Page 4 of Breakpoint
And she really needed the money. Though she had done well during the Asia swing, it was expensive traveling all over Asia with her entire team.
She still had to pay them and pay for their travels regardless of how well she did.
She never realized the strain that finances would have on her when she turned pro.
Dani slowed her jog, her muscles stiff and protesting.
Each breath felt heavy, a mixture of stale champagne and regret.
She needed to pick up the pace, pushing herself along the winding paths that crisscrossed the tournament grounds.
It was only March, but sweat from the desert heat beaded on her forehead, stinging her eyes slightly.
With each stride, she imagined the alcohol seeping out of her pores, leaving behind the focused, disciplined athlete she needed to be.
She definitely regretted that trip to Palm Springs last night.
But it was only a thirty-minute drive up the road and catnip for a queer and moderately famous female athlete.
The morning run around the grounds brought back the reality of where she was and what her career had ascended to.
She passed other players, some stretching languidly, others engaged in intense practice drills.
She always dreamed of playing Indian Wells and never thought she would be here, especially after less than a full year on the pro tour.
But this was her dream, and she wasn’t going to let too much alcohol, nerves, or impostor syndrome stand in the way of it.
The moment Dani could walk, her parents said she had a tennis racket in her hand.
As the only child of two professional tennis players, Georgios Kappas, still revered as a tennis great in his home country of Greece, and all-American Bittany Stevens, now Kappas, tennis was in Dani’s blood.
She remembered as a kid watching her mom on the biggest stages, and for a while, people considered Brittany Kappas, with eighteen Grand Slam titles, one of the greatest of all time.
And after her mother retired when she was six, tennis was something they had in common.
They would play together on the tennis courts on their estates.
It was a bond they shared, and she never felt closer to her than when they played tennis together.
Although Dani was forced to take an untraditional route, going to college to hone her game, she still succeeded.
After winning two national championships, she went pro.
She shot up the rankings like a rocket. At six feet one inch, she was tall, athletic, with supermodel good looks inherited from her athletic parents.
She was a towering figure on the court with a striking combination of olive skin, captivating green eyes, and a cascade of thick brown hair.
Hailed as a once-in-a-generation talent, she possessed a rare blend of athleticism and pure skill.
Dani was lightning-fast but incredibly agile for someone her size, moving with an effortless grace that belied her powerful frame.
She was, in essence, the blueprint for the perfect female tennis player, embodying every desired dimension: power, speed, precision, and an innate understanding of the game.
Every tool necessary for dominance on the court was at her disposal.
Soon as she turned pro, sponsors came calling.
She had enough self-awareness to understand at her ranking they were plentiful compared to others because of her face, her body, and begrudgingly her name.
Most people, mainly the trolls online, thought she was just skating by on those things instead of her talent because her sponsorship and social media attention exceeded her accomplishments.
She gritted her teeth and pushed her legs harder, her breathing becoming ragged.
Sweat plastered Dani’s brow as she entered the large training facility from her run, or more like an alcohol-infused jog.
There was commotion all around her, ball kids getting instructions, officials looking over the courts, everyone prepping for one of the biggest tennis events in California.
The pounding in her head slowly receded, replaced by the satisfying ache of exertion. Her coach, Tom, and her agent, Chris, were waiting for her in the tented cool-down area. Something must be up if they were in the same room with each other. They hated each other. Moreover, Tom hated Chris.
Tom was an old-school coach. Gruff with his arms always crossed over his chest, no matter if he was sitting or standing.
Even when she won, his scowl only seemed to change to a sneer.
He was a man of few words, saying what he needed to say, then told her to go fix it.
He wanted Dani to focus on her training, her game, and minimize the outside distractions.
Chris, with his fast-talking Boston accent, was always signing Dani up for more promotions and photo shoots that took her away from training.
He wanted to use her family name and model looks to sign bigger deals.
“Hey, guys, how is my dream team?” Dani smiled at both of them as she plopped down on a chair and unlaced her shoes, hoping to ease the tension that always abounded when they were in the room together.
