Work Text:
On his worst days, Flynn’s dad would say that she had a tennis ball for a brain.
That wasn’t always a bad thing. Tennis balls were soft and they were usually that pretty, lime green color that was practically bioluminescent and you could find anywhere. Dogs loved tennis balls, so did teachers and old people.
They also knew how to strike in a way that left a welt and a smarting burn that you would feel for days afterwards, and her momma always said that that’s how it feels if someone ends up on her bad side.
Flynn Rowling was never the type to plaster her walls with movie stars or boy bands, no, she grew up with her walls covered in posters of professional tennis players; Roger Federer, Maria Sharapova, Venus and Serena Williams and more.
Her middle school had a tennis team and she babysat the neighbor’s kids for a full two months until she had enough for the dues and the uniform. She found a (mostly-whole) tennis racket at Goodwill that only needed two strings replaced and she absolutely didn’t take one of the neighbor’s dog’s tennis balls. She was the top player in her middle school, where you didn’t even have to try out because, come on, it was middle school , but when high school rolled around she was number one.
Her dedication and pure love for the sport wouldn’t allow her to be anything else.
Flynn loved tennis. She loved the sun beating down on her neck during a tournament and she loved the feel of the acrylic ground underneath her feet as she darted from left to right to left to return the ball. She loved being able to say that she won with a racket that she restringed herself.
During the summers, when school wasn’t in session and the team wasn’t practicing (or at least, wasn’t practicing with her ,) she was in the alleyway behind her mom’s apartment hitting a ball up against the tall, wooden fence. The rhythmic sounds of the tennis ball lulling her into a stupor where she believed anything to be possible.
When it rained, however (because there was no rest for the next Serena Williams, no - the next Flynn Rowling ) she found herself at the community center. They had both indoor and outdoor courts and didn’t charge anything to get in, so she could literally get dropped off by the bus and play all day.
Sometimes other people would be there. She might meet up with other people from her team and play with them, or some of the adults who were just there and wanted a pick up game. Other times, she played against a wall, trying to figure out the best way to hit, to strike, to win.
“You know, the hole in your racket is almost big enough for a ball to fit through.”
The only bad thing about playing at the community center was Carrie.
Carrie Wilson didn’t go to her school - she went to this bougie private place out in Malibu where she lived in her famous daddy’s mansion - but they did compete against each other often.
Because while Flynn was the best in her school? Carrie was at her’s.
Flynn never thought that it was fair. The other girl was literally steeped in privilege. She always had a new racket or new shoes and every time Flynn saw her she was opening a new bottle of balls to play with because she “didn’t like to use ones that losers had touched” and that always rubbed Flynn the wrong way.
And then the fancy country club that Carrie mostly practiced at went under because it was apparently laundering money (freaking rich people seriously) so she had to make the drive (because she was too good for the bus) to the community center which was the only community center in all of LA that had an indoor court (and Little Miss Perfect hated practicing outside.)
“Watch it, Wilson,” Flynn had replied. The tennis ball she had hit against the wall bounced back and rolled away, coming to a stop against the bench where Carrie had dropped her rhinestoned and monogrammed sports duffle next to Flynn’s raggedy JanSport her momma had picked up at a school supplies giveaway three years ago.
Flynn carefully reached up and tried to stretch the strings to cover the hole, at least a little more. It was getting bigger.
“Look, do you wanna play or what?” Carrie asked as she tied her long, strawberry blonde hair up into an easy ponytail. She pulled a (new) canister of balls out of her bag.
“Don’t you have any of your trust fund friends you can play with?” Flynn asked in return.
Carrie rolled her eyes. “If you beat me I’ll buy lunch.”
Flynn grinned at her, with teeth.
(Flynn did win and Carrie bought sushi. The two girls sat against the net eating sushi with their fingers because Flynn broke both pairs of chopsticks and traded fortune cookies until Carrie’s driver came to get her and it was almost time for the last bus.)
The two girls didn’t hang out often. They were literally from two separate worlds. Carrie spent most of her time at her upper class private performing arts school and Flynn only stayed in her lower class public high school so she could get good grades and get a good scholarship. Their friends didn’t, and couldn’t, mix.
