Page 9 of Breakpoint
T he flashing lights of the Paris nightclub reflected in Dani’s bright eyes.
Across the pulsating dance floor, she caught the gaze of Sascha, whose laughter rang out above the din.
It was a familiar scene: Dani and Sascha Rudd, out on the town enjoying the spoils of being young tennis stars on the rise.
Their social media feeds, already vibrant, exploded with snapshots of the night.
Tonight, Dani was a vision in a shimmering silver dress and strappy heels that made her calves look amazing.
Sascha, her blonde hair usually styled in a sleek ponytail for matches, was now a cascade of waves tumbling down her back.
Over six feet tall like Dani but with sapphire blue eyes, Sascha was as known for her curated Instagram feed as much as her blistering forehand.
Her IG was a tapestry of courtside poses, sponsored outfits, and boomerangs from exclusive nightclubs.
Dani met Sascha at a sponsorship event for the sports clothing brand that outfitted their on-court gear.
The Norwegian was in her early twenties, like Dani, but had already been playing on tour for close to five years.
Sascha had yet to win a singles title on tour, but was attracting significant attention because of her athleticism, beauty, and early success in the junior circuit.
She had been dubbed the ‘next big thing’ in tennis when she broke the top fifty, though her sponsorship money dwarfed her on-court earnings.
Fame, for Sascha, was a delicious cocktail, and she was eager to gulp down every drop.
Dani quickly learned the professional tour differed from the camaraderie of college.
And for all its glamour, it could be an isolating place.
Especially when she was still trying to find her groove and where she fit in.
It was also difficult to make and be friends on the tour.
She was constantly competing and trying to prevent the other women from succeeding in their goals.
But Dani found a kindred spirit in Sascha, and she appreciated that Sascha loved to enjoy the spoils of her newfound celebrity.
Namely, she was always up for a party. Sascha commanded the room’s attention, her laughter echoing above the thumping bass.
Their bodies swayed to the hypnotic beat of the DJ, bathed in the flickering glow of neon lights.
She raised her cocktail glass and screamed over the music, “Cheers to making it to the second week!”
“Fuck yeah!” Dani yelled.
They both downed their drink and continued to dance to the music.
They were celebrating because both Dani and Sascha had made it to the fourth round at the French Open.
The tournament started with one hundred twenty-eight players, and now there were only sixteen left.
And Dani and Sascha were both of them. So, here they were, in the heart of the ‘City of Lights’, the bass thumping in their chests, hours after they had stepped off the court with some of the world’s best. Dani wondered if life could get any better.
Some would call it reckless, even irresponsible, partying during a Grand Slam tournament.
But Dani didn’t care. She partied while in college and was the NCAA champion two years in a row.
So why should she stop now? Thankfully, they had an off day tomorrow before their next match.
Tennis was a game, after all, and Dani and Sascha were determined to play it on their own terms. They were young, talented, and having the time of their lives.
As Dani and Sascha danced, a few guys started to get a bit too close and aggressive, touching Dani as she grooved across the dance floor.
She gave Sascha the look and a head nod towards the door that said, ‘Let’s get the fuck out of here.
’ Sascha understood the signal, grabbed her hand, and directed them towards the exit.
Exiting Le Ciel, a pulsing club hidden behind an unassuming door in a narrow alley, they burst out into the street and were met by a gush of fresh air. The low thrum of Parisian nightlife vibrated through the cobblestone streets and into the soles of Dani and Sascha’s stilettos.
“That was awesome. I love Paris,” Dani slurred into the night.
“Girl, who doesn’t?” Sascha smiled at her through hooded, intoxicated eyes. “But I definitely thought you were going to leave and abandon me with that blonde chick who kept eyeing you. She was not at all subtle that she wanted you to take her home.”
“Nah, not tonight. It's about celebrating us. I wasn’t going to ditch you. Plus, I don’t need Tom catching another woman leaving my hotel room.
” When Sascha learned Dani was queer, by catching her making out with a girl in the back of a club, she just shrugged her shoulders and said, ‘Isn’t everyone a little fluid? ’ And that was that.
