Love Game - Season 2012

by Gerard, M. B.

  “Quick,” Elise whispered. “It’s now or never.”

  And through they went.

  ***

  Screw Dubai. Really. Screw it! And screw the stupid TV show.

  Gabriella threw her racquet bag onto the bed and let herself fall next to it. Why was she even here? She wasn’t playing the stupid tournament.

  As if it wasn’t enough that she had gone out in the second round of the Doha tournament. How absurd it was to fly to Dubai for one day – and go skiing?

  Gabriella spread out her arms and legs on the bed. After losing her match, Gabriella and her team had begun to arrange their travel to Monterrey in Mexico, the tournament she had planned to play next. But then her phone had rung. Admittedly, she had been stoked when Paola had called her on short notice and asked her if she wanted to participate in a new edition of the Supersport show. This was her chance to prove that she wasn’t just the grumpy sister of a Grand Slam champion, like she had come across in the last installment of the show. She was a fun-loving, friendly girl. In her youth she had gone skiing quite often with her family, so she’d cut a fine figure on the slopes. Also tempting was the fact that Luella wouldn’t be there. When Paola had phoned, Luella had just reached the next round in Doha and even though she had lost today’s match she wouldn’t be here in Dubai until tomorrow, Gabriella had concluded, so the sisters wouldn’t have to meet.

  Freddie had been easily persuaded to go ahead to Monterrey and take a day off, while Gabriella would pay a short visit to Dubai. Excitedly she had boarded the plane in Doha. But the short trip ended on a rather low note – in the customs office of Dubai.

  Even though she hadn’t brought any forbidden items it took almost half an hour to unpack and repack all her luggage. When the customs officers finally dismissed her she noticed the voicemail from Paola on her phone.

  “We’ve already started shooting. Take a cab and come to the Mall of the Emirates. We are in the indoor ski hall.”

  With a smile the driver nodded when Gabriella told him the destination. They sped away and Gabriella relaxed, thinking about racing down the slopes. She hadn’t gone skiing for ages. Suddenly the cab slowed down. Midway through the Sheikh Zayed Road that connected the airport with downtown Dubai, a large truck blocked the way. The cab driver began swearing in Arabic and even though Gabriella didn’t understand a word, her heart sank.

  One hour later she finally arrived in the large indoor ski area.

  “We have just finished shooting,” Paola informed her. Then she shrugged. “I don’t really know what to do with you now, Gabriella. We can’t get the ski instructor to stick around for another hour just for you.”

  A ski instructor? Gabriella almost laughed out loud as she imagined Gemma and Robyn creeping down the baby slopes. That was great. Gabriella would look great compared with them.

  “I don’t need an instructor, Paola,” Gabriella said. “I can already ski.”

  Paola raised an eyebrow, considering the new information. But then she shook her head.

  “No, I can’t let you go alone. You are not covered by insurance without an instructor. But I have another idea.”

  And so Gabriella’s day ended on a plastic sledge in the Family Snow Park. Screw Dubai. Really.

  Gabriella grabbed the hotel flyer on her nightstand and skipped through their catalogue of activities and services. At least she could stay in the players’ hotel for one night. Should she go for a massage? Or for a swim? Then she got up. Today she definitely deserved both.

  ***

  “Alright, ladies,” Tom declared more enthusiastically than he really felt. “Here’s the list Ted and I have put together.”

  Martina Rodriguez and her Italian girlfriend, Antonia Sapore, took the paper and stuck their heads together to look it over. Tom’s invitation had been pretty spontaneous, but the two players had agreed to offer their time. Tom was relieved that they hadn’t confronted him again about why he had taken such an indiscreet picture in the first place. He still felt embarrassed about it, even more so now that the picture had fallen into the wrong hands. But the two girls sat down on the couch and – after struggling briefly with their conscience – readily accepted a sugar-high, induced by the heap of nut-filled mammoul cookies Tom had found today in a small pastry shop.

