Tiebreaker
P. Dangelico
Copyright © 2018 by P. Dangelico
Tiebreaker
978-0-692-15249-2
All rights reserved.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Cover Design: Najla Qamber, Najla Qamber Designs.
Proofreader: Judy’s Proofreading.
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Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Epilogue
About the Author
Risk Taker
Prologue
Noah
You’re not supposed to meet the love of your life when you’re thirteen. It’s not normal, it’s not natural, and it’s without a doubt destined to end badly because it is inevitable that one of you will screw it up. And in the aftermath, when the fog of war clears, all you’ll be left with is the memory of what you once had and lost to keep you company at night. In this case, I’m the one to blame––and I’ve been paying the price of my actions ever since.
“Noah!” a girl’s voice called from somewhere on the trail behind us.
It was right before my thirteenth birthday and we were on a school field trip to Lake Thunderbird State Park that included all three schools––elementary, junior high, and high school––in a statewide campaign to educate us on Oklahoma’s endangered species. Needless to say, when you have that many students assembled in one place there never seem to be enough chaperones.
Back then, there was little I loved more than a challenge and I had gotten it in my thick head that every birthday was going to be marked by something memorable.
I’d overheard some of the older boys talk of a hiking trail, one that led to a cliff you could jump off of into the lake. I’d decided that it was going to be my something memorable that year, and once I’d formed a plan, it didn’t take much to talk Dane and Jermaine, my two best friends since kindergarten, into joining me. If it involved breaking rules, those two were always up for it.
“Noah Callahan!”
Dane and Jermaine glanced over their shoulders while I continued marching up the trail, doing my best to ignore her.
“Maren Murphy is calling you,” Jermaine said.
“No shit, doofus. I got ears.”
“Why’d you tell your girlfriend where we were goin’?” Dane, knucklehead number two, added.
“I didn’t tell her nothin’, dummy. She saw us.”
We’d made a run for it when the school chaperones were busy with lunch. Maren had been watching us all day so I knew she wouldn’t miss us leaving. “I didn’t think she was gonna follow––and she ain’t my girlfriend. Say it again and I’ll beat the shit outta you.”
Dane laughed. “You can try.”
I should’ve known though. It didn’t matter whether I was in my backyard or on the football field. Back then, those green eyes, too big for her face, were always watching me.
“Noah!”
Hoping to scare her enough for her to turn tail, I blasted her with the force of my anger. “What?!”
She stopped short, about twenty feet down the marked path, and raised a hand. “Hi,” she said, a soft smile lighting up her face.
That two-letter word was a sucker punch to the gut. No matter how many times I told her to leave me alone, to go away. No matter how mean I was to her, she always had a smile for me.
“Go away, Maren!” I shouted, taking my anger out on her because I knew Dane and J were going to give me crap about it later. “Go back to the campsite and leave me the hell alone!”
Temper simmering from embarrassment, I headed up the hill at a faster pace, the guys right behind me. We kept going until the trees cleared and the path opened onto a rocky outcropping.
Walking up to the edge, I looked down and the first pang of doubt took hold of me. Twenty feet, I figured, eyeballing the distance as best I could. As good a swimmer as I was, twenty feet might as well have been a hundred.
Problem was, the desire for a cheap thrill always overshadowed common sense. This wasn’t the first time––and it certainly wouldn’t be the last either.
While I kicked off my sneakers and stripped off my t-shirt, Dane and Jermaine conducted their own inspection of the drop.
“I don’t know about this––” Jbear, the smartest of the three of us, said first.
My heartbeat was one clap of thunder after another, and yet you would’ve never known it; my thirteen-year-old pride wouldn’t let me look scared in front of my buddies. That lake had my name on it and nothing was going to stop me, not fear and not my friends telling me not to.
“I ain’t doin’ it,” Dane seconded, kicking a rock over the side. He shook his head when the sound of water splashing returned many beats later.
I stopped undressing to get a good look at my best friends. The undisguised fear on their faces told me nothing I said was going to convince them to jump.
“Bunch’a pussies,” I mumbled, pissed that they were backing out at the last minute.
Dane’s answer was to flip me the bird.
“I don’t think you should do it,” Jermaine added for good measure but he knew the drill; once my mind was made up about something it was as good as done.
“I’ll do it,” said the girl suddenly standing behind us.
We all turned to face her. With her hair chopped real short, her knees skinned from diving for the ball one too many times, and the boys clothing she always wore she could easily pass for one.
“You gonna jump off this?” I taunted, pointing to the ledge. I didn’t believe she’d go through with it.
