Hello! I had this update ready a couple of nights ago, but wanted to read it once before I put it up. And I'm glad I did because I had quite a few spelling errors that I'd missed in my haste! Yes, I tend to write my chapters all at one go. Also, I'm human, so let me know if I missed any spelling or grammatical errors, and I shall fix them up pronto.
Ok, weekly notes. Thank you to everyone that wrote me a review, and/or followed/favourited myself or this story. As most writers will tell you, less than a tenth of people that read stories will write you a review, so I'm always grateful to anyone that took the time to drop me a line.
The actual Wimbledon ended last weekend, and while I'm disappointed Federer couldn't pull off a win, I AM glad that I get to sleep at a normal hour again. Everything seems to take place in a ridiculously different timezone to Australia!
One last thing - I was contacted by PhDGlee2014, who is looking for fan fiction authors aged between 14-17 for a study that looks at whether reading and writing LGBT-themed stories affects real life actions as well. I believe the interaction is only virtual and subjects get compensated for their time, so please get in touch with PhDGlee2014 if you're willing to help. Her email is PhDGlee2014 at gmail dot com.
And now, here's Chapter 23 :) Yes, it's longer than usual. You're welcome ;)
"I should warn you, it might take you a couple of minutes for your eyes to adjust to the lights," the dark-haired journalist said kindly, and Rachel nodded her understanding.
"Striking," a disembodied voice called out from somewhere in the room.
The main lights in the studio turned off and Rachel was thrown into pitch darkness for a split-second before the overhead egg crate frame came to life, bathing the room in soft white light. Rachel blinked a couple of times, realizing that everyone besides herself and the woman seated across her were lost in the sea of darkness.
"You ok?" the journalist checked.
"I'm good," Rachel nodded, lifting the corners of her lips up to reassure her interviewer.
"Could you please say that again, Ms. Berry?" a voice spoke up, and Rachel squinted her eyes in the general direction the question came from. She could just about make out the shape of someone sitting on a chair.
"I'm good" Rachel replied, this time as more of a question. Why would someone want her to repeat those words?
"Ok, yeah, sound levels are good," the same voice said back, and realization dawned on the young tennis player.
"Roger that, Dave. We're ready to rock and roll, Rachel," another voice piped up, confusing the teenager again.
"He means me," the journalist said, laughing as she pointed her thumb at herself. "That's the problem with having a name that ranks in the top hundred most popular names for girls in six different countries. Sometimes I don't know what my parents were thinking."
Rachel laughed, "Well, my dads were huge friends of the TV show Friends."
"Yeah, I don't think my folks were that deep," the journalist grinned, "Anyway, like Rohit said, all systems are a go. You ready?" When the tennis played nodded, the older woman added, "Ok, remember, just tell me if I ask a question you aren't comfortable with, and we'll stop rolling."
Rachel took a deep breath, "Ok."
"And again, there's a camera over my shoulder and one to your right," the correspondent added, pointing in the direction of the equipment, "but it'd be great if you could just keep looking at me while we chat. As the clichéd line goes, pretend there's no camera on you."
Rachel nodded and repeated, "Ok. Got it." This wasn't the young American's first television interview, but she was still getting used to the idea of having to answer questions in front of a camera.
"Alright, let's do this," the reporter said, straightening up on her barstool type seat and clearing her throat. Rachel mimicked her, straightening her posture.
"Quiet on set please. Roll sound," someone called out.
"Rolling," a voice replied.
"Roll camera," the first voice called out again.
"Camera rolling," came the reply.
"Action!" the first voice called yet again, the word echoing slightly as the studio was enveloped by a pin-drop silence.
Rachel counted to five seconds in her head before her namesake addressed her, "Welcome to SportsCenter, Rachel."
The tennis player ducked her head and smiled, "Thank you for having me, Rachel."
