Work Text:
2002
"Have you considered quitting?"
They were sitting on the comfortable couch at Roger’s parents’ in Basel. The sunlight streamed in through the large windows of the living room where they were watching a replay of the last Australian Open WTA final. Mirka was lying with her head resting on the armrest, her legs stretched out in front of her. Roger was cuddling her injured ankle in his lap - his long fingers brushing absent-mindedly against the tight bandage wrapped around the joint, his eyes fixed on the screen - when the bomb dropped.
Mirka slowly took her eyes off the TV and looked over at Roger. Her voice peaked above the buzzing sound of the commentary, as if she wasn’t sure what she’d just heard.
"Quitting?"
Roger nodded, still looking straight ahead.
“I mean, this injury is putting you through hell, honey. Honestly, is it worth going on torturing yourself like this?”
Mirka stared dumbfounded at Roger’s chiseled profile while considering the question, but the sight of Roger’s locks, curling on the back of his neck and above his ears, distracted her, filling her with the urge to run her hand through them, to feel that softness under her fingertips.
She slowly looked back at the screen, where Martina Hingis and Jennifer Capriati were giving their all in a no-holds-barred battle. She let the images flow in front of her eyes and across her mind, without focusing on any of them.
Roger noticed her silence.
"Did I upset you?"
His soft voice brought Mirka back. He was looking at her now, shooting her an anxious glance under one quirked eyebrow.
Mirka reached out to take one of the pillows scattered on the sofa and slipped it under her back for comfort.
“Well… You took me off-guard. I have never thought about... retirement, so far."
She uttered the word hesitantly, as if afraid that a huge black hole would open in front of her eyes by saying it out loud and swallow her whole, along with all her certainties.
Roger sighed. “I know it’s a tough decision, but-"
"No, you don't," Mirka cut him off, a little curtly, her eyes still fixed on him. "You don’t know, Roger, because this is not happening to you. It’s happening to me.”
Roger broke off almost instantly. In the stunned silence that followed, his voice was barely a whisper:
“Sorry. I'm only saying this because I'm sick of seeing you suffer. That’s all.”
His tone was flat. He glanced sideways at her face and then at her foot, still resting in his lap. Peering at his sudden frown, Mirka realized that he was hurt and a mix of regret and annoyance welled within her. She was hurt too. Actually, she was the one who was actually hurt - physically and emotionally. She had no time to mind Roger’s wounded pride now. And he had no right to steal her suffering from her.
While Roger sat there, very still, looking at the screen with somewhat glassy eyes, Mirka’s gaze drifted downwards, on her stupid ankle. She didn’t say anything - just stared at her foot like it was an unknown object that had fallen from above, at the pale toes with squared nails without polish. Roger always said that she had nice feet, despite them being forced into tennis shoes for plenty of hours a day.
"Maybe I'll recover," Mirka said suddenly, and carefully attempted to flex her ankle but a sharp twinge of pain made her stop, a grimace spreading on her face. "Maybe a bit of physiotherapy and a few months of rest… Or, if worst comes to worst, I could have surgery..."
"Mirka." Roger looked at her with huge, pleading eyes. Mirka felt a sudden pang in her heart - different from the physical pain she was suffering in her foot but by no means easier to bear - and wished with all her might she could pull herself up and press a hand over Roger's mouth to keep him from saying what he was about to say.
In fact, she didn't want to hear from him the words that would break her heart in two. Words that she already knew. But Roger said them anyway.
“You know that this kind of injury will never completely heal. Not if you go on playing pro. You need to make a choice.”
Mirka fell silent again, swallowing a lump of saliva down her throat.
Meanwhile, Hingis had just won the first set, sending the crowd in the stands completely wild - they were screaming and clapping their hands rapturously.
"Honey?" Roger said, cautiously. When Mirka didn't react at all, just keeping on staring blankly at the screen, he gently moved her foot aside so he could lean towards and took her face in his hands, turning it towards himself. “Mirka, hey."
Their eyes locked - Mirka’s were sparkling with tears. “You’re right," she whispered under her breath. “It’s a tough decision…”
"Yeah, maybe the toughest for a pro," Roger nodded, his gaze brimming with all the compassion he felt in his heart. He slowly brushed his thumb against her cheekbone. “But you’re not alone in this. You have-”
"I'm twenty-four, Roger. I'm only twenty-four, damn it. It was supposed to last much, much longer.”
