Team Player 2: A Sports Anthology

by Paige, Rochelle

  Emphasis on was.

  Now he was ash in an urn on Mum’s mantlepiece.

  Ashes. Nothing left of him but his Samoan blood in my veins, his dark skin on my bones, and his love of tennis ingrained in my DNA.

  Pain gripped my heart, erasing the warmth, the good feelings, the kids’ smiles… All of it. There was too much of that pain, and I had to say in control. Always.

  Like some sort of internal combustion, I lit the pain on fire and ignited my blood. I gripped my racket until my knuckles turned white in an effort not to whack Brad in his face.

  “Are you frigging hearing this shit?” I demanded of the chair umpire, perched high in his seat that overlooked the court.

  “I beg your pardon?” the ump asked. He was a stiff-looking, older man with a white mustache and wearing a blue blazer with gold buttons.

  “Right, so you’re blind and deaf,” I muttered and flounced onto my bench.

  The ump leaned into his mic and told the sold-out crowd, “Code violation, Mr. Solomon. Verbal abuse.”

  The crowd booed, and I felt their energy tense. Ready to flip from the love part of our relationship to the hate.

  “Oh, that you heard?” I sneered at the ump. “Bloody fucking ridiculous.”

  The ump leaned placidly into the mic. “Second code violation: audible obscenity. Point penalty, Mr. Solomon. 15-love.”

  The crowd was muttering now, the low rumble peppered with a few boos. The cameras were up in my face while Brad Finn was back on the court, aiming a smug smile at the hardtop and readying to serve a game he was winning before it even had begun.

  Fucking with umps after a bad call was one of my favorite pastimes, but as I meandered back on the court, my dad’s disapproving face appeared in the crowd.

  No, I can do this. Keep my shit together. For him.

  I gripped my racket handle tighter, sweat dripping between my shoulder blades; Brisbane was a furnace in January.

  As usual, Brad took his damn time, bouncing the ball again and again, almost running out the serve clock because he knew it irritated me. I didn’t need time to serve. Most times, I walked to the baseline, tossed the ball, slammed it home. Fastest serve average on the Tour and 75% accuracy. I’d logged ten aces to Finn’s none in the first match alone.

  Because I was better than Brad Finn and he knew it.

  He could hide behind his better rank all he wanted; he was fourth while I was forty-third because I let him.

  I read Finn’s body language. I knew where the serve was coming before he did. When he finally tossed the ball and slammed it to my right, I was already there. I blasted it back, then charged the net. Finn whacked a forehand. I returned to the back corner. There was no chance for him to get there in time; the ball hit right where I wanted it. I pumped my fist.

  “Out!” one of the line judges called.

  I stopped; my arm dropped. “What? How the hell was that out?” I demanded of the chair umpire, shielding my eyes from the searing sun to glare at him up there on his throne.

  He gave me a stiff look. “Are you challenging the call?”

  Frustration boiled up in me. “What do you think? Yes, I’m challenging the bloody call. That line judge has been a mess all match.”

  He went back to the mic. “Mr. Solomon is challenging. The ball was called out.”

  As per tradition, the crowd began to clap in unison—clap clap clap—while the replay monitor tracked my shot on the big screen and then zoomed in on the spot where the ball touched down. A hair’s breadth separated the shadow of the ball’s landing from the white line. Had it only touched the line, it would have been in.

  “The ball is out,” the umpire said. “30-love. Mr. Solomon has two challenges remaining.”

  The mostly Australian crowd—what should’ve been my crowd—cheered the call. They’d abandoned me already. I knew what they said about me—I was on Twitter, after all.

  A constant disappointment.

  Never lives up to his talent.

  Too hot-headed and unconventional for tennis.

  They could piss off. What was the point? Nothing. To make some money, sure, but so what? Despite being fined every other minute by the stuffy pricks at the ATP, I’d made plenty of money. That didn’t change the fact that my father wasn’t here to see me. To be proud of me. Life had taken him early and taken nearly all of my love of tennis—our game—with him, leaving me only the scraps.

  “Anger only defeats one person, and it’s never your opponent.”

