I win my next tournament, the Libéma Open. It's in the Netherlands, and so Fleur watches with Papa until she has to go to the Leeuwinnen training camp. I think Mum visits some of her friends in England.

This camp is the last one before they play the Euros, Leah informs me, and is supposed to be the final moment in which the players impress their coach and confirm their places on the squad. With Leah being England's captain and Fleur being the Dutch version of Alexia Putellas, I reassure them both that they have time to watch me excel in the tournament. Neither of them need to worry about their international careers.

After an (admittedly) easy time in my home country, Juan and I make the decision to fly back to London earlier than we had originally planned, giving us a week to train in England before Wimbledon starts.

Leah texts me to say that St. George's Park has tennis courts. I turn my phone off, not wanting Juan to catch on to anything. (Not that there is anything going on.)

Our plane leaves in the morning, just after breakfast, and we get to London an hour later, beating the rush of professional tennis players at Farnborough Airport – I think most people are getting here tomorrow if they haven't been playing at the tournament in Birmingham.

Wimbledon have arranged for my usual suite at the Park Plaza hotel, but Marcus agrees to drive me to St. Albans to see what Leah has been waxing lyrical about before we check in. Next stop, as I find myself liking the vibe of the place, may be Milton Keynes, if Scarlett replies to my message and answers why everyone else in England hates it.

We train effectively, but not so much that I am exhausted going into the tournament. It's almost boring, I would say. The calm before another stressful Grand Slam. Luckily, Leah is often bored at camp, and provides entertaining retellings of what she has done each day. I often fall asleep to her typed paragraphs, smiling as I bury my face into my pillow.

I might be developing a little crush on her, but that doesn't change the nature of these conversations. They are simply to balance work and other things, to distract me just enough to enhance my performance. There will come a time, if it grows into something more than what it is, that I will end it and delete her number from my phone.

This has happened before.

Four years ago, I dated Fleur's national teammate, Jackie Groenen, for a bit. It was never supposed to get as serious as it got. She was injured in a match once, and I wanted nothing more than to get on a plane from Melbourne and fly straight to her. That, of course, freaked me out a bit. I deemed her one of the biggest distractions I could possibly have, and broke it off. Thankfully, she wasn't too fussed.

My cousin, Lize, on Papa's side, texts me that she'll be accepting the offer to watch me play that I had extended to my family in the Netherlands. Her and her husband have a toddler who they'll be bringing. We meet up a few days before the tournament starts for coffee.

Lize is an English teacher, and her husband, Finn, is a journalist. She tells him about how I've always been so determined, recounting our childhood visits to the lake near our grandparents' house in which I'd make sure I knew the way blindfolded at nighttime to prevent us from getting lost. She knows that I probably don't want to stay out too long this close to the start of the tournament, but when I see her daughter, I can't help but text Juan to say I'm taking an extra hour's break. I love children.

"We're staying for the Euros, too," Lize informs me with a soft smile. In the worst case scenario in which I get knocked out early, I'll accompany them to the family and friends section of the stadiums to watch my sister play. "Noa's obsessed with football, and Fleur's promised to get her shirt signed by the whole team, isn't that right?"

"I like the English ones too," Noa mumbles behind her hands, squirming on my lap. "Papa watches Arsenal with me."

"You don't support Ajax?" I question her, offended at the idea. Lize isn't big on football, but Ajax is still in her blood. "...Are you an Arsenal fan?"

"It was an accident," Finn explains, not sounding too happy with his daughter's choice either. "Red and white isn't too far off, though."

Leah does play in the correct colours. Just under the wrong badge. It's a fair point to make.

I ask Noa whether she has a favourite footballer, to which she spends a long time considering her various options. She mutters names under her breath, her fingers playing with the hem of my t-shirt, until two names finally spill out. "Fleur de Voss and Leah Williamson."

"Did Fleur pay you to say that?" I whisper, choosing to completely ignore how the sound of those two names together makes me feel. My sister would not be happy about my late-night talking with the Arsenal player who tackled her roughly in the last match they played. Scarlett is one of Leah's best friends, though, so I'm sure they'd get on in the end. Not that they will ever need to.

