Losing at Love

by Jennifer Iacopelli

  “Again, not so much with the slow.”

  “Slow is overrated,” she said, pulling him down for another kiss, just as the sky rumbled overhead and raindrops started to fall around them, light and slow at first, but then heavy. In just moments, a torrential downpour exploded from the clouds, soaking them almost instantly. They both ignored it, the droplets of rain rolling over their skin, slipping between their lips as their mouths came together slowly, tongues chasing each other back and forth. Finally, they both leaned away.

  “It’s raining,” Paolo said, wiping rivulets away from her face.

  “It is,” she agreed, slipping her hand into his. They gathered their things and walked off the court, still unconcerned about the buckets pouring down on them. The damage had been done, they were both totally saturated.

  They slipped inside the player’s lounge, drawing almost every eye in the place, crowded with athletes and coaches whose practice sessions had been cut short by the downpour.

  “No,” Paolo said, squeezing her hand in his. “This is no good.”

  “What?” she said, using her free hand to push her rain soaked bangs, which had escaped her clip, out of her face. She caught a glimpse of Dom in the corner and took a step back into Paolo, hiding herself. She didn’t feel like talking to Dom, not even after the discovery they’d just made out on the court. He’d shoot it down and she’d be right back where she started this morning.

  “Come on, we’re getting out of here,” Paolo said, drawing her eyes away from her coach and back up to him. “No tennis today, the forecast is nothing but rain.”

  “So what are we going to do?”

  His eyes lit up. “Have you ever been to Italy?”

  ~

  “You know, for a minute back there, I thought you really wanted to hop on a plane,” Jasmine said, leaning back in the small metal chair inside the gelateria, the tiny Italian hole in the wall in London that claimed to have the best gelato north of the Alps. She let her tongue run over the spoon, making sure to lick every last bit of frozen strawberry awesomeness before digging in for another spoonful.

  “Would you have come with me?” he asked, though his eyes were focused on her mouth pretty intently.

  She smirked. “The way this year has been going, I really might have.”

  “I do not understand. You are at Wimbledon. You are one of the best junior players in the world. You are gorgeous and very, very sweet and you are so dissatisfied, gattina. It makes no sense.”

  Jasmine quirked an eyebrow at him and that little nickname he’d bestowed upon her. She liked the way he said it, his tongue catching on the g. “In your experience, do women make sense?”

  “Touché,” he said. “There must be a way to change it. Like your backhand. Tell me, perhaps I can help.”

  Jasmine regarded him closely, digging the little spoon into her gelato. She wanted to tell him, she really did, but that would mean admitting it to herself. Admitting that it stung that her parents didn’t show the slightest inclination to be at Wimbledon during qualifying, that Dom’s acceptance of her considering college, while he meant well, had felt like a betrayal, that Indy’s decision to play singles was the right thing to do but made her feel like she was being left behind and that Teddy’s total inability to be a decent friend had just made it all worse.

  “You do not have to if you…”

  “No one believes in me. No one thinks I can do this, except me and you.”

  “Fuck them.”

  “Paolo.”

  “No. Fuck them. My whole life they said I was too slow. My feet were slow on the grass and on the hard court, even worse on the clay. Too slow. Tardo.”

  “You’re not too slow.”

  “Yes I am, but the trainers did not understand how to work around it. Did not understand that slow does not mean impossible. What do they call you?”

  “Weak,” she said. No one had actually said that to her, not out loud, but they talked around the point. They called her game not quite there yet or said that maybe in a few years, but it all boiled down to weak.

  He hummed. “Physically,” he said, letting his eyes travel over her, lingering on her naturally thin arms and skinny legs, “perhaps, but not mentally. You are strong where it counts and you play like you were born to it, which, gattina, you were.”

  “Just because my parents…” she started, but he cut her off.

