Lucky Loser

by Yolanda Wallace

  They had briefly been teammates at the University of Miami. Kendall had decided to put her sports fitness degree to work after graduation instead of turning pro. Now she was one of the youngest certified trainers on the circuit.

  “Great workout, mate. Let’s get you stretched out, then we can hit the showers.”

  Sinjin took note of Kendall’s use of the word we. Not too long ago, she would have leaped at the chance to spend some quality time exploring Kendall’s firm body. Now all she cared about was getting her career back on track.

  She lay on her back, a position that dredged up bad memories of the week she had spent practically immobile while she waited for the PRP therapy to take effect. As Kendall did her best to push her left knee past her ear, Sinjin’s hamstrings screamed in protest. Sinjin flinched involuntarily.

  “Am I hurting you?” Kendall lowered Sinjin’s left leg and reached for her right.

  “You were never known for your gentle touch.”

  Kendall positioned her shoulder behind Sinjin’s right knee and leaned forward. “I haven’t heard you complain about my touch before, gentle or otherwise.” Her voice was low and husky, her eyes heavy-lidded with desire, her mouth almost close enough to kiss.

  Sinjin stared into Kendall’s glittering green eyes and felt…nothing. Her libido, normally as dependable as the sun rising in the east and setting in the west, seemed to have gone dormant. Women still caught her eye, but none of them captured her interest. Not for more than a few hours at a time, anyway. Who needed happily ever after? All she wanted was a warm bed, the occasional warm body, and a spot in the top ten. Nothing else mattered.

  As Kendall continued to stretch her stiff muscles, Sinjin closed her eyes and allowed her mind to wander. She drifted back to the scores of sleepless nights she had spent wondering if she would ever set foot on a tennis court again. Those dark days had taught her who her true mates were. Or should she say mate?

  Out of all her so-called friends on tour, Laure had been the only one who had come to visit her when she was laid up. The rest had sent cards, e-mails, or text messages, but they hadn’t graced her with their presence. Their efforts at offering support had felt like lip service; Laure’s had felt sincere. Had she held up her end of the friendship? She hoped so. Laure deserved the best. Critics might question Laure’s heart on court, but there was no questioning her heart off it. Laure was the most caring, most compassionate person she had ever met. She was also drop-dead gorgeous. And the French accent didn’t hurt. Women threw themselves at Laure all the time, but until Mireille came along, it had been years since Sinjin had seen her accept any of their passes. Now Mireille was gone and Laure was back on the shelf.

  Sinjin felt a flicker of desire when she imagined staring into Laure’s dark brown eyes. Running her hands through Laure’s short brown hair. Tracing her finger across Laure’s downturned mouth. Teasing her full lips to curve into a smile. She imagined the arms wrapped around her thighs, the hands stroking her skin and kneading her muscles, were Laure’s. She flinched when she remembered they weren’t.

  Her eyes flew open. Fuck. Where had that come from?

  “Okay, okay. I get the hint.” Kendall gently lowered Sinjin’s legs to the ground, then pulled her to her feet.

  Sinjin brushed grass off the back of her workout clothes while she tried to come to terms with her fantasy—and the very real effect it had had on her. Wherever the images had originated, she needed to banish them right away. She and Laure were friends, nothing more. Nothing and no one could get in the way of her goals. Not even Laure.

  “Fancy a drink?” Kendall asked.

  “I can’t. I promised Stephanie I’d make dinner tonight.”

  “Since when do you cook?”

  “Okay, maybe I promised I’d pick up chicken curry on my way home.”

  “That sounds more like you. Get a good night’s sleep. I’ll see you tomorrow, yeah?”

  “I can’t wait.”

  Sinjin headed to the showers. When she came out, she found a familiar face waiting for her in the locker room.

  “Laure. What the hell are you doing here? Unless the rules have changed, top ten players don’t have to play qualifying rounds.”

  “When you told me you were working out again, I had to see it for myself.”

  She eyed Laure’s racquet bag. “Did you bring it?”

  “Bring what?”

  Sinjin pursed her lips. “Don’t kid a kidder. You know what I’m talking about. Come on. Out with it.”

