Lucky Loser

by Yolanda Wallace

  “Then who deserves to qualify?”

  “But you got cheated.”

  “Out of one point, not the whole match.”

  “You were my idol growing up.” Anke’s comment made Sinjin feel honored and ancient at the same time. “I want to see you win Wimbledon one day.”

  “So do I.” Sinjin had learned some important lessons from the loss—what not to do during a pressure situation and how to keep her head when everything seemed to be going against her. She had also learned her body could hold up during a long match. She hadn’t thought about her knees even once during the heated contest. She longed to be able to put what she had learned to use. “It’s not too late. As the highest seed to lose today, I can still get in if someone pulls out.”

  Speculation was running rampant that a strained wrist might keep two-time defending champion Blake Freeman from playing at Wimbledon. She was expected to play a couple exhibition matches to test the wrist, then announce her decision on the Friday before the tournament started. Injured or not, Sinjin couldn’t imagine Blake pulling out of the event. No woman had won three consecutive Wimbledon singles titles since Steffi Graf in the early ‘90s. With her eye on the history books, Blake would probably play even if her wrist was in a cast.

  “I’ll see you next week,” Sinjin assured Anke. But as she gathered her belongings, she didn’t plan on waiting by the phone.

  Laure, Stephanie, and Kendall were waiting for her outside the locker room. She had expected to be greeted by a sea of long faces, but Laure was positively beaming.

  “You got in.”

  Sinjin was stunned. “Did Blake pull out?”

  “No, but Catarina Sundstrom did.” Laure scrolled through the Web page displayed on her BlackBerry. “She ate some bad pizza after the French Open final and came down with food poisoning.”

  Catarina had lost the final to Laure in three epic sets, winning the first set 6-3 before falling 8-6 in the third.

  “Serves her right,” Stephanie said. “Who goes to a gastronomic capital like Paris and orders pizza?”

  Sinjin sagged with relief. All the hard work she thought had gone to waste still had a chance to pay dividends. “I’m starving. What’s for dinner?”

  “Definitely not pizza, that’s for sure.”

  Stephanie and Kendall begged off dinner—Stephanie had to put the finishing touches on the design for her latest window installation and Kendall wanted to hit the bars—so Sinjin and Laure headed to the house Laure had rented in Notting Hill.

  “Now that you’ve made the tournament, what are your goals?” Laure asked over steaming plates of takeout Pad Thai.

  “Win at least one round. If I do that, I want to make it to the third round, which is something I’ve never done. If I do that, my goal would be to make it to the second week. If I could sneak into the quarterfinals somehow, it would earn me membership in the Last Eight Club.” Membership in the exclusive society was limited solely to players who had reached the quarterfinals or better at Wimbledon. “That would be something to write home about.”

  Laure snared some green papaya salad with her chopsticks. “My goals are a little different. I brought an evening gown with me because I’m planning on attending the Champions Ball. If you play your cards right, you could come with me. Either as my date or the champion.”

  The black-tie affair was held on Wimbledon’s final day. The guests of honor were the players who had won the singles, doubles, and mixed doubles crowns. It used to be required for the singles winners to share a dance until, much to the players’ delight, the quaint tradition was discontinued. Now they posed with their hard-earned trophies instead.

  “I thought you were retiring. I thought your passion was gone.”

  “Believe me, it’s back. You helped put it there.”

  “Me? What did I do?”

  “You fought your heart out to get back on court. Then you fought even harder to stay there. If that isn’t inspiring, I don’t know what is.”

  “Does this mean you’re not still planning to retire at the end of the year?”

  “No. I’m still walking away after the year-end championships, but I want to go out in style. It’s been almost ten years since a woman won the French Open and Wimbledon in the same year. I’d love to accomplish the feat.”

  If Sinjin won, the victory would be even more historic. No British woman had won Wimbledon in over thirty years. The drought for British men was twice as long.

