A few minutes later, Sinjin ran into the locker room spouting apologies—and excuses.
“I know you’re probably pissed, but hear me out. First, I overslept. Then I had a hard time hailing a cab. When I finally got one to stop, we ran into the world’s worst traffic jam. After sitting at a standstill for ten minutes, I tossed the driver twenty bucks, got out of the car, and hoofed it. I won’t need the ten-minute warm-up because I just ran three miles.”
Sinjin finally took a breath. Then she flashed the smile that had melted women’s hearts all over the globe.
“How was your day?” she asked, quickly changing out of her street clothes into her tennis attire.
“Better than yours.”
Laure stowed her racquets in the bulky, oversized bag that also contained an extra set of clothes, an mp3 player, assorted protein-laden snacks, and the battered silver loving cup she carried for luck. The tiny trophy was the first she had ever won. She had earned it at a junior tournament in Paris when, as a twelve-year-old, she had beaten a string of more heralded players three and four years her senior. The trophy was a tangible reminder that although she might be overlooked because of her relatively small size, her all-court game wouldn’t let her be forgotten.
“I called you after the final last night, but you didn’t pick up,” she said as Sinjin leaned over to tie her shoes. “What happened to you?”
“Viktoriya Vasilyeva.”
Laure frowned. “Is she the one who gave you those boulders in your ears?”
Sinjin touched one of the diamond studs weighing down her lobes. “She bought them for herself, but she decided they looked better on me.” She zipped her warm-up jacket. “You’re not jealous, are you?”
“Hardly.” Laure pulled a racquet out of her bag and pantomimed a few ground strokes. “I’m a firm believer that one should never take relationship advice from someone who isn’t in a relationship. So feel free to take what I say next with a grain of salt. Do what makes you happy, Sin, but be careful. Viktoriya’s more trouble than she’s worth.”
“What do you mean?”
Laure swung at another invisible ball. “You’ll see.” She looked up when the opposing team approached. Emme Wechselberger kept walking, but Abby McGuinness lingered to talk.
“I’m glad you could make it, Sin. Laure and I were starting to think you couldn’t be arsed to show up.” Abby’s lilting Irish accent and broad smile took the bite out of her words. “Okay, maybe that was a bit of wishful thinking on my part. No matter who comes out on top today, you and I will give the home folks a reason to lay the tea and crumpets aside, eh? After the match, what do you say we get together and tip a pint to our success?”
Sinjin slung her racquet bag over her shoulder. “Loser buys the first round.”
“Then I guess the first round’s going to be on you.” Abby turned to Laure. “You’re welcome to join us if you like.”
“Thanks for the invitation, but I don’t like to crash private parties.”
“You should. It might turn that perpetual frown of yours upside down.”
“See?” Sinjin said after Abby left. “I’m not the only one who’s noticed you’ve become a nun.”
Laure felt her cheeks redden. “I haven’t been out of the dating game that long,” she said as they made the long walk from the locker room to the tunnel that led to stadium court.
“Why are you out of the dating game in the first place when there are so many women who would love to hear you whisper sweet nothings to them in that sexy accent of yours?”
“I’m looking for Miss Right not Miss Right Now.”
Applause greeted Abby and Emme as they exited the tunnel and walked on court. Laure waited to be introduced.
“You’re not going to find her either if you’re too busy playing and practicing to search,” Sinjin said.
“Says the woman who’s too busy running from traffic jams to warm up for her match.”
“Are you going to hold that against me for the rest of our lives?”
Laure playfully snapped the rainbow-colored rubber bracelet on Sinjin’s wrist. “Only if we lose.”
They walked out of the tunnel together, waving in unison to the surprisingly large crowd.
Ninety minutes later, Laure prepared to serve for the match. She and Sinjin had gotten off to a sluggish start, losing the first three games before they fought back to win the first set in a tiebreaker. The second set was more routine. Up 7-6, 5-2, they held double championship point.