  Laure reached inside the bag and pulled out the trophy she had been awarded after winning the French Open, a smaller version of the one she had shown to her cheering countrymen after yesterday’s final.

  Sinjin examined the sturdy silver trophy before returning it. “I can’t believe you finally did it. I’m so happy for you.” She gave Laure a congratulatory hug, then held her at arm’s length. She had never seen Laure look so satisfied. So at peace. “Winning becomes you.” She let go and took a seat on the bench. Laure sat next to her. “Shouldn’t you be posing for a photo shoot at the Eiffel Tower?”

  “I’d rather help you.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I heard you were looking for a practice partner. I came to volunteer my services.”

  “Why would you do that?”

  “You need to qualify and I need some practice on grass if either of us is to have a shot at winning Wimbledon. You scratch my back and I’ll scratch yours.”

  “You’d do that for me?”

  “What are friends for?”

  Sinjin remained skeptical. “Not every friend would make that kind of offer.”

  Most players, herself included, were self-absorbed. Everything revolved around them. Their bodies. Their training. Their games. Their schedules. There was no room for anyone or anything else.

  Laure offered a Gallic shrug. “I guess I’m one of a kind.”

  “You are that.”

  Sinjin wished Viktoriya had followed Laure’s lead. If she had, they might not be an item, but at least they’d be on speaking terms.

  “Tell me all about it. Tell me how it felt to hold that trophy over your head.”

  Laure opened her mouth to respond but immediately closed it again. She shook her head. “There are no words.”

  Sinjin wanted to feel a similar sense of achievement. She wanted to be struck dumb by her own accomplishment.

  “I brought something else.” Laure reached into her bag again.

  “How did you get through the airport with so much hardware?”

  “The security guard and I got to know each other really well. The wedding’s next week.” Laure held out her Wimbledon trophy. “This is the one you want to hold.”

  Sinjin longed to wrap her fingers around the Ladies’ Plate, the gold and silver dish awarded to the women’s singles champion. She wanted to feel the ridges and bumps of its intricate design. See her name engraved next to those of past winners. The object of her desire was inches away, but she shrank from its presence.

  “I can’t hold it unless I win it.”

  “You fondled my French Open trophy. Why can’t you molest this one?”

  Sinjin took a deep breath to control the sudden flood of emotions.

  “You know how aspiring singers pretend their toothbrushes are microphones? When I first started playing tennis, I used to pretend one of my mum’s platters was the Ladies’ Plate. I’d walk around the house holding it over my head like I was circling Centre Court showing it off to the crowd. One day—I think I was about eight or nine—Mum found a keychain shaped like the Ladies’ Plate in a gift shop. It was so small it fit in the palm of her hand, but she had the clerk wrap it in a huge box. When she brought it home, I ripped off the wrapping paper and dug through the packaging inside. The keychain was taped to the bottom of the box. When I finally found it, Mum said, ‘This might not be the actual Ladies’ Plate, but one day, you’ll get to hold the real thing.’ I want to hold the real thing. I want that
more than anything. If you can help me do that…”

  Her voice trailed off. Laure wiped away her tears. “Let’s get to work.”

  When she had first joined the tour, Sinjin had been too much of a know-it-all to accept anyone’s offer of help, let alone request it. She gladly acquiesced now.

  “When do we start?”

  *

  Sinjin walked behind a roller hopper, gathering the dozens of tennis balls scattered around the court. The machine, which could pick up and store up to a hundred balls, bore an uncanny resemblance to a manual lawn mower.

  “If tennis doesn’t work out for me,” she said, “I could always find work as a landscape artist.”

  “I have several hundred acres that need trimming,” Laure said. “How much would you charge?”

  “I’ve got to warn you. I don’t come cheap.” Sinjin rolled the hopper to the service line and set it up. She spread the handles, flipped the hopper upside down, and opened the lid. She took out a handful of balls and shoved them in the pockets of her tennis shorts. “Would you like me to show you how to earn some free points on your serve?”

  “What’s wrong with my serve?” Laure asked defensively.