It was Chris who spoke first, as usual, taking all the oxygen in every conversation.
“Well, speaking of dream team, we’ve got some amazing news.
” She looked at both of them expectantly, and Chris continued, “We got a call from the USOC, and you’ve made the Olympic team for the summer games in Atlanta! ”
“WHAT?!?” she shrieked. Heads in the facility turned to look their way.
The Olympics? That felt like another universe altogether.
She covered her mouth as a choked sob of pure joy escaped her lips.
The Olympics had been a distant dream, a shimmering mirage on the horizon of her burgeoning career.
She thought that would be a few years from now, maybe at the next games in Rome.
Though she’d beaten some of the best in the world and risen through the rankings faster than anyone anticipated.
Her showing at the Australian Open likely helped.
“No way,” she gasped, her voice barely a whisper. “Seriously?” Tears welled up in her eyes, tears of joy, of disbelief, of sheer, unadulterated happiness. She made it. She was going to the Olympics.
“You’re an Olympian,” Chris declared, a bright smile spread across his face.
The reality of it crashed over her like a tidal wave. Atlanta. The Olympics. Her name alongside the legends she had idolized since she was a little girl, clutching a racket bigger than her arm.
“You’ll be playing doubles only,” Tom stated, throwing cold water on her high.
Doubles? That was it? Her triumphant grin faltered, replaced by a slow, dawning wave of disappointment. She’d dreamt of this moment since she was a little girl, picturing herself standing alone on the Olympic court, bathed in the roar of the crowd, with a gold medal as the singles champion.
Chris could see the disappointment, “Olympic doubles is really good for where you are in your career right now.”
“But I’ve never really played doubles. Training for doubles won’t take away from my focus on singles and competing in the main draw of tournaments?” She looked over at Tom.
“This is the Olympics on home soil. Who cares?” Chris butted in unhelpfully.
She looked at Tom for an unvarnished answer. “No, it won’t take away, and you may actually learn a thing or twenty playing doubles. Besides, nothing breeds winning like winning.”
She had only been on tour for a year but was moving up with some quality showings at tournaments and starting to win more consistently. So she guessed he was right, but it still stung she wouldn’t get to play singles at all. Her only chance of a medal, she had to partner with someone else.
Chris cut in, “We can really market this leading up to the Olympics and get your face out there beyond tennis fans. You’ll be America’s sweetheart, and everyone will soon know your name. I’m seeing media campaigns with the American flag behind you. Your face on cereal boxes.”
Tom cut Chris off, bringing them back to reality. “She needs to train and learn how to play doubles. It has a different space, pace, and skill set than singles, or she’ll be a flop, and none of that will matter.”
Tom was correct. She had never really played doubles. It was like a completely different game, with different tactics and strategies. Many of the best doubles teams were specialists and played with the same partner year-round. “Who am I playing doubles with?”
Tom again ripped off the band-aid. “Jaz Mason.”
Jaz Mason. The Machine. The ice queen. The biggest mystery in the tennis world. She barely gave interviews besides those that were mandatory at tournaments and those were often one-word answers or short factual statements.
Also, Brittany Kappas’ last professional match was a loss to Jaz Mason.
A memory, vivid and poignant, stirred within her.
She was a child again, perched on the edge of her seat in the stands, her small hands clutching a miniature tennis racket.
Her eyes were glued to the figure on the court.
Her mother, Brittany Kappas, winner of eighteen Grand Slams, a legend in her own right, was battling in what would be her final professional match.
She remembered the tension in the air that day, thick and heavy.
Her mother, usually a picture of composure and grace, was fighting tooth and nail, her face etched with a determination that bordered on desperation.
Kappas against the fresh-faced newcomer rising in the ranking, Jaz Mason.
The crowd was on its feet; a sea of faces filled with anticipation.
The final point arrived, a decisive forehand winner on the line sealed the match. Dani watched as her mother, her idol, walked off the court, head held high despite the defeat in only the second round of the US Open.