“I’ll tell Mother Superior you won’t be needing that room after all.”
“Definitely not. My dry spell’s over. Or it will be in a couple of hours. Right on time, too. For a while there, my sex drive was practically nonexistent. Since we started working out, though, I’ve been back in tune. You should come with us tonight. Wouldn’t you rather spend your free time in a bar filled with hot women than in a musty museum?”
Laure tossed Sinjin’s earlier question back at her. “Would it be good for my tennis?”
Sinjin smiled. “Your tennis? No. Your sex life? Definitely.”
“No offense, Sinjin, but I’d rather have my fingernails ripped out one by one than sleep with someone I just met.”
Sinjin’s smile faded. “Oh, how could I possibly take offense to that?” She pushed herself to her feet. “We’ve had this argument before, you know.”
“Not argument. Discussion.”
“Argument. Discussion. Whatever you want to call it.” Sinjin drank deeply from a bottle of water. “I like quantity. You prefer quality. I’m not going to change and neither are you.”
“I’m not asking you to change. I’m just trying to understand the one thing about you that’s always puzzled me.” Laure poured water over her head to cool off. “What is it about the thrill of the hunt that excites you so much? Why can’t you find what you’re looking for in one woman instead of several?”
“Because Miss Right expects me to take out the trash and tell her if her arse looks fat in her favorite pair of jeans. Miss Right Now doesn’t expect anything from me except a couple of laughs and a few multiple orgasms. Which relationship sounds more appealing, the one that requires heavy lifting or the one that offers the path of least resistance?”
“The one formed with someone who knows me inside and out. Who cares about me for who I am and loves me despite my faults.”
“When you put it that way, I look like a proper arsehole,” Sinjin said with a grin. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to drown my sorrows in a pint of Newcastle and find a nice, soft shoulder to lean on while I cry.”
Laure watched her go. “Good luck on both counts.”
*
Sinjin slowly slid a fingertip between Abby’s shoulder blades. Her tongue circled a pale pink nipple. Abby shuddered in her arms.
“Whatever you do,” Abby said, riding her fingers, “please don’t stop.”
“I don’t intend to.”
When Abby came, her keening cries were like music to Sinjin’s ears. A song she hadn’t heard in far too long. But something was off. The music was flat. The melody wasn’t as she remembered it. Instead of a symphony, she was treated to Muzak.
She reached for her clothes. Sex with Abby had been fun but unfulfilling. It had taken the edge off, but it hadn’t satisfied. She couldn’t get away fast enough.
Abby sat up. The sheet slid down her alabaster skin. “Where are you going?”
“There’s someplace I have to be.”
“Now? I was gearing up for round two.”
Sinjin gave her a peck on the lips. “Rain check.”
“This was your bloody rain check.”
“I need another one.”
Abby held Sinjin’s face in her hands and gave her a lingering kiss. “Are you sure you can’t stay?”
Sinjin covered Abby’s exposed breasts. “I’m sure.”
She made a quick pit stop, then took the train to Notting Hill, the west London neighborhood that would serve as Laure’s base of operations for the next three weeks.
When Laure opened the door, she was wearing a pair of running shorts and a T-shirt that featured a parody of Edvard Munch’s Scream. The famous figure from Munch’s painting had been replaced by Homer Simpson. “Did you scratch your itch?” Laure asked, closing the door behind her.
“Yes. Thank you for asking.”
“That didn’t take long.”
Laure took a seat on the couch. Sinjin joined her.
“It doesn’t take long if you know what you’re doing.”
“Then I must be doing something wrong.” Laure flashed her wry sense of humor. “No, that’s impossible. I’m French. No matter what the Italians say, we invented romance.”
“Not so fast. I’ve had sex with plenty of French girls who had no idea what they were doing.”
“You should try making love with a French woman instead.”
“I could take that several ways, you know.”
“Why don’t you settle for one?”