"No." She shakes her head cutely. "Fleur is very good. Leah Williamson is very good, too. I wanted her shirt, but Papa said no because it's England." Noa's pout is hard to say no to, so I admire the strength Finn must have displayed. "Does Fleur know Leah Williamson?"

I freeze.

I know Leah. And Noa is family.

"I think I can get you Leah's shirt, Noa," I say quietly, hoping Lize and Finn don't have any follow-up questions. Leah won't mind, I don't think. She's currently very stressed out herself, and has finally understood that she can use me as a distraction too. Our conversations have increased in length and become more personal with every text sent. Last night, I almost called her, fingers growing tired of all the typing. I resolve to stay away from the call button until after I win Wimbledon, and then I can take more time to sort out my level of communication with the woman I'm supposed to prevent from distracting me too much.

"You are my favourite footballer, Jaimie," Noa cheers loudly. I fear she has misunderstood the meaning of that phrase.

━━━━━━━

I make a mistake. One that I had hoped not to make again.

It's late and it's dreadfully silent in my suite. I cannot seek out Juan and discuss tactics or go over footage, because he would scold me for being awake. Fleur has expressed her wish to spend the time before the Euros on the phone to her girlfriend before they become each other's enemies. I can't bear how I am left alone to think my thoughts. Replaying every error forced out of me is exhausting, and it is not the time nor place to focus on other aspects of my life.

Apart from one, whose sole purpose is to distract, yet avoid being too much of a distraction. The concept is warped and complex and I don't want to dissect the issues that are attached to that logic. I just want to talk to Leah.

And so I call her.

What's worse is that she picks up.

It is midnight, yet she picks up. Is she finding it difficult to sleep too? Or did the buzzing of her phone disturb her sleep? Am I disturbing her sleep?

Her contact name jabs at me guiltily. A reminder, yes, but perhaps a useless one. Although, this could be deemed a time of need. Especially when the sleepy husk of her voice from Newport Pagnell – wherever that may be – settles the discomfort brewing in the tangle of my bedsheets.

"Jaimie? Is everything okay?" Her concern is cute.

I shake my head, and then remember that she can't see me do that. I'm tired. "I couldn't sleep and I just...'' I wanted to hear her voice. I will not be telling her that. "I needed someone to talk to."

"Yeah, course. I'm always here," Leah says, and I can hear her smile through the way her words brighten. "Anything bothering you in particular? Or is life just being annoying?" There is some rustling from where she is, and I presume she has gotten out of bed. A door thuds shut.

"My cousin's daughter is a fan of yours." I don't want to treat Leah like my therapist. I have a session tomorrow evening, despite it not being a Tuesday. I can tell the professional all of the super heavy things on my chest. Talking to Leah just seems to make me smile. "Her name is Noa, she's three, and I think she is confused about Arsenal and Ajax having the same colours. You're her favourite, along with Fleur. I promised I would get her your shirt."

"Is she Dutch or Australian?" I told Leah about my mother and father, and their respective homes and countries. I answer her question: Noa was born in Amsterdam. "Because our away kit is orange."

"Is it?" Fleur seems to have no problem donning Scarlett's shirt. I, for one, feel uncomfortable in anything other than the club and country I call my own. Even if Australia is where I live. "Can you give her that? I will pay for it."

"You don't need to pay for it," Leah scoffs as if that is insane to suggest. "Where is your hotel? I will sign one of the shirts they gave us to give to our family, and then drop it round to where you are." She doesn't ask to meet me, but I find myself with the question on the tip of my tongue.

"There is a café next to my hotel. Would you like to get a coffee tomorrow?"

Two mistakes in one night is a new record. This is the worst attempt at staying away from someone I have ever had. I am glad that it is a secret, because I'd be embarrassed for others to see how badly I am failing at this.