“Forgive me yet?” Sinjin asked as they huddled at the baseline.
In the stands, a large group of fans in colorful tie-dyed shirts began a rhythmic chant. “Let’s go, Rainbow!”
Laure tried not to smile. “Ask me after we win the next point.”
She loved playing doubles. Singles garnered more attention and drew larger crowds, but the camaraderie of doubles was unmatched and the fans were much more vocal. Sinjin, though her behavior could be maddening at times, was the best doubles partner she had ever had. If Sinjin played every singles match the way she had when she’d decimated her in the semifinals, everyone on tour would be in trouble.
Sinjin covered her mouth to keep Abby and Emme from reading her lips as she and Laure discussed strategy. “Where are you going with this next serve, out wide or down the middle?”
Laure raised a ball to her lips. “Out wide.”
“Are you sure? The last time you served wide to Abby, she punished us with one of her killer forehands.”
“I know.”
“Then why play with fire?”
Laure’s competitive pride kicked in. “Because I dare her to hit two in a row.”
“Whatever you say, partner. I’ll let you know if I’m going to poach or stay home.”
Sinjin slapped Laure’s palm, then skipped to the net. Laure waited for her signal. After Abby and Emme assumed their return positions, Sinjin held one hand behind her back. Her fingers were crossed, indicating that if the return was in reach, she intended to enter Laure’s half of the court to play it. If Abby’s reply went down the line instead of crosscourt, Laure would have to hustle to cover the shot.
Laure hit her first serve at less than full strength to make sure she got the ball in play. The ball landed short and bounced toward the stands. The rubber soles of Abby’s tennis shoes squeaked as she stretched to return the acutely angled shot. Sinjin sprinted to her right at the same time Laure sprinted to her left.
Abby barely got her racquet on the ball. Her return popped high into the air.
“Yours!” Laure called out as the ball drifted over the net.
Sinjin circled under the ball, setting up for an overhead. Then she squared her feet and let the ball bounce. She took aim at the wide gap between Abby and Emme, who watched helplessly as the incoming smash split their defenses.
Laure began to celebrate even before the ball landed. Running toward Sinjin, she raised her hand to give her a high five.
“Forgive me now?” Sinjin asked.
She swept Laure into her arms and kissed her. Laure froze, uncertain how to respond. She hated public displays of affection, but Sinjin’s excitement was infectious. She laughed as Sinjin spun her in a delirious circle.
“I’m sorry I got carried away,” Sinjin said after she lowered Laure to the ground, “but that’s the happiest I’ve ever been. On court or off.”
“I know what you mean.” Laure’s adrenaline was still pumping even after the trophy presentation. “Maybe I will join you and Abby tonight,” she said as they headed to the locker room. “As long as I can have wine instead of beer.”
Sinjin pulled her ringing cell phone out of her racquet bag and broke into a grin. “I’m going to have to give both of you a rain check, I’m afraid.” She turned the phone so Laure could read the display.
Nicely done. Now get back over here ASAP. I want to see whose is bigger. And I’m not talking about trophies. V.
Laure cradled her latest trophy in the crook of her arm.
“Have fun.”
Sinjin flashed that lady-killer smile again. “Don’t I always?”
Pre-Qualifying
London
Three Years Later
Sinjin stared out the bedroom window. The sky was bright blue. Not a cloud to be seen. She would have preferred one of the dreary mid-summer days England was known for. Overcast skies and constant, pissing rain would better suit her foul mood.
She had been off the tour for months. So long she had begun to wonder if she’d ever make it back.
She thought back on her career. She had made the U.S. Open final when she was twenty-two years old. A few months after that, she was firmly ensconced in the top twenty. The next year she had reached the top fifteen. Everything was as it was supposed to be. Then, just as she set her sights on the top ten, everything began to fall apart. She developed tendonitis in her knees, which slowed her approaches to the net and made her an easy target to pass. The losses began to mount. Her ranking, once as high as eleven, plummeted to the triple digits.