Sinjin was in her comfort zone. She could flirt with a beautiful woman with her eyes closed. But this wasn’t just any beautiful woman. This was Laure. Someone who knew her better than anyone else. Someone who saw past her jokey exterior to the bundle of insecurities that lay beneath. Someone who got her in every sense of the word.
She flashed back to the conversation they’d had in Roehampton. When Laure had listed the qualities she sought in Miss Right, she had said she was looking for someone who knew her inside and out. Who loved her for who she was, despite her faults.
Am I looking for the same thing?
Why had it taken her so long to think of Laure as anything other than a friend when she obviously had the potential to be so much more?
Maybe I’ve been looking in the wrong places.
“Do you have a woman in mind for me?”
“I’m horrible at matchmaking. I’ll let you make up your own mind.”
Sinjin smiled at the give and take. She couldn’t tell which was more exciting, the fact that Laure was flirting with her or the fact that she was doing it so subtly. She reached for the bottle of wine she had picked up on her way from Abby’s hotel. “I bought this, but I’m not sure if it’s any good. Can you help me out?”
Laure grabbed the bottle and turned it around to see the label. She rolled her eyes when she realized the bottle was one of hers. She tapped her finger against the fleur de lis on the label. “This vintner has a pretty good reputation.” She found a corkscrew in the kitchen and inserted it into the bottle.
“A reputation doesn’t mean anything,” Sinjin said as Laure expertly removed the cork. “It’s just something to be lived up or down to. I’m not as bad as mine. I’d love to know if you’re as good as yours.”
“There’s only one way to find out.” Laure poured two glasses and offered Sinjin one. “Try me and see.”
“We’re not still talking about wine, are we?”
Laure raised her glass to her lips. “Were we ever?”
*
Movement, footwork, ground strokes, serve, volleys.
Sinjin repeated the words to herself as she sat in her chair after the ten-minute warm-up. It had come down to this. She was about to play Austrian journeywoman Emme Wechselberger in the final round of qualifying. If she won the match, she would achieve her goal: to make it into the main draw at Wimbledon. She didn’t care if she would have to play the top seed, the defending champion, or another qualifier in the first round. She just wanted to get there. She couldn’t win the tournament if she wasn’t in the field. And she couldn’t make it into the field without her friends and family cheering her on.
She located Stephanie, Kendall, and Laure in the stands. Her sister, her trainer, and her best friend. Three women she’d be lost without. Stephanie, who had guided and cared for her for years. Kendall, who pushed her to her limits and past them. Laure, whose role in her life was once well-defined but had recently gone blurry around the edges.
Laure cupped her hands around her mouth. “Let’s go, Sin!”
Sinjin tapped her racquet against the court for luck the way she always did before a big match. She didn’t think she’d need luck. In fact, she felt absurdly confident. She was paired against a player to whom she had never lost.
Emme was a consistent but pedestrian baseliner. Lacking a big weapon she could use to hurt her opponents, she had never risen higher than ninety-seven in the world. Her current ranking was nearly twice that number. She and Abby McGuinnes
s had reached the U.S. Open doubles final, but she hadn’t come close to repeating the accomplishment in the three years since. She had reached the final round of singles qualifying at Roehampton via walkover in the first round when her opponent had not been able to take the court because of an ankle injury sustained in practice. She had outlasted her second-round opponent, winning a compelling but error-filled match in three long sets. At thirty-six years old and nearing the end of her career, she was given little chance of upsetting Sinjin. Most expected her to be nothing more than the answer to the trivia question, “Who did Sinjin Smythe defeat in order to reach her ninth Wimbledon?”
Someone forgot to tell Emme.
She came out firing. Sinjin rushed the net at every available opportunity only to be met with stinging passing shots aimed at her feet. She made some amazing half-volleys to stay in the set, but facing break point at 5-4 down, she pushed a forehand volley wide to lose the set 6-4.
