Leah claims to have transferred her knack for winning unto me, somehow taking full credit when I lift the trophy for the National Bank Open and the Western & Southern Open in August.

She calls me every day. I eat my lunch while she eats her dinner, and we burn through the list of movies I haven't watched that apparently are a crime to not see. It does take a hefty reminder that I am not from England to stop her from pouting the whole way through.

It isn't dating.

I told her – I stated it so clearly that there was no room for misinterpretation – that we were not going to delve further into a relationship I know will not work out. She didn't protest much. I took that as her agreeing. I like her and she likes me, but that doesn't automatically qualify us for some kind of miracle marriage that can be maintained without harming her career or mine.

Still, she calls me every day. And I accept. Or call her back if I miss it.

I miss her.

After I sit through the press conference following a defeat in the final of the US Open, eyes red-rimmed with self-disappointment, she is the first person to repeatedly ring me. It's the middle of the night for her, and she is in bed in her house in St. Albans. Her FaceTime begins with my camera off for five minutes where I sob uncontrollably, devastated that I haven't managed to redeem myself from Wimbledon. Once I have got it together again, she manages to flip my mood despite being in a different continent. Juan lets me sit in the car alone until she has fully calmed me down, and then gets in with a stern expression and the footage from the match ready to analyse. Iga is better than me right now, but I cannot be nothing. I will be the best.

Though I am on a plane to Tokyo whilst Leah plays her first game of the season, I watch every minute. Fourteen hours in the air has to be killed somehow, and she sends me videos of everything she does pre and post match to add to the duration of the actual game itself. I make a mental note to slate her for the ham sandwich when I next call her.

I am lucky Juan is asleep the whole time. An Ajax game on the plane's TV wouldn't be strange, but even a tennis coach knows the difference between my red and white and Leah's red and white. The most obvious being that one is far better than the other.

It isn't dating, even when there is a bouquet of vermilion roses in my hotel room in Tokyo with a note that says nothing more than 'North London forever'. She is celebrating her 4-0 win, and has roped me into it (against my will) from 9,355 kilometres away. I send her a picture of the flowers and don't tell her that I have slipped the note into my wallet for safe-keeping.

On the 20th of September, Arsenal and Ajax draw in the second round of the Champions League qualifiers, and Leah is quick to send me a painfully long voice message about every detail of the match as if I didn't go to bed three and a half hours early so I could wake up at three in the morning to watch my team (and her) play without losing precious sleep.

Again, I get a bouquet of flowers. This time they are crisp, white lilies. Sympathy flowers. The note attached is a question: who did you support? It's cheeky and annoying, and gives me an excuse to call her at an awkward time in London to tell her that she is mistaken in thinking her silly gifts are amusing. Our conversation evolves into something that lasts an hour, with Leah drifting off mid-anecdote. I text her to say she had bored herself to sleep.

I focus on the Pan Pacific after that, though I lose my semi-final and am sent to the hotel to pack up my suitcase earlier than expected. It is less discouraging than what happened in the US, but Juan and I still have to sit down and sort out what isn't clicking. I should be winning these tournaments.

Leah suggests that I am tired because it is the end of the year. She sneakily adds that I should visit her, but I shut that down quickly. It's impossible for us to date each other, I insist, pausing Raiders of the Lost Ark. Her smile is wistful and sad, but I choose to focus on the movie instead of how much I want to kiss her again.

Reality hits that morning. October will be spent in Tunisia and Mexico. There is no time to see her. I'm pulled to all corners of the world, barely given time to adjust to the different time zones I seem to be expected to exist in simultaneously. The first time I will go home in months will be in November, and that is still weeks away.

Before I leave Japan, I get an interesting call. I am lying on the made-up bed, scrolling through Instagram to pass the time leading up to my departure, when Scarlett's name pops up on my phone screen. Her contact photo on my phone is a picture of her and Fleur from our ski trip last year. Scarlett's not a good skier, but Fleur is, and so she was being guided down the black slope like a toddler – in between Fleur's legs with a terrified expression. The picture makes me laugh every time.

"Hi, Scarlett," I greet her happily. I like Scarlett. "Has Fleur's phone died or something?" There is a significant amount of rustling on the other end of the line, and the sound of a door locking. She must be at the training ground because I can hear the faint singing of my sister and her rowdy friends. "Scarlett...?"

"Oh, yeah, sorry. Hey, Jaimie!" She sounds like she is panicking. I know that I am well-suited to calming Fleur down from her occasional panic attacks, but I'm not sure if my skills extend past my little sister.

"Is everything alright?"