  Sinjin was aware of the seemingly insurmountable odds she faced. A couple unseeded men—all-time greats Boris Becker and Goran Ivanisevic—had aced their way to the Wimbledon title, but no woman seeded lower than thirteen had ever performed the same feat. And the woman who had pulled off that miracle was Venus Williams when she had found her game at the right time and raced to her fourth title. To join their ranks, Sinjin would have to play like she had her first year on tour, when her best years were ahead of her and not behind her. She would have to play better than she ever had and do it not once but seven times. With fresh legs and rusty ground strokes.

  As she rode the train back to Soho, she issued herself a challenge.

  You didn’t turn pro to make the second week of Wimbledon. You turned pro to win the whole damn thing. So go out there and prove to yourself and everyone else that you can do it. No matter who’s standing in your way.

  First Round

  Laure stared at the draw sheet. Most players didn’t want to look too far ahead—you couldn’t play everyone in the field, and you could psych yourself out if you spent too much time plotting out potential matchups—but she wanted to see where the top players fell so she could know which ones she would have to worry about. Though the tennis gods had cut Laure a break, they hadn’t granted Sinjin any favors. There were a couple of potential matchups in the second week that could give Laure cause for concern, but the first week’s matches should prove no more strenuous than a practice session. Sinjin’s road to the final, however, was littered with land mines.

  Although she had inherited Catarina Sundstrom’s spot, Sinjin hadn’t been given her draw, which would have matched her against another qualifier in the first round. Instead, she would face the eighth seed—former French Open champion Rosana de los Santos. Rosana was better on clay than on grass, but she had consistent results on every surface and had made at least the quarterfinals of ten straight tournaments. Beating her would take a monumental effort, but if Sinjin was up to the challenge, a chance for revenge lurked in the second round. If Emme won her opening-round match and Sinjin upset Rosana, they would square off once the women’s field was winnowed to sixty-four.

  Besides Rosana and Emme, Sinjin faced a potential quarterfinal clash with second seed Blake Freeman and a semifinal against Blake’s third-seeded sister Chandler. Talk about your rough draws.

  Between them, the Freeman sisters had appeared in nine of the last ten Wimbledon finals, taking the trophy back to the sprawling Manhattan apartment they shared on seven occasions. Blake had won the title four times to Chandler’s three. Chandler was eager to catch up to and pass her big sister. She was widely considered to be the better player, but her acting aspirations often drew her attention away from her tennis.

  A would-be movie star, she had missed most of the run-up to the clay court season in order to take part in a publicity tour for her latest film. The London release of the movie was timed to coincide with the start of Wimbledon. When most players would be anxiously anticipating their first matches, Chandler would be walking the red carpet.

  Blake’s interests were as wide-ranging as her sister’s, but at twenty-seven, she had rededicated herself to tennis in order to capitalize on the remaining three years she intended to play. If Viktoriya lost before the final and Blake went on to win the tournament, Blake would reclaim the number one ranking she hadn’t held in five years.

  The bottom half of the draw, where Laure resided, wasn’t nearly as loaded as the top half, but the player who made her way out of it wouldn’t
have it easy. Viktoriya Vasilyeva, Serena Williams, and Maria Sharapova all loomed as potential roadblocks. Most experts were picking Viktoriya to make the final. She had been gifted a cupcake draw, and the week before, she had shaken off a mid-season slump to win the warm-up tournament in Birmingham. If she held her nerve—and her serve—Queen Viktoriya could prolong her reign.

  Not if Laure had anything to say about it. She wanted to be the one who advanced out of the bottom section, putting an end to Viktoriya’s hot streak and her era of domination on the way. Nothing short of winning the tournament would give her greater pleasure.

  She opened two bottles of red wine so they could breathe. She had invited a few friends over for a small pre-tournament dinner party so she could salvage a bit of sanity before the madness began. Nicolas arrived first. She immediately put him to work lighting the lanterns that lined the patio.

  She headed to the kitchen to check on the ratatouille, a hearty vegetable stew that contained eggplant, zucchini, green peppers, onions, garlic, and tomatoes. She had been cooking for less than thirty minutes, but the way the flavors had blended, the results tasted like she had been slaving over the stove for hours.

