were better with that much space and I was too — much, and I bugged you and you regretted getting married so young, and then I thought you were dating Jackson — ”
“I wasn’t.”
“I know,” Angie sighs. “I didn’t date anyone else either. I thought — I always thought we’d figure it out.”
“We will,” Andrea says. “It’s not like it’s too late.”
Angie snorts, “Okay, you’re the one who asked about divorce.”
“I didn’t think you loved me,” Andrea says, quieter. Angie stops in front of the hotel. It smells too much like smoke. Angie puts her mask back on. Nothing about this year has felt real. Andrea expected Angie to reach out more than she did. Angie wasn’t on her phone much. Her Instagram page was carefully curated, nothing that felt real, the only thing that did when Angie would do the exaggerated wink, or post a picture of her grinning with a sunset in the background. It never revealed anything. It was behind the scenes of filming commercials and clips from shampoo commercials and thanking her jewelry sponsor. Andrea would text her pictures of random things she’d found — a graffitied image of a dolphin on a building, the new chair she spent hours building, a quote from a book she’d underlined and meant to add this reminded me of you but never did, a tiny statue of an elephant she bought at a second hand store.
Angie always replied, but she was a horrible texter, too reliant on emojis that took Andrea forever to process. Andrea never called her, but it isn’t like Angie did either.
“Of course I love you,” Angie glares. “You’re so — we’ve been married for almost ten years.”
Andrea laughs. It’s insane, all of it is insane, and she doesn’t regret it, not exactly, but she doesn’t feel married. “I know.”
“I’m not letting you break up with me,” Angie says.
“I’m not trying to,” Andrea says. “I just — I missed you and I want — God, Angie we barely spent any time together for the last few years.”
“I know,” Angie says. She looks real put up about it, annoyed and cranky even with her mask up, and it’s still so endearing Andrea doesn’t know what to do about it. She starts walking into the hotel. It’s later, the woman at the front desk nods at them, and Angie leans against her in the elevator. She still smells like a tennis locker room, sour and gross, but Andrea doesn’t shove her away.
“I wasn’t ignoring you,” Angie says, when they’re back in their room. She drops her bag on the ground and starts pushing layers off. “I don’t know what happened — I thought — it wasn’t like, on purpose, and I still — wanted to be with you, but I couldn’t deal with suddenly being — important and — winning slams and people wanting to know things about me, and I — I always wanted you there, I just — asking for it felt like too much.”
“I thought you didn’t want me there,” Andrea admits. She showered at the arena and her hair is still damp, cold and ticklish against the back of her neck.
“You should come home with me,” Angie says. “I think — I told my mom about — us, I mean — she knew we were together, but about the marriage.”
“And how’d she take that?”
“I think she knew, somehow,” Angie shrugs. “Anyway, she was mad at me for hiding you, and Jessie’s kids miss you, I don’t know why, but they do.”
“Will you come home with me after then?” Andrea asks.
“Yeah,” Angie says. “I’d like that.”
—
The hotel pool isn’t technically closed, but Andrea thinks it should be. She follows Angie inside anyway. Neither of them brought swim suits so it’s sports bras and shorts, towels thrown over shoulders.
“Why are we doing this?” Andrea asks. The air inside is different to breathe through, heavy and damp and chlorinated, but the pool is nicer than expected.
“Because my body hurts and right now I hate Switzerland,” Angie answers.
“None of that made sense,” Andrea mutters. She kicks her slides off by a chair and watches Angie dive straight in, more graceful than she expected. She resurfaces and pushes her hair off her face. She doesn’t say anything, just treads water, and waits.
Andrea lays a new towel down and sits at the edge of the pool. The water is warmer than she expected and feels better than she wanted it to. Her knee hurts. She’s going to have to see another round of doctors, find a new physiotherapist. She doesn’t want to think about it. Angie swims towards her. Her hands hooking around Andrea’s calves and she grins.
“Can I eat you out?”
