At Meadow Ridge Country Club, tennis wasn’t just a pastime. It was a battlefield wrapped in pastel polos, espresso martinis, and meticulously manicured courts. And reigning over it all, like a perfectly tanned dictator in Lululemon, was Donna Levine.
Donna was the doubles team captain for the Tuesday Morning Ladies League. She’d held the position for seven years, and in that time, she’d developed a reputation as both a master strategist and an absolute menace. Her clipboard was practically an extension of her surgically refined arm. Donna didn’t ask if you were available to play—she told you when and where to show up. She had notes on every player’s strengths, weaknesses, medical history, and—rumor had it—even divorce proceedings.
Matches weren’t scheduled; they were orchestrated.
She insisted on white skirts only (“navy is for 3.0s and funerals”), banned visors larger than five inches (“we aren’t shielding solar panels, ladies”), and once suspended a player mid-season for using a damp grip that she deemed “psychologically unsettling.”
But every empire, no matter how Botoxed, eventually falls.
Enter Rochelle. Recently divorced for the second time and returning to the tennis scene with a vengeance. A former college player who claimed she once hit with Maria Sharapova (no one could verify this), Rochelle drove a matte black Range Rover with personalized plates that read “ACEDU.” She joined the Tuesday team halfway through the season and immediately raised eyebrows.
She wore all-black Lija outfits that hugged a little too tight. She served big. She called her forehand “a weapon.” And she did something Donna never could: she made tennis look cool.
At first, Donna tried to play it smart. She gave Rochelle line 2 doubles with Lisa—the team’s most non-threatening player, known for bringing gluten-free lemon bars and apologizing for winners. Donna figured Rochelle would either fizzle or fracture.
She did neither.
Instead, Rochelle crushed her opponents, flirted with the 40-something head pro during drills, and started gathering followers like a cult leader in Fabletics. Lisa suddenly had new Lululemon sets. Even Traci, the team’s notoriously silent ace server, started showing up to practice again.
Then came the day that changed everything.
It was a routine match against their rival club, Willow Oaks. Donna benched Traci, claiming her “strong scent profile” (i.e., too much perfume) was distracting. Instead, she put herself in line 1—despite having a sprained wrist and a nasty tendency to double fault under pressure.
They lost. Badly. Worse, Donna screamed at Rochelle for “encouraging the other team with that aggressive cheering.”
Rochelle smiled and nodded. Said nothing. But by that evening, the Team Freedom WhatsApp group was born.
At first, it was just memes. Donna photoshopped as Napoleon. Clips of tennis tantrums. But then it became strategy. Who would take over captain duties. Who’d call the league rep. Who had the best connections with the club board. And just like that, Rochelle pulled off the most elegant coup in suburban history.
They called an emergency “team bonding brunch.” Donna wasn’t invited.
Rochelle, with perfect blowout and an espresso martini, made her move. “We need new energy,” she said, her voice sweet and savage all at once. “This team deserves to have fun again. Tennis shouldn’t feel like jury duty.”
Every woman nodded like it was church. And just like that, the coup was complete. The league rep was looped in. Donna was demoted. Rochelle became captain.
The next week’s lineup was posted in Canva with gold fonts and sparkles. Traci was back on line 1, now wearing Chanel No. 5 like it was armor. Lisa had new pink sneakers and a serve that didn’t look terrified. Even the ball machine had a new nickname: “Donna.”
Donna? She locked herself in the club Pilates studio for three days. Then she tried to start her own rogue team: “D-Force.” It was her, two injured players from the Thursday B-team, and a woman named Marjorie who hadn’t swung a racquet since Obama’s first term. Their uniforms were beige. Their team slogan was, confusingly, “Still Serving.”
They lost every match.
Meanwhile, Rochelle’s team became a phenomenon. They warmed up to Beyoncé. They had custom towels. One of them started dating a visiting pickleball pro. The club newsletter wrote a full-page feature titled: “The Queens of Court Three.”
Donna eventually resigned from D-Force after a blowout loss to the junior team. She was last seen attending a wine-and-paint night, where she reportedly stabbed a watercolor portrait of a tennis court with her brush.
Rochelle? She now hosts Sunday morning tennis clinics called “Sweat & Sip.” The head pro leads drills, she leads post-match rosé discussions, and the waiting list is 40 members deep.
The Tuesday Team? Undefeated.
The vibe? Dangerous.
The legacy? The stuff of country club legend.
And somewhere in a dusty locker, Donna’s clipboard sits… untouched. Waiting. Plotting.