The journalist let out a loud laugh, "Our names already caused a little bit of confusion before the camera's even rolled, so I'm going to start with a question I don't often lead with; tennis has had a Swiss Miss, a Fräulein Forehand, an Ice Maiden and a Juju. Do they have a nickname for you yet?"
Rachel shook her head and laughed, "No, no one's come up with a cool nickname for me yet. Do people even do that anymore? Because I'm open to suggestions."
"Well, you spend more time in the locker-room than me so you're probably better qualified to answer that question" the journalist replied.
"I can't say I've heard many, and I definitely can't repeat any of the one's I have heard on camera," Rachel said with a smile. "It's all in good fun, of course."
"So women's tennis really is as friendly as the players say it is then? Even for a newbie, such as yourself?" the reporter asked.
"Yeah," Rachel nodded, "I mean, of course everyone, and that includes me, has bad days where you know to stay out of their way, but on the whole the atmosphere in the locker-room is great. Very supportive."
"Does the friendliness have a roll-over effect on court?" the older Rachel asked.
The young brunette thought for a moment, "I don't think so. I mean, everyone plays to win so you're never going to get an easy match. The girl's might all get on pretty well, but no one's going to do you any favours when they're on the opposite side of the net from you. The stakes are too high."
"Well, that just makes your freshman year on tour that much more incredible. Not many players can say they've been seeded in their maiden grand slam, yet that's exactly what you've managed to do for your first US Open, where you'll be the seventeenth seed. Did you think you'd be ranked this high this quickly?", the reporter questioned.
Rachel shook her head even as her face threatened to split from the smile that had taken over her features, "Oh God, no! Not in my wildest imagination! This is more than a dream come true. I keep asking my dads to pinch me, just to check I'm not dreaming. I mean, is this Inception?", she laughed.
"I don't know, have you checked your totem?", the journalist kidded back. The two women shared a brief laugh, "But allow me to quickly digress; you just mentioned your dads, and have been very open about the fact that you've been raised by two men. What was that like, growing up?"
Rachel answered promptly, knowing the subject was going to come up at some point during the interview, "It was how I imagine any happy home is. I had, and have, two parents who love me very much. Who have always put my needs above their own, and have given me the best life they could provide."
"Do you believe your relatively unconventional upbringing had an impact on who you are today?" the journalist pressed.
"Of course it did. But I think everyone's upbringing affects the adults they grow up to be, regardless of whether they were raised by a heterosexual couple, a homosexual one, a single parent or someone else. If you're asking whether being the child of two gay men made my childhood any different to the average kid's then the answer is no. Maybe it's because I grew up in New York City that it wasn't as big a deal, I don't know. But having two father's never made me feel different to any of the kids I interacted with."
"What about now, on tour? That unfortunate episode with the fan was all over the news when you were playing in New Haven last week," the correspondent pointed out.
Rachel's mind flashed back to the incident the other woman was referring to, where someone in the crowd had raised up a blatantly homophobic handmade poster and yelled out obscenities directed at Rachel's fathers, who were both in attendance for the American's quarterfinal match. Her face lost any hint of a smile as she replied, "First of all Rachel, I wouldn't call that man a fan. A true fan comes to the tennis to watch athletes, who train harder that most people can even fathom, compete on court, and is there to support their favourite players. The guy in New Haven was there to use the tournament and myself, and by extension my fathers, to get his hateful message some free publicity. Kudos to the tournament organisers for taking quick action and evicting him from the stadium before he could create any more problems. But now, I refuse to give the man even more time in the spotlight by discussing him and his small-minded ways with you. So if you don't mind, could we please move on?"
"I can respect that," the journalist nodded, "but before we switch topics, I wanted to commend you on the way you've dealt with the whole episode. Especially given that you're just eighteen. I think the fact that you actually went on to win that match speaks volumes about your mental strength."
"Thank you," Rachel responded, losing some of the rigidness their previous discussion had caused in her body.
"Ok, back to happier topics then. Does the fact that your first time being seeded at a Slam comes at the Major being played in your own backyard made it even more special?", the journalist asked.