“I wouldn’t want to piss him off either. Does Tom ever smile?” Sascha found a seat at one of the sidewalk tables of a closed cafe. “My feet are killing me. But I can rally for the next club. Just give me ten minutes.” She slipped off her stilettos and rubbed her feet.
“I’m sufficiently drunk, Sascha. I might have to tap out.” She already knew tomorrow’s practice was going to be a little rough. Her serve might lack some of its usual power, but Dani could always bounce back.
“Come on, Dani,” Sascha cried drunkenly, tossing her blonde hair over her shoulder. “We’ve been killing it. We deserve one or three nights of Parisian debauchery for making it to the second week of the French Open. Plus, we should celebrate now, you beating Jaz Mason in the next round.”
That was right; Dani would be playing Jaz in the fourth round of the French Open with a chance to make it to her first Grand Slam quarterfinals.
Even though Jaz had won seventeen Grand Slam titles, Dani felt pretty confident.
She knew clay wasn’t Jaz’s best surface, and Dani had made it farther than Jaz at the Madrid Open.
She got to the semi-finals, and Jaz lost in the quarters.
Plus, Dani had played the tournament in Rome right after Madrid and also made the semis there.
They were both great tune-ups before the French Open with valuable rankings points.
Clay had always been a great surface for her, unlike most American players who dominated hardcourts.
But her dad was a clay court specialist during his career and Dani spent many summers in Greece playing on clay at their family house in the Greek countryside.
She knew she was better than Jaz on clay and had even got the best of her when they hit together in Madrid in front of the press.
The media had already dubbed them “Fire and Ice,” a catchy phrase that did nothing to capture the simmering animosity between them. This showdown was already making the headlines in the tennis press. Every question in her media session after her last win was about the upcoming match with Jaz.
“What do you think about having to play your new doubles partner in the next round?” Sascha asked a bit too loudly.
At this point, Dani couldn’t tell if Sascha’s eyes were even still open.
Dani was definitely drunk, but Sascha looked ready to pass out.
She needed to find a cab or call a ride share for them asap.
She didn’t want to be stuck carrying all six feet of Sascha back to her hotel.
Dani scoffed as she stood up, trying to flag down a cab. “She’s only my partner for the Olympics, and I’m definitely not worried about it.”
“Maybe the heat will melt the ice maiden?” Sascha laughed drunkenly at her own joke.
“I doubt it, but I need her to win gold. So I’m doing what I need to do for our sponsors and the Olympic Committee.
” The Paris streets were pretty deserted, so Dani was relieved when a cab finally stopped in front of them.
Dani grabbed a drunken Sascha, her legs now wobbly, by the arm to help her walk over to the cab.
“She’s past her prime anyway and just a shrew,” Sascha slurred on shaky legs.
“Tell me about it. I don’t know who pissed in her corn flakes for her to be so bitchy to everyone. I tried to be nice and cordial, and she just looked at me like I was something on the bottom of her shoe.”
“She needs to step over for the new guard. We are the future of women’s—” Sascha stopped and puffed her cheeks. Dani thought she was going to puke, but a nasty burp came out instead. “—tennis. I can’t wait for you to take her down.” Sascha spat as she slumped in the back of the cab and passed out.
“In forty-eight hours, I’ll have no problem putting her in place,” Dani declared confidently as they rode through the Paris streets.
They were living the dream, one Instagram post, one TikTok dance, one wild night at a time.
Even though she was still in the tunnel, Dani could almost feel the roar of the crowd all around her. Her grip on her tennis bag tightened, loosened, then tightened again. This was it. This would be her first time playing on Court Philippe-Chatrier, the largest and center court of the French Open.
She looked over at Jaz, who was doing some final stretches and warm-ups with Scott.
She had her headphones on and just seemed to know what to do next without Scott even saying anything.
She wondered what Jaz listened to in her headphones to stay in the zone and pump herself before walking out there.
Tom’s voice, usually a steadying baritone, sounded distant, echoing strangely in the confined space. His words of encouragement, strategy reminders, washed over her like a gentle tide, barely registering in the cacophony inside her own head.
“You got this, Dani.”