So vivid. Too vivid. The memory of all those nights.
Sasha took a look at the clock on the nightstand. It was 6:43. She jumped out of bed and ripped open the curtains and the window to let in a good breeze of New York’s fresh air. The already blue sky promised a wonderful day at the U.S. Open. Then she took the skipping-rope and began. After tonight’s dream she shouldn’t even consider going down to breakfast without doing a hundred jumps.
Five, six, seven, eight. The roped whipped over the floor.
Lulu – No! Gabriella! – was pulling up Sasha’s shirt. It was tight. She had trouble taking it off.
Fourteen, fifteen, sixteen. She was pulling and Sasha was curling up into the sheets.
Thirty-nine, forty, forty-one. Sasha needed to jump faster to get these ideas out of her head. Lulu, Gabriella – what did it matter. They were both manipulative bitches who had cost her another Wimbledon title.
Fifty-three, fifty-four. Kisses on her stomach. Dark curls, like a curtain, slowly drawn over her body. Dampening the sound.
Sixty-eight. Sasha was panting. She had her eyes closed. Strong, confident hands. How much she needed Gabriella’s strong hands.
Seventy-six, seventy-seven. Sasha jumped higher and faster. She should call Anastasia later and set up a date for tonight. Yes, that was a good idea. Even though the last time she had made it into Anastasia’s bed – with the intention to screw the thought of Gabriella out of her mind – she couldn’t perform. She just didn’t feel like it. The touch of Anastasia’s body was comforting but Sasha didn’t desire her. She only wanted – .
“This time it will be better,” she quickly said to herself, trying not to lose count.
Ninety-seven, ninety-eight, ninety-nine. Hundred.
Sasha threw the rope into the corner and fell onto her bed.
What could she do against the Galloways? How could she get Gabriella’s murmurs out of her ear and her touch off her skin? How to unteach her own nerves, her muscles and her tongue what they had been doing for many happy months?
“I need to take control again,” Sasha whispered. “I need to get revenge.”
She took out her cell phone and opened the WTA app. The draw of the U.S. Open was hard to read on the small screen but she could make out the Galloways’ names. Lulu was out. She had already lost against Carina Gnocchi in three tough sets. Actually she had played really well. But the Knocker had won with perseverance, as always.
Gabriella. Where was the other twin? Sasha found her on the other half of the draw sheet. With her finger she followed the lines that connected the players like members of a family tree. Instead of marriages there were matches.
Gabriella and she were in different halves of the draw. Meaning, they could only meet in the last match of the tournament, in the final. Only Carina Gnocchi and Morgana Doré were in Sasha’s way, as she could meet these Top 10 players in the quarterfinal and the semifinal. On the other side Gabriella had an easy draw. The only player who could bother her was Marieke Bender. Gabriella had a horrible record against her. A quick check of the head to head confirmed that of four encounters the Galloway twin had lost – four. But Gabriella was a much better player now and full of confidence after her Wimbledon win. There was a good chance that she could win against the aging Dutch champion.
Sasha sat up straight on the bed and nodded to herself.
How fitting, she thought. No marriage for her, but tennis. A showdown on the court. One final match of revenge.
***
“Where is everybody?”
Elise gave Polly a hug and looked around. The Canadian shrugged.
“I’ve been waiting for ten minutes but I haven’t seen Paola yet,” she answered.
They were standing at the U.S. Open players’ help desk and waited for the Supersport reporter to arrive with Lars. Today’s task was spending a day with the ball kids and learn how to roll the ball as precisely and quickly as the kids did. The girls and boys would be the teachers and the players the students. Elise leaned against the desk and sighed.
“She’s always late,” she stated the obvious.
Polly laughed. “We should know by now and preventively arrive ten minutes later for every shooting.”
“Oh, ten minutes more sleep,” Elise dreamed. “That would have been lovely.”
“Didn’t you sleep well?”
Elise frowned. For a moment she looked like she wanted to tell Polly something. Was something worrying the German, Polly wondered. But then Elise shook her head.