  “No, that is not what I mean,” he said, leaning forward in his chair and reaching out to point a finger at her breastbone. “You were born to it here,” his finger lifted up toward her temple, “and here. You have the ability. I saw that today, so what is stopping you?”

  “I don’t know,” she said, trying to figure it out. It wasn’t Dom or Indy and it wasn’t her parents. They always supported her, had since she was a little girl, but they didn’t believe, not like she needed them to. If they did, they wouldn’t have been pushing college tennis so hard; they would have understood what she wanted for herself. But did she really need them to? She’d never thought about it that way before. “Nothing, I guess.”

  “Okay,” Paolo said, sitting back. “So the goal is to play on tour, yes? Live in hotels and airports and play until your body gives out?”

  Jasmine smirked. To most people, it sounded awful, but to her, that sounded like heaven. “That’s the goal.”

  “Then you are going to need money. It is an expensive life.”

  She wiped her sweaty palms off on the soft denim of her shorts. “And how do I do that?”

  “Sponsors,” he said. “And to get those, you need an agent.”

  An agent. Going pro. Giving up her eligibility to play NCAA and just going for it on tour. It would destroy one option entirely, but that option, the one people kept insisting she hold on to just in case, it wasn’t what she wanted. “An agent. Just so happens, I know one of those.”

  Chapter 18

  June 26th

  “Let’s just finish up with some serves and volleys, okay?” Dom called out from the side of the court and Penny nodded, swiping her wristband over her forehead. She’d worked up a decent sweat during the practice session with Alex and she felt good about her match that night. Glancing up at the sky though, she doubted very much if her match would actually be played.

  Grabbing a ball from the basket set up next to the court, she took deep breaths, the same way she would out on the court during her next match. Breathing deeply and slowly would help lower her heart rate if she was worked up after a point or by whatever situation she found herself in. Even though her blood wasn’t pounding through her veins now, it never hurt to just practice the routine. The things she did during practice became second nature during the real matches.

  Bouncing on the balls of her feet for a moment, she looked up across the court and let her vision blur out Alex’s familiar shape. Instead, he took the form of her next-round opponent, Danjela Dujmov from Serbia. Bringing her hands together, she held the racket against the ball as her knees bent, all her power pushing down toward the ground and then erupting up and through the ball as her racket head made solid contact. She sent a low-lying screamer down the middle of the court, skimming perfectly off the edge of the T.

  Penny raced forward, anticipating Alex’s backhand block back over the net and caught the return midair, burying it as far away from him as possible. But as she took that last step and the ball flew exactly where she wanted it to go, her ankle spasmed and sent a laser-like flash of pain through the joint before it locked in place, sending her sprawling to the ground. A noise flew out of her mouth, half shock, half agony, as her ass hit the ground hard, knocking the wind from her lungs.

  “Shit,” she cursed, wincing against the pain. It wasn’t nearly as bad as Paris, but it still hurt like a bitch. She didn’t look up, but she knew Dom and Alex were racing in her direction. Two shadows quickly passed over her as they both knelt at her side.

  “What kind of pain is it?” Dom asked.

  “Can you move it?” Alex asked
right over him.

  “Don’t try to move it,” Dom commanded, taking her leg in his hand gently and extending it out toward him. Alex reached for her hand and squeezed it lightly, their fingers entwining against the smooth grass court. “What do you feel?”

  “It’s…it hurts,” she admitted, not able to just shake off the throbbing this time. She’d done something to it.

  “Come on,” Dom said, grabbing her other hand. “Let’s get you up and get a trainer out here.”

  The tour trainer was a slight man, maybe fifty, with white hair and a dark tan from day after day out on the courts tending to the athletes. Penny had seen him around the courts before, but she’d never worked with him. She knew that look though, the crease between the eyes, the twist of the mouth and the tsking of a tongue against teeth. This guy wasn’t pleased with what he saw.