Rachel relaxed again, happy with the new subject they were on. She took a deep breath, ready to launch into an excited rant about how she was over the moon for the exact reason her interviewer had just brought up.
A little over thirty minutes later, the two Rachel's had smiles on their faces as they stood and shook hands. The lights were back on and there was a flurry of activity happening around them as the production crew busied themselves checking footage and equipment, and setting up for the next interview. Rachel had crossed paths with Kitty Wilde when she had come in, and Jesse had informed her that the channel was shooting multiple interviews that week for telecast during the fortnight of tennis ahead of them while she was in hair and makeup.
Speaking of the agent, there he was, leaning against the wall near the door and tapping into his Blackberry. He looked up when Rachel approached after bidding farewell to the journalist, and pressed a few more buttons before slipping the phone into his pocket and standing upright. "You did well," he said, nodding his head as the two began the walk back to the dressing room, where Rachel had left her belongings.
"I didn't do much Jesse, just answered her questions honestly," his client answered, opening the door to the dressing room.
"Well, honesty looks good on you then," Jesse said, bumping into Rachel when she stopped abruptly and stared at the newcomer in the room.
"Sorry, I didn't know there was someone in here," Rachel apologized, looking at the room's occupant in the mirror.
The blonde man put his hand up, halting the movements of the makeup artist that was working on his face. He rose and turned around, an easy smile placing itself on his lips as he reached out a hand towards the brunette, "It's all good. I'm Sam."
"I know," Rachel smiled, taking the offered hand, "I'm Rachel."
"I know," Sam said, letting out a chuckle, "Come on in."
"Sorry to intrude, I just needed to grab my things," Rachel said, picking up her bag and swinging it over one shoulder.
"No problemo," the blonde man said, returning to his seat where the makeup artist continued getting him ready for television. Rachel glanced at Jesse, who was staring at his Blackberry again. "How did your interview go?" Sam asked.
"Well, I think," Rachel said, "I'm still getting used to speaking on camera."
Sam laughed, "Yeah, I don't think anyone ever really gets used to that, unless they do it for a living."
Jesse looked up, "Sam, I heard them saying they would be ready for you soon, so chop-chop."
"What? I'm here!" Sam said, looking at Jesse in the mirror and lifting an open palm as if to say 'What more do you expect me to do?'
"Suck in your cheeks" the makeup artist instructed, and the male tennis player immediately obliged.
"Well, I'm off," Rachel said, "It was nice to meet you Sam." The blonde nodded vigorously, his fish face still firmly in place.
"I'll walk you to the elevator," Jesse said, walking out the door. Rachel came up beside him, and he turned his head to look at her as they walked, "Are you still going to the WTA party tonight?"
"Definitely," Rachel nodded, "will you be there?"
"Nope," the agent said, popping the P, "I have a date."
"With an actual person?" Rachel could help but ask.
Jesse didn't deign to answer, but looked mildly amused as he rolled his eyes when they came to a stop in front of the elevator and he pushed the button, "Roz will be there though, and a couple of other people from IMG. So you'll be well looked after. And I'll be available on my cell, if you need to call."
"I'm pretty sure the rest of your clients and I will be just fine without you for one evening," Rachel answered, the elevator drawing her attention when it binged.
"Famous last words," Jesse smiled, watching as she walked past the now open doors.
Rachel turned around, pushed a button and faced her manager, "Try not to be your usual condescending self, or your date will run screaming for the hills before you can say 'Grand Slam'". The doors began to close, and the teenager lifted a hand to give Jesse a half wave.
"I'll see you tomorrow," he called out, just before the shiny doors closed completely, blocking him from view.