  Sorry, Dad. I tried. But it was too late.

  Anger was better than pain. Always.

  Here’s some Twitter fodder, ya bloody plebs.

  “Fuck. This. Bullshit,” I said, plenty loud enough for the ump to hear.

  “Third code violation, Mr. Solomon,” he said into the mic almost eagerly. “Audible obscenity and game penalty. Game, Mr. Finn.”

  Brad smiled at the hardtop. Fuck Mr. Finn. Fuck this ump and fuck this stupid game.

  My serve.

  I bounced the ball once, faked the toss up, and then served underhand. Stick-up-their-arses tennis-pros thought serving wimpy underhand shots was poor sportsmanship. As if I cared what anyone else thought. It was a legal maneuver, so I used it.

  Finn raced up for it and barely got a racket on the ball as it limped over the net. His return landed on my side, and I watched it bounce without making the slightest move for it.

  “Love-15,” the ump said over another chorus of boos.

  Finn shot me a dirty look, but he didn’t have to worry. I had no intention of wasting any more energy giving his racist arse a good game.

  I lobbed an easy serve over the net and Finn sliced it to my backhand. I watched it go past, my racket at my side.

  “Love-30,” the ump said.

  The boos grew louder. I grinned sourly, bounced the ball and knocked another soft serve over the net. An easy shot. Finn raised his racket to deal me a winner. I turned my back on him and bent over to show him exactly where he could put his return.

  He slammed the ball to the rear corner of the court, and I slowly sauntered back to the baseline under a torrent of boos.

  “Love-40.”

  The ball girl—or ball woman, as she looked to be in her early twenties—offered me my towel, keeping her eyes politely down, as per protocol. As I took it and wiped the sweat from my face, she ventured a peek and a small smile. The crowds might’ve had a love/hate relationship with me, but women straight loved me. On the court, on last month’s cover of Sports Illustrated, and most definitely in the sack.

  I shot the ball girl a wink, tossed her the towel, and meandered to the baseline to serve. Just to change things up and fuck with Finn, I pretended to underhand, then tossed the ball high and slammed a proper overhead serve.

  Startled, Finn barely got his racket up to keep the ball from whacking him in the balls. His shot hit the tape, teetered for a second, and then fell over on my side.

  “Game,” the ump said, barely heard over the boos that were raining down on me. “The set is now 2-0, in favor of Mr. Finn.”

  I held up my hands and turned a small circle to address the sold-out crowd. Goading their boos.

  If that’s what you give me, that’s what you’ll get.

  Again, Dad’s disappointed face swam before me.

  “Play because you love it. Play because you want to.”

  The whisper of his advice was drowned by the boos and hisses of the crowd; drowned under Brad’s ‘half-breed’ comment that was an echo of those I’d heard at school growing up. But what did it matter? Dad was dead, and this crowd could kiss my arse. The entire sport of tennis could piss off. I played how and when I wanted to play. And after defeating three other players over the last week to get to the finals, one set away from victory, I didn’t want to play anymore.

  McEnroe: I’m starting to feel your Aussie frustration with your home player. That ball called out set him off and he never recovered. He’s tanking the match which will result in more
fines on top of those penalties. Or worse.

  Cahill: Such a shame. Kai has the potential to be one of the greatest tennis stars of a generation. He can’t seem to stay out of his own way. We want to love him, as talented as he is, but whatever demons he’s harboring make it difficult to root for him.

  McEnroe: What does this mean for his chances at the Australian Open in a few weeks?

  Cahill: Your guess is as good as mine. Trying to figure out what Kai Solomon is thinking is above my pay grade. He’s earned enough points to qualify for the Open but certainly more fines and possibly even a ban from professional tennis altogether.

  Chapter Two

  Kai

  “Are you kidding me?” Jason Lemieux demanded.

  My agent was waiting for me in the changing room after the match, hands on his hips, frothing at the mouth. I’d put his mild Canadian demeanor to the test. Again. He glared down at me while I sat on a bench and unlaced my shoes. Not Nikes. I wanted a Nike endorsement, but they were playing hard to get.