“No, no,” she quickly said. “I just had to finish the Tennis Nurse novel last night.”
Polly laughed, but then she remembered something.
“Can we swap novels soon? Morgana doesn’t give me any novels anymore,” she told Elise.
“Yes, I know!” Elise exclaimed. “I visited her this morning to get a new one and she said it wouldn’t be responsible to let me read Tennis Nurse. It was perhaps too early in the morning. Morgana can be so sensitive about the time.”
Polly shook her head. “No, she is convinced that the novels do damage. She told me she knows someone who informs her about the real story behind Tennis Nurse and that it is a way to indoctrinate the readers.”
Elise chuckled. “She’s nuts. Who would say that about these novels?”
Polly shrugged. “Someone named Larissa Perkins. That’s ‘the source’ as Morgana calls her. Apparently she worked for the WTA back in the day and knows everything.”
Elise was still laughing. “Indoctrinate? That’s the best joke I’ve heard in a while.”
“This probably means that Morgana won’t be at the Tennis Nurse trading dinner,” Polly grumbled. “She didn’t go at all this year. It’s a real loss.”
She looked around again and checked her watch. It was almost fifteen minutes after the arranged time but Paola was nowhere to be seen.
“Perhaps she is busy preparing an interview with Sasha,” Elise wondered. “She made a statement this morning. Have you read it?”
Polly shook her head.
“Me neither,” Elise said. “Apparently Jaro was cheating on her.”
“Oh, no,” Polly frowned. “Poor Sasha. No wonder she blew off the wedding.”
Elise shrugged. “I’m not so sure Jaro is the problem. Perhaps he cheated on her, but perhaps he had good reason. Who knows.”
“You don’t like Sasha?”
“Not particularily,” Elise admitted. Then she looked around. “I really wonder where Paola is. I could have done something better with my time. And all the ball kids must be waiting, too.”
So Elise didn’t want to talk about Sasha, Polly realized with surprise. She grinned a little. Was there a history between Sasha and Elise? No, it couldn’t be. These two hardly knew each other or had any mutual friends.
Suddenly a hand tapped her shoulder and Polly turned around.
“Telephone for you,” Alice Chevallier said with a grin. With her lips she silently said the word ‘Paola’.
The Supersport journalist apologized a gazillion times for not showing up. She had overslept and begged them to wait.
***
The sun blinded them when Gabriella and Lulu stepped out of the cab.
“We are late,” Gabriella remarked.
“So is Paola, I bet.” Lulu winked at her younger twin and walked towards the main building.
“Will you stay a couple of days longer?” Gabriella asked. Lulu had lost her third round match the other day.
“I will stay as long as I’m needed,” Lulu said, squeezing her sister’s arm. Gabriella smiled. Since talking things out in Montréal the sisters had had dinner regularly and even went out together in Cincinnati. They were not back where they used to be but neither felt they needed to be. They both had their own lives now and Gabriella was more than surprised how well Lulu had taken the news about Sasha. Perhaps because the recent break-up with Rafael and her struggles on court had humbled the older twin. They would need more time to build a new rapport, but t
he fresh beginning was promising.
Like her sister last year, Gabriella had fared badly so far in the American pre-Slam series. She had only reached the second round in Montréal, however her surprise loss was explained by a long grass court season and fatigue. Her third round loss in Cincinnati was credited to Michelle van der Boom. The Dutch player had decided to give it one more try on the singles tour after tasting blood in the Olympics doubles competition and the tournaments before. Michelle was still a great player and had received a wildcard into the tournament. Gabriella’s loss was disappointing, but accepted by the American press.
“Not this time,” she mumbled. She had to do much better in the U.S. Open, otherwise a storm of critique was about to hit her.
“Are you worried?” Her sister asked, holding the door to the building open for Gabriella.
Gabriella tilted her head.
“Thinking about Sasha? Or Marieke?” Lulu teased her.