It isn’t at all what Andrea was expecting, she laughs, and Angie’s hands slip higher, under her knee where the skin is tight and feels thinner. “This was your big plan?” Andrea asks. “You want to fuck me in a pool?”
Angie shrugs, “Do you want me to?”
“Yes,” Andrea mutters. Angie laughs. She’s on her knees. It’s confusing and inexplicably hot and Angie pushes her legs apart. Andrea shifts forward slightly. The risk feels too high but she also doesn’t care. It’s past midnight. She can’t see any cameras and the door is around a corner, she thinks one of them will hear if anyone opens it before they could see.
“Can you take them off?” Angie asks. She presses her mouth along Andrea’s knee, careful over where she knows it’s sore, and Andrea nods. She tilts her hips up and pushes her shorts off. If someone walks in she’ll jump in the water. The thought strikes her as something between horrifying and hot, and then Angie’s mouth is moving higher up the inside of her thigh and she can’t think anymore.
Angie doesn’t take her time. Andrea expects her to tease and try to draw it out, but she sucks a mark along the sensitive, thinner skin of her thigh, and rubs two fingers along her clit, over the hood, and Andrea can feel herself get wet.
“I missed this,” Angie murmurs. Andrea anchors herself with a hand in Angie’s hair and Angie moves her mouth further up her thigh.
“Please,” Andrea says.
Angie hums against her. Her fingers slip lower and she presses two fingers inside of her, dipping her down to lap around her clit. Andrea groans. She settles one of her legs over Angie’s shoulder to give her more space, her good knee angling further away. She missed this too, thought about it more times than she wants to admit, and it isn’t going to take long. She knows Angie is aware of that fact, that it feels like cheating when Angie crooks her fingers to fuck up against the spot she’s intimately familiar with, and Andrea can’t help but lift up against her. Angie flattens her tongue and lets Andrea ride her face, keeping a steady rhythm with her fingers, and Andrea comes, tightening her grip in Angie’s hair.
“Good?” Angie smirks. Her face is wet and she sucks her fingers off, shameless.
Andrea rolls her eyes. She slips into the water, looping her arms around Angie’s neck, and kisses her. “I love you.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Angie hums. “I love you too.”
—
“Married,” Anna-Lena says repeats.
Nastaja looks delighted. Andrea still can’t quite read Jule. Anna-Lena says laughs, “God, you two are fucking married?”
“Yes,” Angie says. “Shouldn’t you be happy for us?”
“For how long?” Nastaja asks.
“Oh God,” Andrea thinks about it. “Since you were like, nine.”
“Oh my God,” Anna-Lena says glares. “Ten years?”
“Yes,” Angie grins. She’s standing behind Andrea with her arms looped around her stomach, needy in a way she normally isn’t in public, her face pressed against Andrea’s back with her eyes barely peeking over Andrea’s shoulder. “Why is this so surprising?”
“We thought you weren’t together!” Jule says. “Jules was very concerned about you two, we had plans.”
“Plans?” Andrea laughs. “You told us to go on a date and that was it.”
“Well, it worked,” Nastaja shrugs. “So, it was a success.”
“You did hear the ten years ago thing, right?” Andrea says. “You guys cannot take credit.”
The airport is weirdly empty. Andrea already talked to Angie’s mom on the phone, then Jessie, then her kids, who seemingly do remember her. It was sweet and she still feels nervous, even if she’s met them multiple times, but now they’ll all know she’s Angie’s wife.
The voice over the speaker calls boarding for their flight and Anna-Lena says softens. “Well, I am happy for you two,” she says. “Even if you’re both insane.”
Angie laughs, unfurling herself from around Andrea, and stepping towards her to hug her. She whispers something that Andrea can’t hear and Andrea hugs Jule then Nastaja. She expects to hear from both of them, that somehow she’s ended up with two rookies who somehow look up to her. It makes her feel thankful and old in equal measure.
“Jules told me you want babies,” Andrea notes.