Rachel fished her phone out of her bag, and scrolled through her notifications. She replied to a message from her Dad, confirming that yes, she did want to eat an early dinner before she left for the party that evening. She then checked her WhatsApp notification, which was a picture of Brittany, Whitney and Pierce posing with Jackie Burns and Chandra Lee Schwartz, who were still in costume after that day's matinee performance of Wicked. The tickets had been a present from Rachel's fathers who were aghast that their guests hadn't seen the musical yet. Brittany had followed up the picture with the message, 'You were right Rach, it was absolutely thrillifying'. The brunette grinned, typing out a quick, 'Told ya!' as the elevator came to a stop.
The brunette exited the building, looking around for a taxi. She was just about to raise her hand to hail one when a voice caught her attention, "Rachel Berry?"
The tennis player looked behind her, where a man and woman who appeared to be in their late-twenties were looking at her. "Oh my God, it is you!" the woman said, speaking in a strong Australian accent. "I told you it was her, Mark!"
"You weren't wrong!" the man said, his eyes wide. He stuck his hand out, "I'm Mark". Rachel shook his hand, almost automatically. "And this here is Mel. We're huge fans," he added, his accent as strong as his companion's.
"Uh, thanks", Rachel said.
"Yeah" Mel threw in, also shaking Rachel's hand, "We saw your opening round win in Melbourne earlier this year."
Rachel smiled at the pair, more at ease now, "Thank you. Do you live there?"
"Yeah mate, greatest city in the world. Although this one isn't half bad either," he smiled.
"We're actually on our honeymoon," Mel said, lifting up her left hand and showing Rachel her wedding band. "And we love tennis, so we figured, why not come to America and watch the US Open while we're here."
"Oh, congratulations," Rachel said, bobbing her head at the newlyweds.
"Thanks," Mel said, "Well, this is exciting! You're the first tennis player I've ever met, although Mark bumped into Nadal at the Crown a few years ago. Would you mind taking a picture with me?"
"I'd be happy to," Rachel smiled, putting her arm around the woman when her husband aimed his cellphone at them. Other people passing by started to take notice of the trio, their interest further piqued when Mark swapped places with Mel and then tried to take a selfie of all three of them. A few other people came up and asked to take pictures with Rachel, making the teenager wonder just how many of them actually knew who she was, and which ones were just taking pictures with her on the off-chance that she was someone famous. She did, however, make sure to smile extra brightly when posing with people who wished her luck for the upcoming Slam.
While the brunette enjoyed the unexpected fan interaction, it did have a domino effect on the rest of her day; She was thirty minutes late getting to the hairdresser, which meant she got home later than expected, which in turn delayed her arrival at the WTA Players Party.
'Better late than never,' Rachel thought as the car pulled to a stop outside the new restaurant. She watched as Brittany stepped out of the vehicle and followed her friend out, making sure to keep her legs together as she slid off the seat. She eyed the ponytailed tall blonde as she rose, appreciating how good the Englishwoman looked in her slim-cut ladies tuxedo, the bow undone at her neck. 'Santana is going to be a very happy woman,' she thought. The American straightened her own one-shoulder Romona Keveza dress, running her hand down the feather-inspired skirt before standing up straight, tossing her French braid over her bare shoulder and looking up at the restaurant before her.
Tonight's event was a double celebration of sorts because it also marked the launch of Quinn and Francine Fabray's new restaurant, Cheerio. Rachel was glad the WTA had acquiesced to Quinn's request to hold the party there, especially because it showed that the powers-that-be behind women's tennis were happy to support the player after the rough time she'd had over the last few months.
"Rachel, Brittany! Over here!" came the call, the photographer's going trigger happy when the two women turned their way. The pair smiled for the cameras even as Rachel realised that once again she couldn't actually see anything besides flashing lights. They answered the calls of "Who are you wearing?" and obliged the photographers when they asked them to change their stance every so often.
"Remind me to wear sunglasses the next time we have to go to one of these things" Brittany said, talking through her teeth as she kept her smile firmly in place.