  “That’s a pretty long list,” Antonia announced while munching the sweet sin. “How do you guys expect to figure out who the anonymous person is?”

  “See, that’s where you come in,” Tom explained, pointing to the list. “We need to figure out if any of these people have a reason to harm you or to benefit from putting you under pressure.”

  Martina and Antonia looked at each other, then at the names on the list again.

  “Do you have a dispute with anyone on the list?” Tom inquired. “Perhaps an old affair?”

  The two girls looked at Tom, then at each other again. They hesitated, then they each grabbed another mammoul and stuffed it into their mouths.

  “Take your time,” Tom said, realizing that he sounded like a police officer who was showing mug shots to some witnesses. Mug shots, he thought. That would have been nice. It might also help the photo recipients to reanimate their memory. He was making a mental note to find pictures of the suspects on the WTA site when his thoughts were interrupted.

  “Well, it was a long time ago,” Martina spoke up. “But I did have a little affair with Anastasia once.”

  “With Anastasia?” Antonia looked at her girlfriend, almost choking on her cookie.

  “It was ages ago,” Martina said defensively. “No need to look at me like that.”

  She shrugged and handed Tom the list. Tom moved uncomfortably in his chair. Perhaps it would have been wiser to invite the girls separately. Who knew what skeletons these lesbians had hidden away in their closets?

  “I’m not judging you,” Antonia blurted out. “I just wonder why you never told me.”

  “Because it was just one night,” Martina groaned in exasperation. “It wasn’t serious.”

  Tom lifted his hand. “Girls, please. No need to get upset about old love affairs.”

  “I’m not upset!” Antonia screamed. Little pieces of nut came flying towards Tom. He dodged a little to the right. “All I’m saying is that if Martina had told me that she had a one-night-stand with Anastasia then I would have told her that, well – ,” the Italian rolled her eyes, “– that I had a fling with Anastasia, too. Ages ago.”

  “Did you?” Martina asked, looking her lover over. “I’m not surprised. Like myself you have a great taste in women.”

  They giggled a little, appreciating their pre-monogamous love lives and now it was Tom’s turn to roll his eyes at so much commotion. He cleared his throat to get the two girls’ attention again.

  “So you both had an affair with Anastasia,” he noted, circling the umpire’s name on the piece of paper. “Would she have any reason to be jealous of you or your relationship?”

  Both girls shook their heads. “She never seemed the jealous type,” Antonia explained and Martina nodded in confirmation. “She’s pretty easygoing, if you know what I mean.”

  “Yes, I think I understand,” Tom said with a wink. “We’ll just keep this information in mind. Is there anybody else on the list you would consider suspicious or capable of pressuring you with these pictures?”

  Martina and Antonia shook their heads. So they only had Anastasia Stea so far. Tom thanked them and accompanied them to the door. Just when he was about to close it, Martina turned around.

  “I thought of someone,” she said pensively. “I don’t really know her. I think most of the gay girls stay far away from her because she is a known homophobe.”

  “Who are you talking about?” Tom asked, in his mind going through the list again. He couldn’t think of anybody.

  “The Knocker,” Martina whispered before she turned around and left.

  ***

  “Is this really necessary?”

  Sasha stared at the pile of brochur
es which Kurt had spread out on the glass coffee table in front of her. When her manager announced his visit to Dubai, picked her up at the airport and called an immediate meeting in his hotel room, Sasha knew that it meant trouble. She hadn’t even had time to bring her luggage to her room.

  “We need to get this out of the way, Sasha.”

  Her manager leaned back on the couch and sighed, which made Sasha angry. It wasn’t him who had to make a decision.

  “Where and when?” she finally asked.

  “I thought, London,” Kurt said, happy that Sasha would actually go along with his plan. “During the Olympic Games would be a good time, I think. Right after the tennis competition.”

  “But after the Olympics I need to get ready for the hardcourt season,” Sasha protested, rubbing her nose nervously. “Can’t we do it after the U.S. Open or in the off-season.”

  But Kurt shook his head.