  “I don’t like that the pain increases as your sessions wear on. I don’t like that you didn’t consult anyone before starting up your training again. I don’t like that you weren’t being monitored when you started training again.” The trainer sent a glare to Dom, whose eyes were narrowed and shoulders slumped, already blaming himself much more than the doctor ever would. “I don’t like any of this. Playing on a tear like you are, you’re likely making it far worse than it has to be. Just two weeks of full rest and you’ll be healed. You should withdraw now. Fight another day.”

  Penny blew out a breath and shook her head. “And Zina Lutrova will be Wimbledon champion. Again. That’s not going to happen. I’m not waiting another year.”

  “Penny, listen to the trainer.”

  She pulled her foot out of the trainer’s grasp and glared up at her coach. “No, Dom you listen to me. I’m fine. I’m playing.”

  “Penelope.”

  “I’m serious, Dom. I’m playing, so either get on board with that or get the fuck out of my way.” Her coach stood there, mouth open and eyes wide. She’d never seen him struck speechless before and the harshness of her words started to echo back into her mind. Maybe that had been too much. He meant well, he always did. He wanted what was best for her, but she wanted that too and if he couldn’t see it, then she’d have to make him.

  “Penny,” Alex said, while Dom threw his hands up in the air, stepping away. “Come on love, this is…”

  “It’s an injury I can play through. A cortisone shot today and I’ll be good as new.”

  “They don’t always work,” Dom shot back over his shoulder.

  “If it doesn’t, she won’t play,” Alex said before she could open her mouth to respond again. “Right?”

  “Right,” she agreed between clenched teeth. It was going to work. Simple as that. It had to.

  ~

  The back garden in Alex’s house was a small rectangle of slightly patchy grass with a black wrought iron fence separating his property from the homes behind and to the side. It provided a modicum of privacy in the middle of an ancient city. Green ivy, not unlike the stuff that lined the fences at Wimbledon, curved around the iron barriers. The sounds of cars, mostly a few streets away, but some on the road just in front of the house ebbed and flowed through her ears. It was almost like the beach back at OBX, where Alex had asked her to lay down and imagine herself winning at Roland Garros and now it was the only thing that could extinguish the fire running from her pulsing temples through her entire body.

  She heard the click of the French doors behind her opening and then closing and bare feet thumping softly on the little stone patio just outside the house.

  “It’s not a court and we don’t have the ocean, but I suppose this’ll have to do.”

  “You can hear the traffic. It’s soothing.”

  “Whatever you say, love. How does your ankle feel?”

  “Numb. Won’t really know until tomorrow.”

  “Did you talk to Dom? About what you said to him?”

  “I didn’t really mean it.”

  “Obviously. Dom puts up a good front and he knows you’re pissed off, but it was probably a kick in the gut to hear those words from you.”

  “I’ll apologize.”

  “Good.”

  “It’s not as bad as that trainer says it is.”

  “You’re a doctor now?”

  “I know my body. I know how much is too much for it and it’s fine.”

  “It’s not fine, Pen, but if you want to play, no one is going to stop you.”

  “That’s correct.”

  He rolled toward her and propped himself up on his elbow. Leaning over her, he let his fingers trail over her neck, hooking one around the chain of her necklace and pulling the coin out from beneath the collar of her shirt. He took it in his hand and squeezed a fist around it. “Just think really hard about what you want here, love. You’ve got the next ten years, maybe more to win Wimbledon, twice, three times, maybe four or five.”

  She brought her hand up and wrapped it around his. “Not six?”

  “If you want to. If you make good decisions and take care of yourself and…”

  “And don’t play on an injured ankle because I’m too proud to withdraw?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “You didn’t have to. If you felt like you could’ve managed the pain in your knee in Australia, would you have played?”

  “Yes.”

  “See?”

  “But that was before.”

  “Before what?”

  “Before I figured out what was really important.”

  She groaned, pulling away, the necklace falling from his grasp, and rolled over onto her stomach, letting her hair fall into her face. “Don’t get mushy on me now, Alex.”