"Yes." God, this is weird. "Can I... May I marry Fleur?" She's not panicked. She's nervous. "And before you say no, bear in mind that I've bought a ring for her and it's a really pretty ring, might I add, and we've sort of talked about marriage but not seriously but I want to marry her so badly, Jaimie. I love her so much, and I don't think anything bad could happen to me if Fleur was my wife. She's so intelligent and amazing and beautiful–"

"Why aren't you asking my father?" I don't understand the tradition of asking for permission, but if she was going to do it, I would have expected Papa to get a call.

"I want to propose in December, so I'm giving myself some time to learn enough Dutch to ask him."

Aw. That's thoughtful of her. Papa doesn't keep his disapproval a secret, no matter how fake it really is.

"You could try whilst wearing an Ajax jersey too," I add, biting my lip as to not laugh at the poor girl. It's sweet that she cares so much about someone as difficult as Fleur. It's also kind of repulsive. "Sorry, why are you asking me?"

"Confirmation that I'm not crazy for wanting to propose!"

"You're not crazy for wanting to propose," I state. Her relieved sigh is so profound that I feel it rattle through my bones. It is sickening how much they love each other, and how perfect their relationship is. "She'll say yes."

Scarlett thanks me quickly, and hangs up.

I check the time. I have fifteen minutes to talk to Leah before I need to make my way to the hotel lobby.

"Hi, darlin'," Leah answers, not having the patience to wait until the second ring to pick up.

"You're in a good mood," I comment, eyebrows raised. "Did you have a good training session?"

She smacks her lips together, and I can picture her twirling a strand of her blonde hair with the way she's currently acting. "Training's not over yet; we've just stopped for lunch. But I'm good to talk now." She's never said that it hasn't been a good time, and it is starting to worry me a little bit. Either I'm far too aware of her schedule, or she never says no. "When do you leave Tokyo?" I think Leah likes it when I'm on the plane, because it often means she has my undivided attention for at least three hours. Boredom is my self-restraint's mortal enemy. "Jaimie? You alright?"

"I'm fine, Lee. Do I not sound fine?" I ask indignantly.

"You sound tired and like you have something to tell me."

I do. I could fall asleep right here, listening to her voice.

"Well, obviously I am tired. Only two tournaments and the WTA finals to go, babe, and then I get to go home and make sure my beautiful cars haven't rusted." A few years ago, I became a brand ambassador for BMW. I have an i8 and an X7, and they are like my two children. They live in Melbourne, in my house that I never get to spend time in. "I cannot fucking wait for the break." 

She chuckles, but I don't think I'm being dramatic. "I can imagine. Now spill."

"Oh, right." The reason I called her was to tell her about Scarlett and Fleur, seeing as she has dreams of being a bridesmaid and everything. She told me that the night we met, but I weirdly remember. "Scarlett asked me if she could propose to Fleur."

"What?!" she shrieks down the line. I have to move my phone away from my ear. "Fucking hell, Jaimie." The way her voice hushes makes me think she has been in the training ground's canteen this whole time, meaning anyone could listen to our conversation. Fear spikes through my stomach, making it flutter at the thought of other people knowing. "Did you tell her she could?"

"Yes, I'm not a monster."

"Debatable."

"Hey, I cried when we watched The Notebook."

"Monsters have feelings," she replies like that's a given. "Don't worry, love. You'd be a cute monster." She seems to have forgotten about the prospect of a wedding.

"Love?" I question, teasing her.

"You call me babe all the time!" she defends quickly. I smile, checking the time to see how long I have left to talk to her. "Your flight is thirteen hours, right?" We're leaving at ten in the evening to arrive in Monastir, Tunisia by midday. The Jasmin Open was added to the season in May due to issues in China, and starts on the 3rd of October. I am going to be the first person to win it.

"Are you planning to make me sit through the rest of the Harry Potter movies?" She gets home at six o'clock GMT, and I will have reached the pinnacle of having nothing to do on the flight by then.

Leah's scoff is instinctive. "I don't understand how you don't enjoy them. They're the best."

"Ever since you told me I was a Hufflepuff, I've hated it." She read the quiz aloud, claiming it was something I had to know about myself, and it came back as the house that I'm pretty sure no one takes seriously. Leah then proceeded to brag about how she's a Gryffindor, which is the red one with all the main characters in it. Typical.

"The quiz never lies," she reminds me, voice serious. "Hufflepuff isn't even bad. Cedric Diggory is a Hufflepuff, and he's sexy. It's a house trait." I don't know who that is, but that sounded like a very poor attempt at seduction.

"Don't start something you can't finish, Leah Williamson," I warn, fighting hard to not smirk.

It isn't dating.

notes: 

so... 

it isn't dating!

thanks for reading :))