The crowd gasped, then lapsed into stunned silence. Furious with herself, Sinjin stalked to the sidelines and sat in her chair. She had underestimated her opponent, an error even more critical than the unforced one she had made on the previous point.
In the stands, Laure, Kendall, and Stephanie looked anxious.
“I’m okay,” Sinjin mouthed, trying to allay their fears.
She bounced back to win the second set 6-1, a breadstick in tennis parlance. She lost just two points in her first four service games in the third set but couldn’t manufacture a break. With the score knotted at four-all, she won the first two points on Emme’s serve. If she took the next two, she could serve out the match and secure the last spot in the Wimbledon field.
The contest was the last singles match of the day. Some of the players who had competed in and won earlier matches had stuck around to show their support. Some were seated in the stands; most stood in the entrance of the tunnel that led to the locker room. Rejuvenated by the results of the PRP procedure—and Laure’s win in Paris—Sinjin had put off thoughts of retirement, but her friends on tour seemed to sense her window of opportunity was closing. They shouted encouragement as she prepared to receive serve.
At 0-30, Emme surprised her by pumping in a big serve and following it to the net. She volleyed the high return into the open court to close the gap to 15-30. She earned the next point with a beautiful topspin lob that barely cleared Sinjin’s outstretched racquet and dropped in the corner.
Sinjin was still two points from the game, but 30-all felt a lot different than 0-30. On the next point, she sliced a backhand down the middle of the court and followed it to the net. She hit what seemed like a perfect approach shot, but Emme managed to steer her passing shot down the line for a winner.
“Come on!” the usually stoic Emme yelled, pumping herself up.
Sinjin tried to remain calm, but overanxious, she smothered a forehand and deposited it in the middle of the net. Instead of serving for the match, she would be serving to stay in it.
As she sat in her chair during the changeover, she bounced her legs to keep them loose. She didn’t feel nervous. Her adrenaline was pumping too hard for that. She tried not to dwell on the missed opportunities in the previous game. There would be plenty of time for reflection later. She needed to focus on the task at hand: getting to five-all.
On the first point, she uncorked her biggest serve of the day, a 122-mph screamer down the middle, for her fourteenth ace. Emme responded on the next point, however. Utilizing the tactics that had worked so well in the first set, she blasted a return at Sinjin’s feet. Sinjin couldn’t dig out the half-volley and lost the point to level the score at 15-all.
Sinjin bounced on the balls of her feet to remind herself to stay on her toes. Three points from losing, she couldn’t afford to get caught flat-footed. She threw in an off-speed serve hoping to catch Emme by surprise, but Emme jumped all over it to take a 15-30 lead.
Just bring the heat, dammit! If she can take it, shake her hand and go home.
She hit a hard, flat serve that crowded in close to Emme’s body.
Emme tried to move out of the way. Unable to extend her arms to generate power, she choked up on her racquet and muscled a backhand return. The ball hit the top of the net, dribbled over to Sinjin’s side, and rolled to a stop for double match point.
Sometimes it was better to be lucky than good.
Emme held up one hand in mock apology and walked to the other side of the court to receive serve.
Shaking her head in disbelief, Sinjin tried to maintain her concentration. She needed to win the next four points to stay in the match. Her fifteenth ace brought the score to 30-40 and the crowd to its feet.
“One more!” someone shouted. “One more!”
Sinjin loved and hated playing in England. When things were going well, she fed off the energy of the fans. When things got tough, though, the fans’ apprehension seeped into her. “Believe in yourself,” she whispered, trying to hold her uncertainty at bay.
Serving to the ad court, she second-guessed herself. Instead of going with her kick serve to Emme’s backhand, she went for the big one down the middle. Emme jumped on the forehand return and, anticipating a weak response, followed her shot to the net.
Knowing Emme’s net play was the weakest part of her game, Sinjin didn’t aim for the lines. She went right at her, expecting Emme to miss the volley. She planted her feet and hit a forehand as hard as she could.