  “I’m just saying that I was a mess back then. If my knee was hurting now and my coach and my doctor were both telling me that it was a bad idea to play on it? I’m saying I’d probably listen.”

  “I want to win Wimbledon. I’m in Lutrova’s head. I can beat her.”

  “You already proved that to everyone.”

  “It’s not about everyone. It’s about me. I’m not bullshitting when I say that my ankle is fine. It hurts, but I can manage it and it’s not a reason to withdraw.”

  “And if your ankle gives out on you?”

  “And if your knee gives out on you?”

  “Knee’s fine. Doctor said so. Doctor’s saying something different this time and he’s a good one, wouldn’t bullshit you. He knows what he’s asking when he tells you to withdraw.”

  “You think I should withdraw too then. Just say it.”

  “Yes, I do. I think you want to win Wimbledon so badly that you’re letting it cloud your judgment. I think you’re making a mistake. A big one.”

  “You’re just one more person I’ll have to prove wrong then.”

  “I guess so.” He sat up, squinting at the sky. “It’s going to rain. Come on inside.”

  “In a bit. I’m just going to think a little bit more.”

  “Penny…” he trailed off.

  “In a bit. I promise.”

  He disappeared inside the house, standing at the sliding glass doors that led out to the garden for a moment before moving out of sight. Penny rolled back over, her hands going to the necklace that slipped out from underneath her shirt. She twisted the chain around her fingers and pulled the coin into her palm. Slowly, she rotated her ankle out—no pain—then back in, a short, sharp twinge. Not so bad. It was like she said, manageable.

  ~

  She crept up the stairs, using the banister for support, hopping as gracefully as she could from step to step. The second floor was dark, no light shining out from under any of the guest room doors, but as she turned, the door to the bathroom opened and Indy stepped out into the hallway. Her blue eyes were wide as they met Penny’s. She knew Indy wanted her forgiveness, but at the moment, she just didn’t have it in her. Penny managed a grimace and Indy’s shoulders sagged before she slipped into the guestroom she shared with Jasmine.

  With a heavy sigh, Penny faced the other end of the hal
l, the master bedroom door was cracked open just a hair, just enough for the golden glow of light to spill out into the hallway. A shadow passed by, Alex moving around the room, getting ready for bed. She’d been harsh, more than she meant to be, but they’d sworn to always be honest with each other after that fiasco in Paris with Caroline and those pictures. Be careful what you wish for, Pen, she said to herself, shaking her head and letting her bad foot rest gently against the floor. The pressure wasn’t too terrible, the effects of the cortisone shot beginning to take hold in the joint. Still, she did her best to keep her weight off of it as she hobbled down the hallway. He’d given her honesty and that’s all she’d ever asked of him.

  She slipped through the doorway and whispered, “Hey.”

  He stood at the opposite end of the room, shirt unbuttoned, taking his watch off his wrist. As he glanced up, she was able to catch his gaze in the mirror. “Hey,” he repeated.

  “Listen, I’m sorry about…”

  “Don’t apologize,” he said, shaking his head and turning around, giving her an even better view of the firm chest underneath the sides of his shirt falling open over his torso. “One of the things I love about you is that fire, Penny. If you weren’t a stubborn mule, I’d never have fallen for you in the first place.”

  Stepping into the room fully, she reached back and shut the door behind her. “Can we…can we just ignore everything when we’re in here? No tennis. No ankle. No Indy giving me the “please forgive me” puppy eyes. No pressure for you to win again. No pressure for me to win for the first time. Pretend like none of it is happening and it’s just me and you, nothing else?” she asked, her teeth catching on her bottom lip as he moved closer to her, crossing the room in just a few, long strides.

  “In here, it can be however you want it. You and me, though, we don’t have to pretend. All that other shit, it doesn’t matter. It’s always just you and me, forever. How’s that sound?”