  “This is urgent. Waiting so long would send out the wrong signal to our sponsors and business partners,” Kurt reminded her. “Also, during the Olympics we will get the most media attention, and not just tennis media.”

  “I need to talk to Jaro first,” she said.

  “I already talked to his management,” Kurt threw in. “They are happy with the timing, even more so with the location. It’s in the middle of the Premier League season.”

  This had to be a conspiracy, Sasha thought. Did she have any say in this at all?

  “So, what’s your plan with these?” Sasha said defiantly, pointing at the brochures.

  “Well, we can’t organize it ourselves, can we?” Kurt shrugged. “We need a wedding planner, of course.”

  “Of course.”

  Sasha picked up a brochure, overflowing with roses and ornaments, and frowned.

  “I want a small wedding,” she proclaimed. “Jaro, too! We talked about it last year in the fall. Nothing big, just some friends.”

  “Alright, alright,” Kurt calmed her down. “Now, let’s please take a look at the wedding planners I prescreened. All of them are based in England and have good reputations.”

  But before she could take a look, he picked up one and gave it to Sasha.

  “I think we should go with these,” he said, tapping the brochure. He was apparently excited about the plan. Sasha took a closer look at the information. A photo on the back of the brochure told her that the ‘Happy Ever After Wedding Planners’ were Mr. Alvin Clutterbuck and Miss Daisy Hardwood. They looked like a couple in their sixties. Was Kurt really sure these two were capable of throwing a party?

  “I hope this is the right decision,” she said.

  “Knock on hardwood,” Kurt joked. “But they are the only ones willing to come and visit us abroad for an appointment.”

  With her schedule that was certainly convenient, Sasha had to admit. But she couldn’t help it that Miss Hardwood’s permed hair and Mr. Clutterbucks thick eyeglasses gave her a bad feeling.

  “I’m still not sure this is necessary,” Sasha mumbled.

  “Yes, it is, and it’s not that hard,” Kurt said. “Just say ‘yes’.”

  He winked at her, but Sasha couldn’t laugh at his little pun. This could only end as a nightmare. A horror movie. The title would say ‘For Whom The Wedding Bells Toll”. Starring Sasha Mrachova.

  ***

  With a little hop Morgana jumped over a pile of books she had taken out of her suitcase and stacked on the floor. These were the new novels, published in the last six months. The Frenchwoman kneeled down and counted the piles. Yes, everything was in order. There were the rare collector’s items, dating back to the late nineties, tattered by the many hands they had passed through. Next to the small heap another stack of books contained the novels that had come out between 2000 and 2004. Then there had been a hiatus of almost two years before the next Tennis Nurse novel was published. Morgana wondered if the players back then had ever found out why the author didn’t write during that time. She made a mental note to inquire about the publication gap. The third pile was the largest, not only because publications of new books had become more frequent after 2006, but also Morgana had been able to buy them right away before they went out of print and could only be obtained by trading during the Grand Slam Tennis Nurse dinners.

  Carefully, she placed them back into two medium-sized metal suitcases she had bought solely for the transport of her book collection. She closed the suitcases, turned the combination to lock them and placed them under the desk. Then Morgana pulled out a smaller suitcase. She hauled it up onto the desk and turned the lamp on.

  “Les autographes,” she mumbled to herself, grabbing a pack of pictures and placing it carefully on the table. They were almost complete. Only two autographs of players who had been competing between 1998 and 2004 were still missing.

  She then sat down on the chair and looked through the rest of the sheets she spread out on her desk. In the last couple of days, she had started compiling a list of players who had been active in the late 1990s and early 2000s who had played doubles with each other. The quest had been quite laborious as there were no complete records available online. After some fruitless searches, Morgana had finally persuaded Alice Chevallier, a service staff rookie, to do the research for her. The French girl wasn’t happy about it but couldn’t say no either. Morgana had promised to return the favor one day. On her days off, she had gone through the records excerpting the data she needed.