They posed for another minute or so before a WTA handler came over and led them inside the restaurant, where the familiar sight of a large step-and-repeat banner welcomed them. Rachel and Brittany both knew the drill by now, and waited a couple of moments before the WTA accredited interviewers were ready to ask them the usual questions – which designer's clothes, shoes and bags they were sporting, what they had been up to so far in New York City, whether they were excited about the year's last major, how they were feeling about their chances and a few other things they were asked before the start of almost every tournament. Rachel's ears picked up Brittany's voice as the blonde excitedly talked about watching Wicked for the first time, and she actually stopped her own interview and looked over with amusement when the young Englishwoman burst into a rendition of Popular. The two friends shared a laugh before wrapping up their individual interviews and walking further inside the restaurant, their media obligations out of the way.
"Do you see San?" Brittany asked, looking around the room.
"Mmm-mm" Rachel answered in the negative, smiling at Fleur Delacour, who had raised a hand in greeting upon spotting the young American. The brunette glanced around, taking in the sight of all the players and their entourages mingling about her. She smiled at the people she knew, and was pleasantly surprised when people she only knew by face smiled at her when they caught her eye, or made small talk when she and Brittany passed them in the room.
"Oh, there she is!" Brittany exclaimed after a while, and Rachel followed her line of sight to see the Latina standing across the room. The Spaniard had her hair down and looked drop dead gorgeous in a nude jumpsuit that she'd accessorized with a silver belt and matching silver heels. 'The world isn't going to know what hit them when these two come out as a couple,' Rachel thought, unsure as to which woman looked more striking that evening.
Brittany grabbed Rachel's hand and pulled her in the direction of her girlfriend who was still oblivious to their presence. Rachel noticed that Santana was talking to the blonde woman she'd seen in Quinn's box on television during the Olympics. The brunette could only see the woman's profile, but noticed she was wearing a smartly tailored chef's jacket. That, teamed with her familiar features, left no doubt in her mind that the woman in question was Francine Fabray.
Santana spotted the two of them when they were less than ten paces away and her smiled at the sight of her girlfriend. Rachel watched as she gave Brittany a once over, and almost felt like she was intruding on a private moment when the Latina licked her lips, reminding Rachel of one of the hungry wolves she'd seen in a children's cartoon many years ago.
"Hey you," Santana smiled as they came to a halt. She leaned forward to give Brittany a lingering peck on the cheek and smiled happily when the blonde stood close to her side, their shoulders practically touching. "How's it going, Berry?", she said, giving the shorter brunette a once over as well, but not getting the leery look she'd had when checking out her girlfriend, "You clean up well."
"Thank you Santana," Rachel smiled, "and might I say, you look stunning as well."
"Preach," Brittany said, earning herself another googly-eyed smile from her dark-haired girlfriend.
A soft laugh from Quinn's sister drew Rachel's attention to her, "Quinn wasn't kidding when she said you were whipped, San."
Santana looked like she was going to pass a scathing remark but then seemed to think better of it, opting to simply shrug her shoulders and concede the point, so to speak. The shorter blonde turned to Rachel, putting out her hand, "I'm Francine, Quinn's sister. And you're Rachel, right?" The brunette nodded, "My sister speaks highly of you." She turned to Brittany, "And you too Brittany. She says you two have been a great support over the last couple of months, so thank you."
"Oh, there's no need to thank us," Rachel said, and Brittany nodded in agreement, "We're friends. That's what friends do."
Rachel must have said the right thing, because Francine reached up to squeeze her shoulder. Just then, a door that Rachel hadn't actually noticed till that moment swung open behind Santana, and two casually dressed men walked out. They had accreditation passes around their neck, and were carrying video cameras. The door began to close again, but was pushed back open and held in place by a short woman who appeared to be speaking to someone behind her. "Thanks for giving us a behind the scenes tour Quinn."
Rachel searched for the blonde behind the other lady, and heard her before she saw her, "It was my pleasure, Kim. Any extra publicity we get is good for the restaurant."