  Their loss.

  “It was the finals, Kai,” Jason said, waving his arms. “The last match. You were poised to take home the win. What the hell happened out there?”

  I shrugged. “My elbow was acting up. Didn’t want to aggravate it for the Open.”

  My wicked ace had a downside—tendonitis in my right elbow. But it hadn’t bothered me in weeks.

  Not that Jason needed to know that.

  Not that he believed me anyway.

  “Bullshit.” He ran a hand through his graying blond hair. Prematurely graying, he liked to remind me. “You melted down. Again. And why? The line judge was right. You saw the replay. Your shot went out and that was enough to throw the entire match?”

  “It wasn’t just the call. The crowd was rooting against me. And that prick, Finn, was up to his old tricks.”

  Jason rolled his eyes. “How many times do I have to tell you to ignore Finn?”

  “Ignore his racist comments?” I asked snidely. “Spoken like a true white man.”

  But the anger that had flared so hot—and had seemed so important during the game—was gone now, leaving only the ashes of guilt and more than a little shame for letting my dad down.

  “I know Finn’s a prick but you’re letting him derail your career.”

  I shrugged. “Not up to him. Didn’t want to play anymore.”

  My agent sighed and fixed me with a pitying look I hated. “If I were a coach, I might have some technique to help you, but I don’t. You can’t keep doing this. Take it seriously, Kai, or quit, but it’s killing me to see you squander your talent. You could be right up there with—”

  “With Nadal or Federer,” I finished. “I know. I could be better than those guys. Number one if I wanted.”

  “And? So?”

  “It’s just a game, Jase. Just knocking a ball back and forth across a net. It’s not curing cancer.”

  He rubbed his eyes. “You’re a prodigy, Kai. You know how many kids would give their left arm to be as good as you?”

  “I never asked to be a role model,” I said sharply. “And I never will be.”

  “No, because that would require taking responsibility for your talent.”

  At that moment, Brad Finn entered the changing room after talking to reporters and signing autographs. His genial, friendly smile instantly morphed into a snide sneer neither the cameras nor his adoring fans would ever see.

  “Thanks for the prize money, Solomon. It’s always a pleasure doing business with you. Is the ATP going to have you sign my check directly? Because that would be a real time-saver.”

  “At least you acknowledge you can only win when I give it to you,” I said, rising to my feet. I wasn’t the tallest bloke on the Tour by a long shot, but Finn was “short” by tennis standards. I towered over him.

  Finn held up his hands. “My rank and bank account thank you.”

  I smiled tightly. “As they should. You’d be rubbish without me.”

  Brad’s snarl deepened but Jason grabbed me and pushed me out of the room before things got ugly. In the hallways, press and Tour officials wanted to wrangle me for an interview on my “meltdown” and “tanking the match.” But we pushed past the crowd out to the back lot of the stadium.

  “That argument with Finn was the dumbest I’ve ever heard in my life,” my agent said. “He’s right. You’re handing him a win. Money. The points. A better ranking. And for what?”

  “I play how I want to play,” I said, walking and looking straight ahead. “Points, rank, and money don’t mean shit.”

  “The cash doesn’t? You probably had more fines this year than prize money. You want to take care of your mother, don’t you?”

  I whirled on him, the afternoon sun blaring down on us. “Mum is taken care of. Always. But if you’re worried about your own paycheck…?”

  Jason glowered. He wasn’t a typical cut-throat agent but a good guy. It was probably why I kept him around.

  He reminded me of my dad.

  “You’re going to get another fine after today if you don’t get banned from tennis altogether,” he said, as we hit the parking lot. The black asphalt was so hot I could feel it beneath my shoes. “I’m worried about you.”

  “Why? Don’t stress, mate.”

  I stowed my gear in the back of my Land Rover while Jason heaved a steadying breath.

  “Look. We have two weeks in Hawaii to rest for the Open. I have the place all rented. A nice place. Huge. Guest house, pool, courts. You can take it easy, rehab the elbow if it’s truly bothering you. And not that you’d listen to my advice, but no girls. No partying. Just try to chill out, as the Americans say.”