  The first two players Morgana investigated were Monica Jordan and Agnes Lion, who had become a very successful doubles team in the last couple of years. After hitting the tour in 1996 Monica had mostly played with Brazilian star player, Alessandra Calhau, if she played doubles at all. Usually, they only played during the Grand Slams. Only in a couple of matches had she partnered with other players, among them Canadian players Susan McKay and her sister Jamie, as well as Bernadette LeBlanc. Morgana had only completed the list up until 2001, the year Monica had left the tennis tour under a huge scandal, only to vanish without a trace for several years.

  Agnes Lion, on the other hand, had only played doubles occasionally in the early stages of her career. She sometimes played with Bernadette or with Italian Florentina Bonelli. The Italian player’s highest ranking was No. 13 in 1999, when she made quarterfinals of both the French Open and the U.S. Open. She had left the tour in 2001 with a back injury.

  Morgana checked her watch. It was 9:30 p.m.. She got up to get ready for bed.

  She really needed to find out more about these players, Morgana thought while she brushed her teeth. The only ones still active from that generation were Monica, Agnes and Bernadette, and Morgana took into account that this fact was perhaps misleading her to make erroneous conclusions. Perhaps these were not the players connected with the Tennis Nurse novel series at all, but then again there was the blowfish incident and the death of her character, which undeniably led to Agnes. However, Morgana had to admit that it could be someone else who had been informing the author of the novel series of what was going on on the tour. A reporter maybe. Or a physio.

  She went to bed and closed her eyes. But she couldn’t fall asleep, her mind kept on working. There was someone else who seemed good friends with Monica and Agnes, and who had a reputation of being very open with intimate details of other players’ lives. Yes, Morgana thought, making a mental note. She needed to talk to Michelle van der Boom.

  ***

  Gabriella felt a little better. But just a little. The view from the rooftop swimming pool had been stunning and the massage had done wonders to her back and her legs, but had also relaxed her to the point that all the disappointment of the last weeks had rushed freely through her body. In the end, she had been lying on the massage table and crying through the hole in the headrest. While going down in the elevator, she decided to go to bed – and go directly to bed and not pass the hotel bar.

  The elevator door opened and all Gabriella could see at first was a huge mountain of bags and suitcases piled onto a cart, which moaned under the wei
ght and which came rolling towards her. Gabriella couldn’t see who was on the other side of the trolley but she could hear a woman huffing and puffing. People were so selfish, Gabriella thought. That person could have at least taken a look before she decided to occupy the whole elevator. The last thing Gabriella wanted after her bad luck today was to be crushed to death by an overloaded luggage cart, so she stepped to the side of the cabin and retreated into the back corner.

  She heard the woman step forward on the other side of the trolley and push a floor button. The doors closed and the elevator began to ascend. She was going up again!

  “What did you do?” she asked across the heap of luggage. “I wanted to go down!”

  “Oh,” the voice on the other side sounded startled. “I didn’t know anybody was in here.”

  There was a bit of a rustling sound and a bag was removed from the top of the luggage mountain. From the other side, Sasha Mrachova was staring at her.

  “Sasha,” Gabriella said coolly. She reconsidered. It was probably better to be rolled over by a luggage cart than spend time with Sasha, who was lusting after her irresistible twin sister.

  The Czech’s jaw had dropped but she didn’t say anything. Then she pushed the bag back, blocking the view, and – judging from the sound of it – began hammering the floor buttons.

  “What are you doing?” Gabriella yelled over the luggage.

  “I’m stopping the elevator. I’m sorry,” Sasha stuttered. “I will get out. You can have the elevator to yourself. I don’t need it.”

  Gabriella had to chuckle. Of course! Sasha thought it was Luella in the elevator. Nobody knew that Gabriella was in Dubai except Paola, Gemma and Robyn. Sasha was probably afraid she’d knock her out again.

  “You better be quick or I will come over,” Gabriella shouted to the other side.

  “No!” Sasha stammered. She was still hitting the buttons but the elevator didn’t stop.