Maren walked right up to the edge of the cliff, took one look at the lake, and nodded. Without a moment’s hesitation, she stripped off her t-shirt to reveal a tank top and toed off her beat-up Nikes.
Looking back on it, I deserved every minute of the ass whooping my father gave me when I got home. Maren was around ten at the time. I had no idea how strong a swimmer she was. She could’ve easily gotten hurt––if not worse.
“Can you swim?” My tone stunk of contempt even though I was secretly impressed with her courage.
“I’m an okay swimmer,” she replied, ignoring my ongoing shitty treatment of her.
“You two bitches can meet us at the bottom with our stuff,” I told my friends. Dane and J shared a look of doubt before returning to glare at me.
“Ready?” I had to ask, expecting her to back out at the last minute. Instead, she looked me dead in the eyes, stepped up, and took my hand like it was the most natural thing to do. Like she’d done it a million times before. I remember staring at it, thinking how small it looked in m
ine.
“I count to three and we go on jump.”
She stared back and nodded, her unblinking green eyes filled with undisguised awe.
“Last chance––you sure?”
“On jump,” she repeated, licking her lips, the first sign that she was nervous.
With those two words, I closed my fingers tightly around her small hand and started counting. And on jump, hand in hand, we stepped off that ledge together, grinning like fools.
It only took me another decade to figure out that was the day I fell for Maren Murphy.
Chapter One
Maren
“Advantage, Williams,” the umpire calls.
Sweat beads on my forehead, leaks down my temples and cheeks. I wipe it away with the back of my wristband but there’s more where that came from. After three hours of playing, everything is soaked in sweat. Shirt, hair, headband. I can feel my feet squishing in my sneakers.
My thighs burn like I’ve been playing with dumbbells strapped to my ankles. My shoulders ache. The hundred percent humidity and heat are as heavy and dense as cement in my lungs. It’s almost impossible to breathe.
Clear history…clear history…shake it off.
The low hum of the packed stadium breaks into my thoughts. My eyes dart to the stands of Arthur Ashe Stadium, to where my boyfriend sits next to my manager. Mirrored shades shielding his eyes, Oliver uncrosses his arms and pumps a fist, urging me on.
“Quiet, please.”
I check my racket strings, take my place behind the line, squat, and sway left to right. I rotate my racket exactly once in both directions. I’m superstitious. Always have been. I’ve gone through the same routine since winning my first pro match and this isn’t just any match. This is the match I’ve been waiting for all year––all my life frankly.
Exhaling my frustration, I close my eyes briefly and dig deep, searching for a spark, trying to summon what’s left of my energy.
Visualize the win…visualize the win…see the ball hit your racket…visualize the win…you can do this.
The crowd quiets. My opponent bounces the ball twice, throws it up in the air, and everything else falls away. My field of vision narrows, reduces to a single florescent yellow object. She reaches into the clear blue sky and nails the serve, her loud grunt echoing throughout the stadium.
My mind shuts down and my muscles react, the millions of hours I’ve devoted to the game of tennis boiling down to this singular moment. It’s what I live for, sacrifice for, what gives me purpose and drive. This is what I was born to do.
As the ball barrels toward me, I know I’m late. This game is measured in fractions of seconds and inches and right now they are not measuring up. Call it an instinct, a gift––whatever. I’m late to react and I know it.
Time slows down as I dive for the ball and still it isn’t enough. Tennis racket stretched out, I watch it miss the strings, clips the frame, and sail past me.
Thud.
The sound of the ball hitting the padded wall is not one I ever want to hear. The crowd roars, exploding out of their seats. The hard court makes contact with my wrist, my hipbone, and lastly my face. I scream but no sound comes out.
All I feel is pain. So much agonizing pain branches through me it edges out every other sense. I lie on the hard court reeling, curling myself into a fetal position as I fight back the sting of tears, the darkness eating me up.
In the midst of the thunderous applause, I barely hear the umpire make the call. “Point, Williams. Game, set, and match.”
* * *
“Stress fracture,” my orthopedic specialist tells us while he studies the test results. Frowning, he adds, “With a TFCC tear.” The stench of rubbing alcohol and bad news in the examination room is going to make me hurl.
They say shitty things come in threes. It’s safe to say losing in the quarterfinals of the US Open qualifies as shitty event number one. When I started playing tennis competitively at the age of eleven, my grandfather sat me down and asked me what my plan was. I told him to win Wimbledon and the US Open Women’s Singles Championship. That plan has not changed.
A few years ago I realized my dream of winning Wimbledon but I’ve never gotten further than the quarterfinals of the US Open. It’s my holy grail…and also my kryptonite.