“Both, actually,” Gabriella said. Lulu stepped closer and put her arm around Gabriella’s shoulders.
Having her sister by her side again would hopefully give her enough strength to play her best tennis at her home slam. What Lulu went through in the past season she had to endure now – the high expectations after her Wimbledon title, the marathon of interviews and requests, the fans who wouldn’t let her leave after a practice until she had signed every photo and every magazine. Combined with the fact that Sasha had gone missing, it was fair to say that Gabriella felt terrible. Her best tennis in her condition probably wasn’t enough to beat Marieke Bender.
“If you work out your little problem with Sasha you will feel confident again,” Lulu said, giving her a pat on the back.
“But how?” Gabriella grunted. “I can’t talk to her. She only plays her match and then she is gone again. She is constantly guarded by her team. I have no chance to talk to her in private.”
Lulu contemplated. “When would you meet her on court?”
“In the final,” Gabriella answered immediately. She had looked it up as soon as the draw had come out.
“Well,” her twin said, opening her hands in a there-you-have-it gesture. “As long as Sasha is in the tournament you must win your matches, too. Playing the final is your best chance to talk to her. She wouldn’t withdraw only to avoid you.”
Gabriella pondered over the slight chance she had of meeting Sasha in the last match of the U.S. Open.
But a slight chance was better than no chance. She had to take it.
***
It was almost past nine, which was late for Candice, but today she would stay in bed a little longer than usual. She closed her eyes, opened her mouth and let the taste of caviar spread over her tongue. Why get up if you’re being fed deli food by your girlfriend?
“What a nice gesture,” Candice mumbled with her mouth full.
The hamper had been brought half an hour ago by the bellboy with a note from Sasha Mrachova. Thank you, it said.
“You definitely deserve it,” Agnes grinned, while munching on her own caviar toast. “What next?”
“The olives with lemon zest,” Candice ordered, opening her mouth for the next deli load. She really deserved the indulgence, having saved Sasha’s ass – and with the ass a whole lot of money and embarrassment, Candice thought.
Her plan had worked brilliantly. It was all a matter of presentation, and a good communications manager could sell dirt for gold. You just had to take the publicly known facts, add a few words and let the audience construct a plausible story around it themselves. The real story – two gay people getting married as a cover, with one of the two getting cold feet at the last minute – would stay in the dark.
“Kurt was happy, too,” Candice remarked.
“I can imagine,” Agnes smacked her lips. She was tasting one of the small lobster tapas. “Has Sasha told you why she ran away?”
Candice shook her head. “But it’s none of my business anyway. I don’t care about her reasons, I just care that people believe the reason I gave of her bailing out.”
After a long night of discussing and disputing with Sasha and Jaro how to proceed and what to say.
Nowhere would Sasha claim that Jaro had cheated on her. But in the official statement Sasha said that someone closest to her had deceived her. The Czech herself had come up with the wording and Candice had to admit that it was quite clever.
The known facts, runaway bride Sasha calling off a long-planned, highly-anticipated celebrity wedding, in the course of which she crashed an oldtimer car and disappeared for several days, together with her cryptic statement and the timeout after the Olympics, left the public with only one conclusion – Sasha had found out about Jaro cheating on her. She had to have found out only shortly before the wedding ceremony, felt it was impossible to go through with it and, confused and hurt by the deception, sped off in the sports car.
With gratitude Candice noticed that spectators held up signs of encouragement and support for Sasha during her first matches at the U.S. Open. Another poster said ‘Goodbye cheaters. Have no mercy, Sash!’ and marriage proposals were shouted down to the court throughout the match.
It was perfect. On the one hand, Sasha Mrachova seemed available again, stirring the fantasies of millions of men and making her interesting for potential sponsors. On the other hand, everybody knew that she was badly hurt. And wasn’t that a great reason to stay single – at least for the rest of her career?
Candice smiled to herself. Yes, Sasha never again had to explain why she didn’t have a boyfriend.