But when they did it was like no one else was there. They would play tennis, most of them time, challenging each other in ways that no one else did. Other times they did homework, hanging out in the indoor courts of the community center and eating shitty, almost expired food from the vending machines because Carrie’s dad took away her credit card.
It was nice, having something for the two of them.
That’s not to say that they didn’t fight. Flynn fully knew that she had a gigantic chip on her shoulder when it came to wealth and status and sometimes she hated the way that Carrie flaunted her money around.
Nothing more so than the day that Carrie gave her a present.
“You know it’s not my birthday, right?” Flynn asked, trying to hide her excitement as the other girl placed the long box in her lap. “I mean, I know we’ve talked about it.”
Carrie rolled her eyes. “Yes, I know. But still. Can’t I get things for my friends?”
Flynn cooed. “Aww, you really do like me.”
They both pointedly ignored the soft, rosy blush that decorated the other girls cheeks.
Unable to hold back, Flynn ripped over the (very fancy) wrapping job (“Heathen,” Carrie had said, affectionately) and opened the box.
Now, just because Flynn couldn’t afford any kind of fancy racket (she had upgraded from her two-piece Goodwill one after it snapped during a game to a cheaply made, but workable Walmart one) doesn’t mean that she didn’t know what one looked like. It was hard not to, with Carrie coming in with a new one every few weeks.
But inside the box was a custom Babolat Pure Strike 100. It was black with new white strings that almost glowed under the fluorescent lights of the community center.
It was also over $200.
“I know you hate charity,” Carrie said as she wrung her hands in front of her. “But this isn’t that. You’re so good Flynn and you don’t need a fancy racket to play. You’re fierce in your own right and I- I wanted to give you something because you’re are so good and you’ll never get to treat yourself with something like this when I can do it every week and-“
“Carrie this is expensive,” Flynn finally said, cutting through the other girl’s words. “I can’t take this, not even if it’s not charity, I-“
“Flynn, please,” Carrie said. “I want- I want you to walk out on the court and have everyone know that you’re the boss bitch that you are and not underestimate you and a good racket, this racket, can do that. And I wanted to get it for you because…”
“Because?”
“Because I like you,” she finally blurted out. Her hands snapped up to her mouth, quickly, as if she didn’t realize that she had said it.
Flynn hopped up from the bench, the racket falling to the floor in its overly-cushy, expensive box, and stood next to the taller girl. Carrie was staring down at her with wide, panicked eyes (had she always been that tall?) and Flynn did the one thing she could think of.
She kissed her.
It was fast and chaste, she didn’t even give Carrie time to respond before she pulled back and stepped away with her heart beating in her throat and if her skin wasn’t so dark she knew she’d be as red as a tomato, but it was perfect and she wanted to do it again and-
“Thank you,” Flynn said, smiling softly even though she felt like her heart was going to burst out of her chest. “I love it. Did you restring it yourself-“
Carrie stepped forward, smoothly, and grabbed her chin. As her fingers delicately rested on her jawline, Flynn swallowed.
“You stopped before I could kiss you back,” Carrie said, her voice light and a small smile on her face. “Can I-“
“Please,” Flynn blurted out. “Please, Care.”
When Carrie tilted her chin up, Flynn rose up on her tiptoes so the other girl wouldn’t have to bend down as far. When their lips met, solidly this time, Flynn could taste the watermelon chapstick that Carrie always wore. Her arms wrapped around Carrie’s neck and Carrie’s other hand gripped her waist and pulled her closer and when she groaned at the feeling of her chest pressing up against Carrie’s in all of the best ways, Carrie gently pushed her tongue into Flynn’s mouth and she was a goner.
Six years later when Flynn Rowling-Wilson and Carrie Wilson-Rowling stood across the net from each other at the US Open, everyone knew it was going to be a good match. Despite being married since the two were just out of college, the two women never failed to play hard, even against each other.
So when Carrie’s serve flew just out of reach of Flynn’s racket and the crowd started cheering, Flynn was the one who vaulted over the net and threw her arms around her wife, the absolute love of her life, as she won her first big title.
And when Carrie held her racket up, blocking their views as much as a tennis racket could, and kissed her, bold and brash and on live television that would be immortalized forever, Flynn kissed her back and grinned.
She loved tennis.