  I slammed the back door of the car shut and chucked Jason on the shoulder. “Whatever you want, Jase.”

  He rolled his eyes but didn’t protest. What could he say? Nice as he was, he wasn’t my father, and he wasn’t a coach. I didn’t need a coach. I didn’t need anyone trying to get in my head. I played how I wanted to play and won—or lost—when I wanted to.

  No one but me had a say.

  Still, the guilt nipped me in the arse again. Dad wouldn’t have been happy about me tanking the tournament. Or swearing at the umpire. He’d have been disappointed. Sad, even.

  Maybe so, but he isn’t here anymore, now is he?

  No one had given me a say about that.

  Chapter Three

  Daisy

  San Francisco, one year ago…

  “Don’t move.”

  He didn’t sound angry or commanding but calm. Almost matter-of-fact, which struck me as odd, even in those mind-numbing first seconds of terror. A casual tone of voice coming through the black knit material of a ski mask.

  I didn’t move. I couldn’t. He was on top of me, crushing me, one black-gloved hand clapped over my mouth and his face inches from mine. His pale blue eyes just stared at me. Watched me almost curiously while the cold blade of his knife rested against my cheek. My breath rasped in my nose in short, strangled hisses, my eyes wide in the dark of the room as I tried to take inventory of just what the fuck was happening.

  It was so dark. Inky blackness. A glimpse of flowered comforter brought flashes of understanding.

  Guestroom. Parent’s condo. Housesitting.

  And the man.

  Someone help me; there’s a man…

  I could see nothing but the pale, oblong cut-outs of the ski mask and the dull glint of silver against my cheek. My chest felt crushed under the weight of him as he lay on top of me, the thick down comforter the only thing separating his body from mine.

  Broken glass and what was likely the demolition of one of my mother’s prized artifacts from their trip to Africa sounded from elsewhere in their large condo.

  A break-in. This is a break-in.

  I stared at the man. He stared back. His hand on my mouth made my jaw ache. Nearly smothering me while another man or more than one—God, how many? And what are they going to do to me?—ransacked my parents’ huge c
ondo.

  “Shh,” the man said from behind his ski mask. The cold side of the knife blade pressed into my cheek above his hand. “It’ll be over soon.”

  God, what did that mean?

  I would have been sobbing with fear, had I the breath to do it, or any moisture in my body. I was dried out and emptied by the terror until there was nothing left but me, the man, and the air I desperately gasped through my nose.

  A loud smash from the living room.

  The man in the ski mask flinched and his eyes darkened. “Clumsy fuck.”

  “Hey,” said a breathless voice at the guestroom door. My eyes darted to another figure in a ski mask; a lumpy shape—maybe a bag—in one of his hands and a crowbar in the other. “Time to split.”

  “Jewelry?”

  “Yeah, nice haul.”

  My mind raced.

  Mom’s antique engagement ring. Dad’s Rolex. Or did he take it with him on the trip? They’re on a trip. Not here, not here. Thank God they’re not here. No one is here but these men and me and the dark.

  The relentless dark that felt as smothering as the man on top of me.

  The burglar at the door jerked his head. “We gotta go.”

  “No shit. You probably woke the entire block.” He turned his gaze back to me. “Goodbye, sweetheart.” He leaned in, his breath hot and rancid over my skin, and pressed his pale lips to my cheek where the knife had been. A long, lingering wet kiss before lifting his head to stare intently at me. “I love you.”

  The words and the kiss made my skin shiver, and my stomach tightened until I thought I’d vomit. He smiled, satisfied, and then finally the crushing weight lifted as the man rolled off of me and went to the door.

  I didn’t move but sucked in air through my mouth, watching motionless, terror turning me into a quadriplegic, as one dark shaped joined the other.

  “I love you?” The guy at the door laughed at his partner. “You’re sick, man.”

  “And you’re a fucking moron. Let’s go.”

  I listened, my hands holding the covers up to my chin like a little kid does. Because monsters can’t get you through the covers. They lay on top of you and put a knife to your face and kiss you with their cold wet lips, but that’s all. No more.