  “Perfect.”

  She lowered the flame on the burner and raised the volume on the TV when the talking heads on the Wimbledon preview show playing in the background piped up.

  “What do you think of Sinjin Smythe’s chances at this year’s tournament?” one asked.

  “We’d be better served pinning our hopes for a women’s champion on young Clair Wilkinson,” his partner replied. “She won the Wimbledon junior championship two years ago at the ripe old age of fourteen and has shown tremendous promise in her first full year as a pro. Her ranking is high enough that she made it into the main draw this year without benefit of a wild card. The same cannot be said for Sinjin Smythe, who barely made the tournament this year and is in danger of becoming a footnote. She is a lucky loser who lost in the last round of qualifying and got in the main draw only because another player was taken ill. She has the game to make a run, but I question her nerves. They’ve betrayed her in the past and I don’t see why this year should be any different. Plus, she’s working without a full-time coach, which never helps. She’s hired Andrew Grey on a part-time basis, but he’s been out of the game so long I fear it might have passed him by. It would make a good story if Sinjin were to do well here, but I just don’t see it happening. I’d bet my house she won’t even make it out of the first round, let alone advance to the second week.”

  Laure aimed the remote control at the television and turned it off. “I’ll take that bet.”

  *

  Sinjin checked her watch and groaned in frustration. She picked up her mobile. Her call went directly to voice mail. “Steph, it’s me. You were supposed to be here fifteen minutes ago. There are four hungry people waiting for you, so if you know what’s good for you, you’ll get your arse home and—”

  “Oi, watch the language! I thought I taught you better than that.” Two bulky boxes balanced precariously in her arms, Stephanie kicked the front door closed with the side of one Manolo Blahnik-clad foot.

  Sinjin rushed to relieve Stephanie of her burden. “Where shall I put these?”

  Stephanie pointed to the coffee table. “There’s fine.”

  Sinjin fingered the packing tape on one of the boxes. “What’s all this?”

  “Open it and find out.”

  Sinjin ripped the tape off one of the boxes and cautiously opened the flaps. She pulled out a set of tennis whites that, despite the high-tech fibers they were made of, looked like they belonged in an archival photo from the 1920s. Anyone wearing the outfit would look right at home with a flapper on one arm and a wooden racquet draped across the other.

  The cream cardigan was monogrammed with her initials—SIS—on the left breast. The white button-down shirt and white pants sported a designer label that she had never seen before.

  “Are these for me?”

  Stephanie pursed her MAC-covered lips. “Who else would they be for? Just because you lost your clothing contract doesn’t mean you have to go on court looking like shite, so I decided to dress you myself.”

  Sinjin slipped her arms through one of the sweaters. Stephanie narrowed her eyes as she checked the fit.

  “I only commissioned four outfits. Not because I don’t think you can win more than four matches but because I didn’t have time to pull together an order larger than that. There are two pairs of pants and two pairs of shorts. If it’s hot, you can go with the shorts. If it’s cooler or if it rains, you can go with the pants so you can keep your legs warm. The material’s pretty forgiving in both so you should be able to get down for the low volleys without feeling restricted in any way. You know how they say it’s better to look good than to feel good? Well, you’re going to look great and play even better.”

  Sinjin laid a hand on Stephanie’s arm. “You feel it, too?”

  “With every fiber of my being. This fortnight’s going to be special. I’m just glad I can be a part of it.”

  Sinjin gave her a hug and rushed to the bedroom to try on the clothes. She examined her reflection in the full-length mirror. Her new gear fit her perfectly. The sweater clung to her broad shoulders and hugged her waist. The pants were loose enough to allow freedom of movement but form-fitting enough to avoid being a hindrance when she played. The cream and white materials perfectly complemented her light brown skin.

  In the living room, she turned in a slow circle then paused for inspection. “How do I look?”

  Stephanie beamed with pride. “Like a future Wimbledon champion.”