  “Nothing. Your percentage is always high and your placement’s so good I could probably drop a grain of rice in the service box and you’d be able to hit it.”

  “But?”

  “But you rarely break triple digits on the speed gun. If you add five, ten more miles per hour to your serve, you could make life a whole lot easier for yourself.”

  “Thanks, but I doubt you’d be able to turn me into an ace machine overnight.”

  “Just trust me, okay? The secret to a fast serve is in the service motion itself. Whether you use John McEnroe’s pendulum swing or the abbreviated motion Andre Agassi used for a while, the power comes when you snap your wrist after making contact with the ball.”

  Sinjin took two balls out of her pocket.

  “In this drill, I want you to stand behind the service line and—”

  “The service line? Don’t you mean the baseline? If I serve from here, I’ll hit it a mile long.”

  “Not if you snap it down. Let me show you.”

  She tossed a ball in the air and raised her racquet. She hit the ball just as it reached its apex. Even at half speed, the ball rocketed across the net. Instead of flying long, it landed in the opposite service box.

  Laure instantly changed from doubting to believing.

  “Wow. Show me again.”

  Sinjin demonstrated the technique a few more times then tossed Laure a ball. “Your turn.”

  Laure took her position behind the service line. Sinjin talked her through the drill. Laure followed her instructions—and hit the ball straight into the ground.

  “Too much snap?” she asked, turning crimson with embarrassment.

  Sinjin tried not to laugh. “Here. Let me show you.” Sinjin dropped her racquet and stepped forward. She curled her arm around Laure’s waist and pulled her closer. She placed her hand on Laure’s racquet hand and guided her through the motion.

  “Toss the ball up, go after it, then snap it down.”

  Sinjin felt like Laure’s body was an extension of her own. Together, they moved as one. The ball landed just long.

  “Getting better,” Laure said.

  “One more time.”

  Sinjin’s hand slid across Laure’s flat stomach as she reached for another ball. She molded her body to Laure’s. As they moved through the drill again, her dormant libido flared to life. She squeezed Laure’s hip, holding her tight against her. Her other hand caressed Laure’s forearm before closing around her wrist. She buried her nose in Laure’s hair, which was dripping with perspiration but smelled faintly of the mango-scented shampoo she favored.

  “Toss the ball up.”

  Her nipples hardened as they pressed against Laure’s back.

  “Go after it.”

  Laure raised the racquet. Sinjin felt herself grow wet.

  “Snap it down.”

  She wanted to lay Laure down and quickly undress her. Make love to her here on the lush grass court regardless of who was watching.

  “We did it.”

  Laure’s excited shout snapped Sinjin out of her reverie. She took a step back to give herself the distance she needed to clear her head. Laure wasn’t one of her random hook-ups. How could she forget that, even for an instant?

  “Let’s see if you can do it on your own.”

  On her third attempt, Laure was able to complete the drill unassisted. She went through half the bucket of balls, missing her aim only twice. “I want to try it from the baseline. Grab the speed gun.”

  Sinjin pointed the handheld machine in Laure’s direction. “Don’t overdo it or you’ll strain your wrist.”

  Laure went through her normal service motion. When her racquet made contact with the ball, she employed the technique Sinjin taught her. Sinjin turned the speed gun around to see the display.

  “What does it say?”

  Grinning, Sinjin showed her the readout.

  “One twenty? That’s five miles per hour over my personal best.”

  “I told you.”

  Laure gave her a high five. “Forget landscaping. Stick to tennis. You’re better at it.”

  Sinjin felt it again. The pulsing, electric current of attraction. Laure was the unlikely source. A familiar itch began to form. One she knew from experience wouldn’t be ignored for long.

  *

  In Paris, Laure hadn’t felt her game start to click until she reached the quarterfinals. After each training session with Sinjin, her confidence grew even higher. She knew she was playing well. She had won the French Open, after all. Was she playing well enough to win Wimbledon, too? She thought she was. Unless Sinjin played at the same level at Wimbledon as she did in practice.