“What?” Angie blinks at her.
“With me,” Andrea clarifies.
“I —yes,” Angie mutters. “If you do?”
“Yeah,” Andrea shrugs. “We’d have cute kids.”
Angie rolls her eyes. She always manages to make everything look like she’s doing it on purpose and she does it again with the airplane seat, a blanket looped around her shoulders, her hair up in a bun, mask on, and headphones in hand. “Yeah,” Angie laughs. “We would.”
—
Retiring ends up being anticlimactic.
Andrea knew it would, didn’t expect anything different, and she loses her last match. It’s how most people go out and it’s to Jule, who almost looks upset about it, and then smirks, this tiny smug look that fades quickly and reminds Andrea of Angie. She looks towards her box and grins, Angie is smiling at her and clapping, looking closer to crying than Andrea is, and Andrea takes her time packing her bag up. She isn’t going to make it a big deal. The crowd is mostly full and she’s happy with her decision to retire in Hamburg, at Angie’s tournament and a home crowd. She does her best to be funny in her interview and doesn’t cry until later, when she’s back in the locker room, Angie hugging her.
“Does this mean I’m a co-owner of this tournament?” Andrea mutters. “A what’s mine is yours kind of thing?”
Angie snorts, “Probably.”
“I hope you bought me a cake,” Andrea sighs. “I want cake and pizza and donuts and a burger.”
“You act like you haven’t eaten any of those things in years,” Angie says. “I know for a fact you used to eat a burger after every tournament.”
“When I was young and foolish and had a miraculous metabolism,” Andrea whines. “Now I’m old and tired and deeply lacking in cartilage.”
Angie laughs, “You’re not old, just sports old.”
“Helpful, Kerber,” Andrea sighs. She pulls back. It hasn’t really set in that it’s over. She’s supposed to start calling matches and doing coverage during Wimbledon. She doesn’t even know if she’ll be allowed to call Angie’s, if anyone’s figured it out, or if it even matters.
There’s another press conference that doesn’t feel as long as it actually lasts and she spends even longer signing things for the crowd of fans lined up at the exit, Angie beside her, smiling for selfies too.
It’s late by the time they get back to the hotel. Angie isn’t playing, resting an ankle injury from Madrid, and Andrea nudges her towards the bed. Angie laughs, “Really?”
“Yes,” Andrea nods. “Love you.”
Angie lies back and Andrea looks at her. Angie squirms and scowls, hands reaching down to the edge of her shirt, and Andrea shakes her head. Angie stops, glare in full effect, and Andrea grins at her. She tugs her pants and underwear down until they’re out of her way, laughing at Angie struggling to kick them all the way off, and presses her mouth over Angie’s hipbone. She shifts up the bed and sucks on her fingers, sliding them back down along the lips of Angie’s cunt to rub over her clit in lazy circles.
Angie isn’t wet yet but Andrea takes her name, moving damp fingers between her clit and down to her cunt, feeling her get slicker as her hips arch up into her. Angie tugs her closer and Andrea kisses her, sliding her fingers into Angie’s cunt at the same time as she slides her tongue into her mouth. Angie jolts up into her, hips pushing forward, and Andrea smiles against her, the meat of her palm centered against Angie’s clit. She isn’t going to be able to hold the angle or the speed for long, her wrist is already sore from a season of tennis, but Angie can’t focus on kissing her back, hiding her face against Andrea’s neck, and she knows it won’t take long.
“Jesus,” Angie huffs. She rolls them over, straddling Andrea’s lap, and grins down at her. “I am really proud of you, you know.”
Andrea hums, “You just want me to say good things about you on TV.”
“Yeah,” Angie agrees. “That’s the only thing I want out of this relationship.”
Andrea grins up at her. She suddenly feels so exhausted. She pulls Angie back down until she’s lying mostly on top of her, comforting like a weighted blanket, and Andrea kisses Angie’s head, “I am really glad I married you.”
Angie laughs, “Me too.”