The World No. 1 emerged from behind the door, followed by an older blonde with distinguished features, her eyes on the short woman ahead of them. Rachel's breath caught at the sight of her; Quinn was a vision in a knee-length dress covered in blood-red lace and heels to match. Rachel was struck by the feeling that she'd seen the blonde like this before, and it took her a moment or two to realise that this Quinn looked eerily similar to the one that she'd seen in her dream the morning of her Wimbledon semifinal. Even her hair was the same, up in a bun with a few strands left loose to frame her face. The brunette could see the blonde's lips moving as she continued to converse with the other woman, but all Rachel could hear was the pounding of her own blood in her ears.
The short woman walked away moments later and Quinn looked up at their little group, smiling when she caught sight of the two newcomers and turning to say something to the older blonde beside her. Rachel felt distinctly lightheaded, and absentmindedly wondered whether she hadn't drunk enough Gatorade after her gym session that morning. No, she'd definitely had the amount she usually did. Maybe she was feeling the effects of missing out on her nap this afternoon?
Quinn and the other lady walked over to them, "Hey Rach," she smiled, "wow, you look beautiful."
Rachel blushed, "You're one to talk, Quinn. You look exquisite." Now it was the blonde's turn to blush. "May I introduce my mother, Judy. Mom, this is Rachel Berry."
"It's lovely to meet you, Mrs. … uh… Ms. ..." Rachel let off, not quite sure how to address the woman.
"Judy is fine," Quinn's mother smiled kindly, "unless you wanted me to call you Ms. Berry?" She looked pleased when Rachel shook her head.
Quinn then turned to the Englishwoman, "You look gorgeous too, Brit. But I can't go too heavy on the compliments with you, not with this one in the room," she said, winking and pointing her thumb at Santana.
"Damn straight, Q," Santana grinned, "Go find your own, this one's taken!" Quinn put her hands up in surrender, but Rachel could have sworn she glanced at her before she did.
"Judy, this is Brittany Pierce," the Latina said, introducing her girlfriend.
Brittany reached out to shake the woman's hand, "Pleasure, Judy."
"Frannie, your sous chef was saying something about not being sure how long to leave the beef cheeks on for," Quinn said, addressing her sister.
"That's my cue," the chef said, "I'll be back!" she added, doing her best impression of Arnold Schwarzenegger before disappearing behind the door Quinn and her mother had emerged from.
Rachel turned to Quinn, "Congratulations on opening your restaurant. The place looks great, and I can't wait to try the food."
Quinn shook her head, "This is Frannie's baby. All the credit should go to her."
"That's not true, Quinn," Judy gently reprimanded her daughter, "You've had a say in everything from the décor to the menu, not to mention the money you've put into the venture. You deserve a sizable portion of the credit." The younger Fabray rolled her eyes, but didn't argue with her mother.
"Why Cheerio?", Brittany asked.
Quinn took a breath, "Frannie used to be on the cheerleading squad of her high school in Miami, and they were called the Cheerios. I was homeschooled, but used to eat Cheerios for breakfast, and we used to joke that the word was the only thing we really had in common back then. So, yeah," she shrugged.
"I like that story," Brittany smiled. "and I like that the name actually means something to the two of you."
"Well, as much as I don't want to, I need to go mingle a little, seeing that this is our big opening and all that jazz," Quinn said, her tone implying that she really wasn't actually looking forward to it. She turned to Rachel, "Come find me every so often?"
Rachel nodded, not missing the fact that the blonde had directed that last sentence at her, "I'll make sure I know where you are at all times."
"You better," Quinn said, an amused look on her face. "Well, don't try to stop us! Here we go," she deadpanned. "Shall we, Mom?"
Rachel watched the two women walk away, her eyes following Quinn till she disappeared into the crowd. Was it just her, or was the room hotter than it should be? She looked around for the air-conditioning vents, missing the silent looks of amusement that passed between Santana and Brittany.