Emme stuck her racquet out, then, apparently sensing the ball wasn’t hit with enough topspin to keep it in the court, she tried to jerk the racquet out of the way. She didn’t move quite fast enough. The ball ticked off her frame and landed six inches beyond the baseline.
The linesperson called the ball out, but because Emme had touched the ball while it was in flight, Sinjin should have been awarded the point.
Sinjin pumped her fists and turned to head to the baseline to serve at deuce when the chair umpire said, “Game, set, match, Miss Wechselberger.”
Everything happened at once.
Emme thrust her arms in the air and ran to the net for the post-match handshake. The knowledgeable crowd, aware that the point should have been awarded to Sinjin, loudly voiced its disapproval.
“No!” Sinjin ran to the umpire’s chair, pointing to her ear and to Emme’s racquet. “The ball hit her frame. Didn’t you hear that?” When the chair umpire shook his head, Sinjin turned to Emme for confirmation. “Didn’t you get a piece of that shot?”
Emme shrugged and pleaded ignorance. “I didn’t feel anything.”
Sinjin gaped at her in open-mouthed shock. Tennis, like golf, was a gentleman’s game. One in which players were supposed to call infractions on themselves if they knew they had broken a rule. By not owning up to what had just happened, Emme had violated one of the unwritten rules of the sport.
The crowd booed lustily as Emme quickly packed her bags and retreated to the locker room.
Unwilling to leave the court, Sinjin sat in her chair and buried her face in a towel. When she looked up, her eyes were wet. Stephanie was crying, too, but Sinjin noticed Laure was trying to put on a brave face.
“I’m proud of you.” Laure rose with the rest of the crowd to give Sinjin a standing ovation.
Walking with her head down, Sinjin acknowledged the cheers as she headed disconsolately to the locker room. A cordon of players greeted her as she entered the tunnel. Each offered words of encouragement or a pat on the back.
“Tough luck.”
“Bad break.”
“Good fight out there.”
Overwhelmed, Sinjin nodded her thanks but kept trudging along. Emme, already showered and dressed, was waiting for her in the locker room.
“I’m sorry, but I had to do it. You’re young. You’ll have many more chances to make Wimbledon, but this was my last one.”
Sinjin cast a wary glance at Anke Schroeder, the only other person in the room. The eighteen-year-old junior phenom from Munich was being touted as the next Steffi Graf. One of th
e day’s winners, the pony-tailed blonde would be making her Wimbledon debut in a few days. Though single-minded on court, Anke was still wide-eyed off it. Sinjin didn’t want to lose her temper in front of someone who was still so impressionable.
“You know what?” Sinjin fought to keep her voice level. “I’m not mad at you for what you did. I’m mad at myself for putting myself in the position in the first place. You did what you felt you had to do. If you can live with it, so can I. Just don’t ask me to respect you in the morning.”
Emme trudged out of the room and Sinjin headed to the showers, where she finally let her emotions hold sway. When she returned to the locker room, Anke was still sitting in the same spot.
“Did you forget your way home?”
“I’ve been thinking.” Anke’s expression was dour.
“Was it painful for you?” Sinjin asked, trying to get Anke to lighten up.
Anke was a stern taskmaster, which caused her to expect more from her game than it was ready to give. She wouldn’t get the results she wanted until she learned to relax. Those pesky comparisons to Steffi Graf didn’t help. But the comparisons weren’t going to go away any time soon. Germany’s rabid sports fans were eager to find the next Steffi. The next Boris Becker. But Sinjin knew players like those two all-time greats came along only once in a lifetime. Anke would have to “settle” for being herself. If she could convince her compatriots to do the same thing, she would sleep a lot better at night.
“It doesn’t feel right that I should qualify for Wimbledon and you don’t. You deserve it as much as I do.”
Sinjin sat next to Anke on the long pine bench that divided the room in half. “How many matches did I win this week?”
“Two.”
“How many did you win?”
“Three.”
Lucky Loser Page 5