When I walk into the café, Leah is wearing a white tank top and baggy jeans. She sits at a table in the corner, I assume for the sake of my privacy, and spreads out on her chair, slumped in a way that makes me wonder how early she arrived here. I'm a punctual person. I hope she hasn't been waiting too long.

As I sit down, I try not to stare at the toned muscle of her arms, or the waistband of her Calvin Kleins on display. She pushes a mug towards me, grinning. I can't help but mirror her expression.

"You look nice," I offer her in lieu of a greeting.

I am dressed in simple denim shorts and a t-shirt, a cap placed firmly on my head and sunglasses to cover my eyes. The paparazzi have been attempting to snap a few pictures of me ever since word got out about my visit to St. Albans. Some tennis players are known for being very absent online during big tournaments, and I am one of the most famous for that. When they saw me upload a picture of the river that flows through the area, I suppose they set themselves a mission to find me on my walkabouts.

"You're tanned," she tells me. My shoulders have bronzed from the sun, but I am afraid to say that the tan lines from tennis outfits are not the most fortunate. "I have the shirt for Noa. Can you help me with the last bit? I wanted to do it in Dutch."

I unfold the orange material, finding where she has written her message in black sharpie. "'To Noa, the most wise of her family because she is a Gunner. Lots of love, Leah.'" I laugh. "What more do you want to say? Something else to give every de Voss a heart attack when they see one of their own in an England kit without any proper ties to the country?"

"Yeah, exactly. You understand my vision." I nudge her foot under the table, shaking my head at her pride and patriotism. "Surely Scar has tried this?"

Fleur and Scarlett keep football away from their relationship, because they know it will ruin them. "Fleur is very easily convinced. She'll be watching your games in an England shirt with Powell on her back. I'm pretty sure Scarlett only had to mention it for her to agree."

We talk more. It's beginning to feel a little too natural for comfort, but I don't want to leave after I've finished my drink. I'm helping to calm her down before the Euros, probably, so I should stay longer.

Plus, she gives me a great pep talk for my game tomorrow, made even better by her confessing she has been religiously watching every match in order to keep up with the tennis terms I throw at her.

Knowing Leah is watching me play adds a spark to my game that Juan is certain will get me through to the next round. Rybakina is a challenging opponent, but I win the first set confidently.

It goes downhill from there.

While sprinting to return a dropshot, losing now but not by much, I feel the familiar tug of pain in the back of my leg. It's my fucking hamstring. My heart sinks.

I think this is it for me. If I carry on, it will only get worse.

Swallowing hard, I let my body fall to the floor, the grass scratching my bare skin. "Kut!" I shout, clutching my leg. I count to five in my head, taking some deep breaths. "Fucking hell." Juan holds up both hands; one in a thumbs-up, the other in a thumbs-down. I point to the thumbs-down, not caring if I get a coaching violation. I'm going to have to retire anyway.

The umpire comes down, curious as to why I'm still on the ground. The ball-girl takes my racquet, hovering, unsure on what to do. I decide to get up on my own, but it's painful.

My first though is, horrifyingly, about how this is not the kind of match I want Leah to see. 

I'm in tears as it ends, but Juan is passed Noa by Lize, and she is in my lap, wiping them for me. "Don't be sad," she whispers in my ear. "Now we can watch football! We can see Fleur and... Can we see Leah Williamson?"

"You want to go to an England match?" The journalists are assembling for a press conference. I'm quite comfortable where I am, but I know Mumma is going to check that it is only a grade one strain. And I need to shower. "I have a surprise for you, Noa. Leah is my friend." Noa jumps up in my lap, and I wince. Her excitement is contagious, and I put the injury out of my mind. It should only take a week to recover from. I'm just ending my campaign at Wimbledon to lessen the chances of me being out for even longer. 

As for my surprise, calling Leah my friend was not intentional. I guess we're starting to become something more than people who chat to each other when they need to take their mind off something else. My mind, of late, is stuck on her.

notes:

low-key a filler chapter, soz

stay tuned for some english euros glory (u read that right, syd) and drunk decisions in the next chapters...

thanks for reading!