She tried everything. Rest. Ice. Even cutting back on doubles to save herself for singles. Nothing worked. The losses continued to pile up. Especially to Viktoriya. She seemed to draw Viktoriya in the first round of every tournament she qualified for, ensuring both an early exit and a substandard payday. Even though she could make Viktoriya scream like a banshee in bed, she couldn’t win a match against her to save her life. And that was before she underwent the procedure she hoped would save her career. How would she fare now?
I’ll probably be lucky to win a game.
As Viktoriya had predicted, she had soared to number one. Sinjin’s ranking began with a one, too, but two more digits followed it. Relegated to the minor leagues, she fought for scraps while Viktoriya raked in millions. Sinjin’s professional life was in disarray. Her personal life was, too. Her sister was in the other room, but she had never felt so alone. Where were the fans when she needed them? Where were the groupies now that she was on the verge of being a has-been instead of a sure thing? Who would she be if she couldn’t be a tennis player?
She was scared. She would play again. Of that, she was sure. But would she be the same player she once was? Could she climb the mountain again or were her best days behind her?
She looked down at her damaged knees.
“Get well, will you? We’ve got work to do.”
Stephanie stuck her head in the room. “Laure’s on the phone. Is it safe for her to come over or are you in one of your moods?”
Sinjin tossed the latest get-well card into the growing pile. “I don’t have moods.”
“I’m sure you think your shite doesn’t stink either, dear sister, but let me assure you you’re wrong on both counts.”
“Tell her to come over. I could use a friendly face.”
Stephanie blew her a kiss. “Thanks, sis. I love you, too.”
Sinjin smiled to herself after Stephanie closed the door. Even though she gave Steph a hard time, she couldn’t live without her.
Maybe one day I’ll meet someone who feels the same way about me.
*
Laure held a bouquet of geraniums in one hand and a bottle of red wine in the other. “I didn’t know whether to bring wine or flowers so I brought both.”
Stephanie Smythe ushered Laure inside her apartment. The tastefully decorated flat in London’s trendy Soho district was a stone’s throw from the upscale clothing store where the budding fashionista worked as a window dresser.
Stephanie reached for the flowers. “Cute and courtly. Tell me again why you’re still single.”
“You sound like your sister.”
“Is she playing matchmaker again?”
“More like assistant coach. We Skype each other a couple times a week. I’d rather talk about something other than tennis, but she always ends up trying to give me advice about where I should direct my serve on an important point or how many times I should approach the net during a match. If she keeps it up, she’s going to give my real coach a run for his money.”
“She misses the game.”
“I miss her, too. We all do.”
“Fingers crossed, she’ll be back on court soon. Then she can stop giving me gray hair and give you career advice in person. If you ask me, I think she should audition for a different role in your life.”
“Such as?”
“Girlfriend.”
Laure shook her head as she examined a framed photo of Sinjin, Stephanie, and their mother. In the picture, the trio shared a bench and matching smiles. Sinjin looked adorable. She still did. But Laure had no interest in becoming the latest entry in her long list of one-night stands. “She and I make better friends than lovers.”
“How would you know unless you tried?”
Laure touched a worn spot on a corner of the wooden frame. “What happened here?”
“Sin rubs the picture for luck before each match at Wimbledon. I keep telling her if she ever wins the tournament, she’s going to have to buy me a new frame.”
Stephanie strode to the kitchen. Laure followed, wondering how Stephanie made walking in six-inch heels look so easy. She could barely manage flats. “How’s the patient?” she asked as Stephanie filled a vase with water.
“Grouchy.” Stephanie arranged the flowers in the vase then ran her fingers through her wavy brown hair. Unlike Sinjin’s hair, which stretched halfway down her back in layers of brown ropes, Stephanie’s naturally curly hair had been straightened and cropped into a short, asymmetrical bob. “Maybe you can put a smile on her face because I certainly can’t.”
“Where is she?”