  *

  Laure dipped a wooden spoon into the bubbling stew. She blew on the sample and held it out to Sinjin. “Taste this and tell me if it needs anything.”

  Sinjin sampled the offering. “What it needs is to be put in a bowl and served immediately.”

  Laure smiled and turned off the burner. Sinjin handed her six heavy earthenware bowls. Laure carefully ladled some of the stew into each bowl and laid a thick piece of toasted French bread on top. “Are you ready for this?”

  “You bet.” Sinjin’s stomach growled in obvious anticipation.

  “Not this,” Laure said, indicating the food. “That.” She jerked her chin toward the newspaper on the counter. The sports section featured wall-to-wall Wimbledon coverage and the tournament hadn’t even begun.

  “I’ll never be ready for that, but I am ready to play. I wish I were playing tomorrow so I could burn off some of my nervous energy, but I’m not on the schedule until Tuesday.” Sinjin helped Laure place the bowls on a serving tray. “What about you?”

  “I’m playing tomorrow. First match on Court One.”

  Because they were on opposite sides of the draw, their timetables would be reversed. When Laure was scheduled to play, Sinjin would have the day off and vice versa. For the first week at least. If they kept winning, their schedules would begin to coincide on the second Monday of the event when all the remaining players in both the men’s and women’s fields would take the court.

  “Viktoriya is scheduled for Centre Court. Novak Djokovic opens play because he’s the defending champion, but Viktoriya will be the first woman who gets to play on Centre Court this year. I’ve played Wimbledon ten times, either as a junior or a pro, but I’ve never played a match on Centre. What’s it like?”

  Sinjin’s voice was reverential, fitting for a discussion of the court often referred to as the cathedral of tennis.

  “The sight lines are amazing. You never lose the ball in the lights or the background. The acoustics are incredible. You can hear the ball coming off your opponent’s strings so you could close your eyes and still be able to tell if she has hit the ball flat or with topspin. The fans are always fair. They applaud a good shot, even if it’s at the expense of one of their own.”

  “So if I played you, you’re saying the crowd would be fifty-fifty?”

  Laure grinned. “Maybe sixty-for
ty. But if you win, I’ll buy you a bottle of champagne.”

  “And if you win, I’ll buy you a crate of English strawberries.”

  “Sounds like a delicious combination.”

  “Too bad we can’t share the title. Then we could have both.”

  “I wish we could. I don’t want to see either of us lose. Unless it’s to each other. That’s the only reasonably acceptable outcome.”

  Sinjin didn’t look convinced. “You know how this works. Only one of us can win. Whoever wants it more will walk away with the title.”

  “Which would you rather have, a trophy in your hands or me in your bed?”

  “Why can’t I have both?”

  “I want this title as much as you do. I know how it feels to hold that trophy. I’ve only heard how good it feels to hold you.”

  Sinjin put her hands on Laure’s waist and pulled her closer. “We can change that at any time, you know.”

  When Sinjin bent to kiss her, Laure placed a finger on her lips. “Let’s see where this is going before we go there. Let’s take it slow.”

  “We’ve known each other forever. We’ve been friends for years. If we move any slower, we’ll be moving backward.”

  “Sinjin, I just got out of one relationship. Even though I’m attracted to you, I don’t want to jump feet-first into another one. I want to make sure I’m more than an itch you want to scratch. I don’t want to be someone you sleep with and walk away from. I don’t want to have sex with you. I want to make love with you.”

  “You’re right,” Sinjin said after a long pause. “I have been doing it wrong.”

  *

  Sinjin trailed Rosana de los Santos onto Court Fourteen. As was her wont, Rosana claimed the seat to the chair umpire’s right. Sinjin dropped her racquet bag next to the chair on the far side and pulled out the racquet she intended to use at the beginning of the match. She banged the strings against the heel of her hand to check the tension. Satisfied that the string job had not degraded overnight, she pantomimed a few practice swings and headed to the net to wait for the coin toss.