Hey newsletter fam,
A couple of weeks ago, a friend of mine — she actually writes her own substack, Heart Cooks Brain, which I enjoy reading — posted on Instagram about a fiction writing group she was starting that worked like a game of telephone: the first person would write a short story, then pass along a short prompt to the next person, and on down the line.
I’ve always wanted to try writing more fiction and exercise my creativity in different ways, so I joined. When my turn came this past week, I was super excited to dive in. Then I received my prompt:
“A young woman prioritizes herself.”
**pause for laughter**
Not exactly what I’d choose to write about, normally. Not exactly what someone would choose to read from me, either.
But I took the challenge head-on, and wrote the short (very short, less than 1000 words) story below. I prefer to let work like this stand on its own, without introduction, expectation-setting or “further ado,” but I’ll spot you the title: WAGS is sports terminology for “wives and girlfriends.” If you are interested in what my inspiration was or any other details of the story, reply to this email and I will fill you in.
Otherwise…enjoy!
WAGS
by Matt Craig
“I think we should sleep in separate rooms tonight.”
Not exactly the words you want to hear after kissing someone. But she could tell by his tone that his mind was made up, and he wasn’t expecting a debate.
She couldn’t argue, after all. As she looked around the hotel room, she realized there was little to suggest she was living in it anyway. Tennis rackets, strings, shoes and bags covered nearly every inch of space not already cluttered with shirts, shorts and logoed hats.
“I’m sorry,” he said after a moment. “It’s just…this the biggest match of my life. This could be the moment I’ve been working for, we’ve been working for. I can’t have any distractions.”
Distractions. Please.
“Ok Eric, if that’s what you think is best.”
She retreated to the corner and began packing up her single suitcase. What stung wasn’t so much the rejection of her love and support, which for the past three years had been constant through wins, losses, and the creeping inevitability that Eric was never going to live up to the potential everyone seemed so sure of in his early 20s.
No, what stung the most was how much more important his life had become than hers. When they first met, she was the promising young actress on a breakout TV show. He was a fan. She’d never even heard of him.
But he was tall, he was kind, and his lifestyle was seductive. Australia in the winter, France in the spring, London in the summer. She fell hard, and when the travel back and forth for work became too much, she was happy to take a season off to explore the world with him. This is what love felt like, she was pretty sure. Then one season became three years, and now, she was nothing more than a supporting character in his hero’s journey. If he said he needed to go here, do that, or be alone, she went along with it no questions asked.
She opened the door to her new room, only to find he’d booked her a suite. Of course he had. The room was massive, and outside the windows were soaring views of the All England Club. There was even a note on the dresser. “Welcome to Mr. and Mrs. Eric Rydell. Good luck in the quarterfinals tomorrow!”
I’m not Mrs. Eric Rydell, she thought. Fuck this. She took one last look around, then turned around and wheeled her bag back out the door.
ONE YEAR LATER
“I’m sorry I just don’t see your name on the list.”
She froze in humiliation, reaching quickly for her phone to retrieve the email she had received the day before. Panicking, she held the phone out of her car window to the gate attendant.
“This date says the 16th. Today is the 15th.”
“Ah! My mistake! Umm…I guess I’ll…be…back” she said, in a mock Terminator accent, regretting it immediately when the gate operator nodded without smiling and raised the arm of the gate.
She drove under the arch and onto the beautiful studio backlot for all of five seconds, before u-turning and heading back out to the street.
That’s enough fun for one day, she mocked herself. Back to your cell.
The cell in question was a 350-square foot studio apartment, with a twin bed in one corner and a kitchenette in the other. The walls remained bare to accommodate both her self-tape audition videos and, even more humiliating, somehow, the TikTok videos she’d been filming at the suggestion of her old manager.
All of this – the long, sad drives back from studio lots and casting offices, the austere apartment, the lip-syncing to scenes from “Friends” for teenagers on TikTok – it all felt a whole lot less romantic now at 28 years old.
She turned to Instagram to cure the existential panic. The algorithm, or maybe it was the universe, immediately served her Wimbledon highlights. Eric Rydell through to the semifinals for the first time. An interviewer tells him he’s playing the best tennis of his career. He credits a “renewed focus.”
She tossed her phone across the room.
The next morning, she pulled into the studio and tried to summon some excitement. The part wasn’t exactly Shakespeare. She was playing one of those classic supportive housewife types, in only one scene to cheer up the Great Man after facing some adversity he’s destined to overcome in the end. A handful of lines, a tearful hug. She’d probably be done by lunch.
In the hair and makeup trailer, one of the stylists is watching the tennis match. “This American guy is HOT,” he said.
She studied her lines, partially to calm her nerves but mostly as an excuse to avoid watching the screen. She couldn’t help herself, especially after she saw that Eric was losing, badly. After his final shot clipped the net, he shook hands gracefully with his opponent and wiped the tears from his eyes with a towel. He looked up to the stands, to the box where his coach and his parents were sitting. They clapped and smiled their encouragement. For a brief moment, she thought she should be there too.
A knock on the door.
“You’re needed on set.”
She walked onto the soundstage and made her way to her mark. When she arrived, she couldn’t help but laugh.
The set was unmistakable. A hotel room, with clothes and documents strewn across the floor and the lead actor sitting on the corner of the bed with his head in his hands, crying.
Well, she thought, at least this time I’m getting paid for it.