Jaro on the other hand was the bad boy in this story. It had to be his fault. Candice had boosted the ‘cheater’ theory by a few phone calls to the UK. The next morning a former football colleague of Jaro was quoted in The Sun, saying that Jaro had a reputation. He wouldn’t be surprised if the Czech football star had two-timed Sasha more than once.
Neither Jaro nor Sasha were available for a further statement. Sasha would cultivate the image of the hurt girlfriend who would stay away from relationships in the future to focus on tennis again. Jaro suddenly had a reputation as a ladykiller, which wasn’t the worst thing if you were trying to hide the fact that you were gay. He would concentrate on football again and once in a while be seen with various girls.
Candice grabbed another piece of caviar toast and raised her champagne glass.
“To true love and marriage,” she grinned and clinked glasses with Agnes.
Agnes giggled and leaned forward to kiss her girlfriend. They were just about to get it on, when a call saved the champagne bottle from falling out of bed and the caviar and the lobster bits from spilling over the sheets.
Agnes sighed. She answered the phone, nodded and gave the receiver to Candice.
“It’s Alice,” she informed the communications manager. “She says it’s urgent.”
***
Ted pulled out a pen and slowly crossed out a name on the paper.
1 2 Supervisors + 4 staff members (players’ service)
2 Candice Crantz + 2 staff members (communications)
3 2 Chair umpires (Stea, Sanchez)
4 2 Physios (McManus, Reichelt)
5 Marieke + 2 team members
6 Morgana + 2 team members
7 Carina + 3 team members
8 Angela + 2 team members
9 Ivana + 1 team member
10 Monica/Agnes + 1 team member
11 Bernadette
12 (Martina/Antonia)
13 (Elise)
“We are so dumb,” he said turning to Tom. “We concentrated on one poor person.”
“We couldn’t be sure she was innocent,” Tom remarked meekly, but Ted was right. They had wasted many months observing the Romanian – for nothing.
“Well, we found out that she is actually the least innocent person traveling on the tour,” Ted chuckled a bit. “But she doesn’t have the pictures.”
The photos were not on Anastasia’s computer and neither Sasha nor the other girls could believe tha
t the umpire was behind this. Given Anastasia’s busy bed schedule it was entirely implausible that she was the jealous kind. Instead, all the players must be jealous of her.
“So, we have to keep looking.”
Ted moaned. “But where?”
They leaned over the list again.
“When I asked Martina and Antonia they mentioned Carina,” Tom said pensively.
Ted nodded. “I never thought she was the type for these clandestine operations. She’s more like a bull in a china shop with her blunt homophobia.”
“Yes, she would have probably made a scene and hung the pictures out in the players’ cafeteria for everyone to see.”
Ted nodded again. Then he slowly crossed out Carina’s name on the paper.
“Let’s cross out the WTA staff, too,” he suggested and let his pen do the talking.
“Marieke?” Tom asked.
“Too senior and too decent for this kind of childishness,” Ted said resolutely, crossing out the Dutch woman’s name.
“Morgana is weird but she is only interested in her PhD. I doubt she’s the one,” Tom added. Morgana’s name was buried under a dash.
“Carina is out,” Ted said, going down the list. “Angela? No way. She’s absolutely honest and straightforward. Elise told me that she was one of the first people she came out to. She was very supportive.” He crossed out Angela Porovski’s name.
“Ivana?” Tom wondered. He had conducted a few interviews with the aspiring Russian player. She seemed like a normal kid, mostly hanging around with either Gemma and Robyn or the other Russian players.
But Ted shook his head. “Can’t be Ivana. She lost in the first round of the Australian Open. And Sasha said that Luella had received her picture during the middle weekend of the Australian Open. Ivana would have never stayed that long in Melbourne after a loss.”
Tom agreed. He also remembered that Ivana played a smaller tournament in Pattaya the following week. No, the Russian would have left Melbourne right after her loss and flown to Thailand.
Love Game - Season 2012 Page 30