“In there.” Stephanie jerked her head toward what Laure assumed was the bedroom. “I hope you brought a flak jacket. You might need it.”
“Thanks for the warning.” Laure tiptoed to the room Stephanie had indicated and rapped on the door. “Are you decent?”
The thick oak door muffled Sinjin’s reply. “Unfortunately, yes.”
“I come in peace.” Laure opened the door wide enough for her arm to fit through the crack. She held out the bottle of wine. “I also come bearing gifts.”
“Then get your arse in here.”
Laure entered the room. Scores of get-well cards littered the bed where Sinjin lay crablike on her back. Laure had never seen her looking so vulnerable. Sinjin’s muscular six-foot-one frame normally looked vibrant. Now she looked frail. Her hazel eyes lacked their usual luster. Her latte-colored skin was sallow.
Sinjin the Invincible looked defeated. She looked scared. She looked—for lack of a better word—human.
Laure tried to keep her expression neutral to hide her shock. She could tell by the look on Sinjin’s face she had failed miserably. “I’m sorry,” she said, bending to kiss Sinjin’s cheeks, “but it’s hard seeing you like this.”
“Trust me. It’s even harder being like this.”
Laure pulled up a chair. “How are you?”
“Homesick.”
“But you are home.”
“Sometimes this doesn’t feel like home. I haven’t lived in England full-time since I was fifteen. I miss Miami.”
“And your apartment with the two hundred seventy-degree view of the Atlantic Ocean? I can’t blame you.”
Sinjin looked wistful. “I want to sit on my balcony and soak up the sun with my feet on the railing and a beer in my hand.”
“Sounds lovely. Would you like some company?”
“I thought you were more of a wine connoisseur than a beer fan.”
“Living on a vineyard tends to do that to you, but I’m nothing if not flexible.”
“So I’ve heard,” Sinjin said with a rakish grin.
“You must not have heard that from Mireille. According to her, I’m a cold fish. I suppose that’s why she was better at deflecting passes on the field than off.”
“Don’t listen to her. All those headers have made her loopy.”
Laure had recently ended a two-year relationship with one of the strikers on Fr
ance’s women’s national soccer team. Mireille had made her incredibly happy—when her infidelity wasn’t making her miserable.
“Are you okay?” Sinjin asked.
“I’m getting there.”
Sinjin held out her hand. Laure gave it a brief squeeze. She couldn’t talk about Mireille for long without crying. When they were together, Mireille had made her feel like the only woman in the world. She had been devastated to discover she wasn’t the only one, just one of many.
“So it’s back to the nunnery for me,” she said. “This time for good. There’s room for one more if you care to join me.”
“Only if you change some of the rules first. The one requiring celibacy really bites. I’m not crazy about the costumes either.”
“I’ll put in a word with the Mother Superior and get back to you.”
Sinjin looked at the bottle of wine in Laure’s hand. “Is that one of yours?”
Laure handed her the bottle. “Beaujolais nouveau. It’s quite good, if I say so myself. In fact, I’m considering putting my racquets away and switching to winemaking.”
“Laure Fortescue, professional vintner. I can see it.” Sinjin placed the bottle on the nightstand next to the bed. “Shouldn’t you be preparing for the French?”
Laure grimaced at the mention of the tournament that had caused her nothing but heartache over the years. The tournament she wanted to win more than any other. Not only would a win at the French Open give her the career Grand Slam, it would shut her critics up for good. The ones who called her a choker and questioned her nerves. Chokers, she liked to argue, didn’t have three Grand Slam titles. Chokers didn’t make it to number one in the world.
If she were to earn a French Open crown, three things would have to happen: she would have to play well, she would need to get a good draw, and she would have to have some help. Clay was her worst surface. She thought she might be able to knock off one of the top players on a given day, but not the two or three she would need to defeat in order to win the event. She hadn’t given up hope, but she wasn’t holding her breath either.
Lucky Loser Page 2