Mirka paused. She covered her face with her palms and started to quietly sob behind them. Roger slid down to the floor and moved closer to her, resting his forehead against hers. He started stroking her hair without saying a word.
Mirka dropped her hands - the tears streamed down her cheeks without any more restraint.
"I don't want to quit so soon," she breathed. "I don't want to quit tennis. It's not fair, Roger, you know. I deserve so much more.”
“I know,” Roger echoed. He continued to caress her hair softly, brushing his cheek against hers, feeling Mirka’s hot tears run down the collar of his shirt. He pursed his lips with the frustration of being utterly helpless, unable to do anything to make her pain go away.
"I can’t imagine how much it must hurt," he whispered after a while. "I don't know how I would react if it happened to me. That would be… just dreadful, I suppose.”
Mirka sniffed, and shook her head slowly. “Don’t mention it. That would be a true tragedy. You're much, much better than me, Rog. You're better than any tennis player I've ever seen. You're going to do great things, like… write the history of our country and of this sport or something, believe me.”
She trailed off, biting her lip. She was suddenly struck by the hideous thought that soon it would no longer be her sport - that she would be cut off from it for good. Her breath caught in her throat while wondering what kind of life would lay ahead of her from that moment on.
“I'll have to settle for watching other people play, I guess,” she murmured to herself, staring blankly into space. “And every time wondering what I could have done better or worse than them, had I been in their place - and never really finding out, because I'll never be given a chance to prove myself again on a tennis court. Just being a bystander and never a partaker. Never again a partaker.”
While saying so, her tearful eyes glided over Roger’s face - he looked dismayed and utterly shocked. She’d never seen him like that before. Only then did she remember how young Roger was - younger than her, actually - even if those few years between them had hardly ever made any difference.
“Don’t get me wrong, Roger, please,” she reassured him. "You know I’ll be sitting in your box and cheer you on at every match. You know I’ll always be glad to watch you win. And you’re gonna win a lot, I do believe that. I will be so proud of you and honored and-and…” Her voice faltered and broke for a second. “Just… it won’t be the same to me, not anymore.”
More tears welled up in her eyes as her voice trailed off. Roger was sitting still as a statue, pale, his whole body tensed up, a look of pure agony on his handsome face.
"I love you, Mirka. I wish I didn’t have to see you in pain ever again," he said. “Hearing you say these things really tears me apart. Please, tell me what I can do to make you feel any better. I’d do anything.”
Yeah, Mirka knew that it was true, that Roger loved her, sure - and yet…
She pulled her head a few inches away so she could look him in the eye. She nailed him with her gaze and suddenly said:
“I have never brought up the subject, not even as a joke, because I was too afraid of what your answer might be. But I want to know now.” She paused, noticing a spark of curiosity in Roger’s pupils, along with a sudden apprehension. “So let’s just suppose someone gave you a choice – to swap your career for mine, my bad ankle for yours, so that I could go on playing while you would retire in my place and do something else – what would you do, Roger? If you could, would you turn the tables, would you really do anything for me?"
Roger's incredulous expression gradually gave way to frank confusion when he realized that Mirka's question was deeply serious and not a joke as he had thought at first. Roger stared at her, frowning, his eyes darkening with each passing minute. He opened and closed his mouth several times, but not a single word escaped his lips.
Mirka stubbornly held his gaze and waited.
A deep wrinkle appeared between Roger’s eyebrows. “I don’t understand, we're hypothetically saying that-"
"Yes."
“I’m not sure where you’re going with this, Mirka…”
“Probably anywhere. Just answer the question, Roger. It’s not that hard.”
“No, but it’s ridiculous,” Roger said defensively. “You can’t be serious.”
Silence fell. Mirka’s clear eyes peered at him intently.
“Don’t look at me like that. I’m not gonna answer,” said Roger, trying to soften his voice.
"You wouldn't do that, would you?" Mirka whispered, very serious. "You just wouldn't give up tennis for anything else in the world. Not even for me.”
Roger blushed in spite of himself. He raised a hand and ran it through his hair.
“I didn’t say that,” he mumbled eventually, in a little choked voice.
“You didn’t say otherwise either.”
Roger tried to speak again, and again his lips moved without a sound.
“What do you want me to say?” he sighed at last, wearily. “Tell me, Mirka, and be done with it, please. I’m drained.”
Mirka looked away. She didn’t expect such a quick surrender. It didn’t feel like a victory, though. At all.