  The ball was flying off Sinjin’s racquet. Her serve had never been bigger. Her ground strokes had never been harder. The time off had done her good. Could her still-healing body endure the stress she was subjecting it to? She was pushing herself so hard she could derail her comeback before it began.

  After they split practice sets, Kendall led them through footwork drills. She stretched a rope ladder on the ground to test their lateral movement.

  They concentrated on a different discipline in each training session, varying the order of the drills so they wouldn’t get stale.

  Movement, footwork, ground strokes, serve, volleys. The five things they would need to do well at Wimbledon. Laure’s coach Nicolas Almaric, yelling instructions from the sidelines, repeated the words so often they became a mantra. Add some incense and a gong and they could have been a Buddhist chant.

  Laure’s hip flexors screamed as she quickly placed her feet in the spaces between each of the speed ladder’s rungs. Once she finished, she waited for Sinjin to take her turn. Sinjin’s face was a mask of concentration as she tried to fit her oversized feet in the tiny grids without falling on her face.

  “I’ve got an idea,” Laure said, running through the drill again.

  “Should I be worried, afraid, or both?”

  “Neither. Why don’t we take tomorrow off? We could spend some time exploring something other than this patch of green we’ve been running around on for the past week. There’s an exhibit at the National Gallery I’ve been dying to see. What do you say?”

  “Would it be good for my tennis?”

  “Your tennis? Probably not. Your personal edification? Definitely.” She tried to counter the skeptical expression on Sinjin’s face. “Tennis is a big part of my life, but I don’t let it consume me. I have other interests. If I wake up and feel like I’d rather spend the day doing something other than chasing after a fuzzy yellow ball, I do. I know coming back is important to you, but you need to find a balance.”

  Sinjin groaned when Kendall told them to run the movement drill backward. “No offense, Laure, but I’d rather have my eyes pecked out by a flock of disease-ridden pigeons t
han spend a beautiful summer afternoon trapped inside a museum.”

  “Oh, how could I possibly take offense at that?”

  Sinjin unleashed a throaty laugh, then tripped on the last rung. Laure caught her as she fell but couldn’t hold her up. She grunted when she hit the ground. She grunted even louder when Sinjin landed on top of her.

  Sinjin rolled over and brushed Laure’s hair out of her eyes. “Are you okay? Did I hurt you?”

  Laure wrapped her arms around her middle. “Just a few broken ribs. Maybe a fractured vertebra or two. Wait. I forgot about the ruptured spleen.” She let out a melodramatic howl of pain.

  Sinjin’s eyes filled with concern that slowly evolved into mirth. “Damn. You almost had me.”

  “Almost doesn’t count.”

  Kendall and Nicolas leaned over them to make sure they were unhurt. “Okay,” Nicolas said, clapping his hands. “That’s enough for today. Let’s quit while we’re ahead.”

  Kendall rolled up the ladder and tossed it over her shoulder. “Same time tomorrow, ladies.”

  “Thanks for the warning.” Sinjin lay on her side. She plucked a blade of grass and slowly trailed it across Laure’s cheek. “Have I told you how much I appreciate you being here?”

  “Several hundred times, yes.”

  “You should come out with us tonight.”

  “Us?”

  “Abby’s in town for qualifying. I owe her and Kendall rain checks for drinks. I figured I’d kill two birds with one stone. And perhaps scratch an itch or two in the process.”

  Laure brushed Sinjin’s hand away and abruptly sat up to hide her irritation.

  She and Sinjin had been working side-by-side for days. Sweating. Straining. Trying to improve their bodies and lift their games. She felt closer to her than she ever had before. Closer to her than she’d ever felt with anyone. Were her feelings of friendship slowly being replaced by something much deeper?

  When had it happened? Was it the day she’d arrived when Sinjin had told her that incredibly sweet story about her mother buying her a keychain shaped like the Ladies’ Plate? Or was it even earlier than that? When she’d seen Sinjin so vulnerable after the procedure on her knees? Was it after her breakup with Mireille when Sinjin’s endless stream of bad jokes had helped ease the pain? Or was it three years ago when, after the U.S. Open doubles final, Sinjin had given her a kiss to which none she had received before or since could compare?