“Fuuu––”
“Language,” my manager barks, cutting me off. Katya Surkovska, aka the language police. Katya has been my manager from Girl’s Singles champion to Wimbledon champion. She’s a badass in a Dutch boy haircut. The Terminator in a navy suit. And one of only a handful of people I trust.
“Camera zoomed in on bad language.” In the heavy pause, she brandishes her signature glacial stare. “Bad language is bad for good girl image, no?”
“I’ll try to remember that next time I’m close to blacking out from a fractured wrist.” Let’s call falling on said wrist as I dove for my adversaries 128-mile-per-hour serve shitty event number two.
Turning to my doctor, I ask the question everyone in the room is dreading. “How long, Doc?” Seeing as Marty is the best orthopedic surgeon in the country, I know his next words will determine the course of my career for the foreseeable future.
On the other side the examination table, Oliver glares at the doctor. A phone rings and I belatedly realize it’s mine. Oliver takes it out of the back pocket of his jeans and I catch sight of the screen.
Coach. His concern is touching seeing as he barely waved when Oliver was loading me into the car to take me to the hospital.
“It’s broken,” he answers with no preamble.
“Can I talk to him?” I reach out with my good hand and Oliver turns, blocking me with his shoulder.
“She’ll miss serious time…”
“Can I…” My hand hangs, palm up. He stares at it and shakes his head.
“Hmm…unfortunately,” he continues. I’m a pretty patient person. I’m not prone to outbursts in my daily life. I leave all of that on the court. And yet right now I’m fighting the impulse to punch him in the eye and take my phone back. “We’ll keep you posted.” Ending the call, he slips my phone back into his pocket.
“I want you in surgery as soon as possible to repair the triangular fibrocartilage. That’ll take at least twelve weeks to heal.”
One look on his face tells me Oliver’s gearing up for an argument. I squeeze his bicep in warning and his dark blue eyes fall on my hand. When they return to me, I mouth, “Don’t.”
“Longer before you can start using it. The hairline fracture will take eight to ten,” Doc explains.
Over three months before I can pick up a racket again.
Four years ago I suffered a rotator cuff injury. I remember the overwhelming feeling of panic, of time slipping through my fingers, as if it happened yesterday. I remember the feeling of dread and the urge to scream and howl. I saw three specialists before I accepted the diagnosis.
For a competitive athlete knowing that something is out of your control is incredibly hard to handle. You can do physical therapy. You can see doctors. But ultimately time is in control. This feels nothing like that. On the contrary, an odd sense of peace wraps around me, an eerie calm, and with it comes a shameful bout of relief.
The pressure has been brutal this season. More than usual and there’s usually a lot. Truth is, for the first time since turning pro, I’ve got nothing left in the tank. That sucker’s blinking on empty.
“That’s cutting into our training for the Australian Open,” Mr. Empathy remarks.
My doctor eyeballs my boyfriend with undisguised contempt. “If you know of a way to get the bones and ligaments to heal on command, Wakefield, please share it with the rest of us.”
“Maybe we should seek another opinion, Marty. Maybe you’re losing your touch.”
“How quickly can you get me in for surgery?” I interrupt before this gets really ugly.
“How does tomorrow sound?”
“Perfect.”
Confident by Demi Lovato blasts fr
om my phone and I know it’s my sister calling by the ring tone. Oliver once again retrieves it out of his back pocket and glances at the screen.
“Phone,” I order and shove out my good hand. Glancing at it, he places it in my palm with a frown. In the meantime, Marty waves and walks out of the examination room.
“I give you moment, yes? Then we talk.” Katya doesn’t wait for me to answer. Katya doesn’t ask questions; she hands out orders and makes you think you have a choice. Turning on her sensible Gucci loafers, she makes for the door. I press accept with apprehension.
“Bebe, are you okay?”
“I should be asking you that.”
“Broken wrist. But I’m more butt hurt about losing.” The deafening silence that follows makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up straight. “What is it?”
“Grandpa died this morning.”
Everything stops. The earth from spinning. The sun from setting. All that’s left is the heavy pounding of my heart and the voice screaming in my head, telling me that he should’ve had more time.
“Maren? You there? Mare––”
It feels like an eternity passes in silence before I find the energy to answer. “Yeah.”
“You have to come home. He made you the executor of his will.”
And there it is, a trifecta of shit.
* * *
“You’re sure you don’t want to come with me?” I ask one last time as I hurry into the closet of the Four Seasons suite we’ve called home since coming to New York for the US Open.
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