It was something else, something she didn’t really want to explore. It was stupid of her, first demanding sincerity and then refusing to face its drawbacks. Wasn’t truth what she wanted, after all?
She brought one hand to her face and wiped the dried tears under her eyes.
“Never mind. Let’s leave it at that.”
“But-”
“I should have known better. There’s only so much a man can do, I guess. And you’re no wise different, Roger.”
She slowly propped herself up on the soft couch, putting her bad foot very carefully on the floor. Roger didn’t stop her - he just watched her in silence, apparently petrified. He was sitting cross-legged on the floor, a mute question in his eyes and a whole variety of emotions flashing on his face, but Mirka didn’t look at him.
She combed a lock of straight hair behind her ear, swallowing hard, and rested with both hands on her knees for a few minutes, rubbing her palms back and forth on her sweatpants.
For some reason she didn’t feel like looking up at Roger. The tension coming from him was palpable, as if a cage of electric wire entrapped him. Though he seemed frozen on the outside, Mirka knew that Roger was struggling within himself like a little fish on a hook. She knew him too well, after all. As well as she knew she shouldn't have asked him such a question that could destroy them both, along with everything in between - and yet…
And yet, she had hoped she was wrong. Just for the flash of a second.
She eventually looked up slowly - a shy, slightly forced smile trembling on her lips.
"Would you do me a favor, Roger? Could you take me an aspirin, please? I can’t take this any longer."
“Sure.” Roger nodded and jerked to his feet, visibly relieved to have an excuse to get himself out of the quagmire he was sinking in. "I'll be right back." His fingers lightly brushed against Mirka’s shoulder as he walked away toward the bathroom.
Mirka heard him fumbling in the cabinet above the sink where Lynette kept the medicines. This is one thing you can do, Roger, isn’t it, she thought bitterly.
She looked at the TV screen, where Capriati had taken the second set with a spectacular tie-break. 1-1. Let’s go with the third one.
All she could feel at the moment was an appalling loneliness, while bitter thoughts swirled through her mind.
You say you love me, but if our roles were swapped, would you agree to step aside and let me shine? Would you accept to be the shadowy spouse, the less lucky, the less important one? Would you be me?
… No, you wouldn’t. Because you’ve never been less important than anyone.
“I’m sure I saw an aspirin bottle right here just a few days ago,” Roger shouted from the bathroom. “Damn, where is it?”
Would you leave me free to pursue what I want, would you support me? Wouldn't you be jealous of me?
“Hey, wait, I think I’ve just found it!”
Would you still love me, Roger, if I were you and you were me?
Roger came back with an aspirin and a glass of water, a big smile on his face. Mirka took the tablet between her thumb and forefinger and placed it on the back of her tongue, then swallowed it with a sip of water, throwing her head back.
Roger sat by her side in silence, keeping his hands folded between his knees.
Mirka put the glass down on the coffee table in front of the sofa, feeling his scrutinizing gaze on her.
"Tomorrow I'll talk to my coach and to my parents," she said, and looked him full in the face. “You're right. I've got to quit."
Roger didn't reply. Mirka just heard him hold his breath. He slowly reached out, tentatively searching for her hand, and intertwined his own fingers with hers. When she didn’t react, Roger squeezed them tightly. His hand was warm. Mirka felt the calluses on his palm. She would never be able to forget tennis as long as Roger was by her side. Because Roger was tennis, no more no less, and it was impossible to tear him away from it. Hence, that constant reminder would be her course, for life.
Roger pressed a gentle kiss on her temple. Mirka let him do it, sniffing up the last remnants of her sterile tears. She knew that was Roger’s way of saying sorry without really saying it.
“I’m glad you didn’t lie to me, at least.”
Roger said nothing again, but this time he kissed her on her lips, and held her close. Mirka rested her head on his chest, relieved she didn’t have to look at his face. She listened to the sound of Roger’s heart beating strong and steadily. It reminded her of something eternal and indestructible, something she could always lean on. She, on the other hand, felt useless and broken, betrayed by her own body.
Meanwhile, Martina Hingis, the Swiss girl, had just lost the third set 6-2. The American was lifting the trophy, swamped by the flashes of photographers. Mirka and Roger followed the award ceremony in silence.
"It was meant to be," Roger said softly, when it was all over.
Mirka didn't ask him what, exactly, he was referring to.
Asking for the truth can be highly dangerous, at times. She did know that by now - and she would never ask Roger to choose between her and tennis again.
End