When Blake stretched her lead to 6-1, 4-1, Laure rose from her seat. She was scheduled to play the next match on Centre Court. The way Blake was sprinting to the finish line, her match would begin in a matter of minutes.
When she took the court, Laure would be across the net from Maria Sharapova, the Russian glamour girl who had finally found her footing after losing seven months of her career to a shoulder injury. Maria’s comeback was nearly complete. Since her return to the tour, she had made the final of one Grand Slam and the semis of two more. She had retooled her service motion, eliminating the double faults that had plagued her game for the past two years. Her fearsome ground strokes were as punishing as ever. All that was missing was another Grand Slam title to add to her already impressive résumé. Laure would have to be on top of her game in order to beat her.
“Good luck.”
“Thanks. I’ll need it.” Laure seemed unwilling to leave. “I won’t be able to watch you play today,” she said after a moment’s hesitation. “Not in person, anyway. I want to, but I can’t risk getting sick sitting in the damp air.”
Though she understood the reasoning behind Laure’s decision, Sinjin was disappointed nevertheless. When Laure was in the stands for her matches, she felt like she was playing to an audience of one. She’d hit a great shot and immediately look at Laure to see her reaction.
Unable to sit still after Laure left, she popped out of her seat and resumed her pacing.
The day was cold and damp. The kind of weather England was famous for. The kind of weather Sinjin had hoped to avoid. Her left knee was talking to her, and she didn’t like the things it was saying. She couldn’t chase down every shot. Not today. Not unless she wanted to risk injury by taking a tumble on the wet grass.
“Use your head, not your legs,” Andrew had advised her during their practice session. “Play all out, but play within yourself. Be smart. Tennis isn’t rocket science. You know what you have to do.”
Sinjin had answered the question he had left unspoken. “Win the last point.”
*
Laure tried to banish thoughts of Sinjin from her mind. With a formidable opponent across the net, she had enough on her plate without worrying about whether Sinjin would be able to play today. She had to stay focused and maintain her concentration no matter what happened on the other side of the draw. Or in the newspapers.
A knot had formed in her gut when she read the morning’s tabloids. Her face was all over the front page. Grainy, long-distance photos of her and Sinjin’s emotional visit to Hampstead Heath were everywhere. “Are They or Aren’t They?” one headline asked. “Just Friends?” another wanted to know.
By the time she made it to her post-match press conference, it would be like her first Wimbledon all over again, when her run to the final had been overshadowed by the controversy over her sexuality. Sure, the tour’s handlers would probably ask the press to limit their queries to her on-court activities, but she knew the moratorium wouldn’t last long. If at all. Having her face splashed on the front page of every newspaper from here to Timbuktu wasn’t her thing. She liked flying under the radar, quietly going about her business and garnering very little attention until championship weekend when the focus was squarely on her game, not her personal life. So much for that.
She lost the first three games of her round of sixteen match while her head was in a fog. She broke Maria to get back on serve in the first set, then broke again to take the lead. She won the first set 6-4 and ran through the second 6-1.
She was playing better with each round. She could feel her game start to come together. If she peaked at the right time and kept her lapses in concentration to a minimum, the title was hers for the taking. Claiming Sinjin’s heart would have to wait.
*
Two more games. That was all she needed. Sinjin looked up at the darkening sky. Did she have enough time? Madeline had slowed the pace in the past few games, trying to drag things out. She was obviously hoping for a continuation. Sinjin was determined not to give her one. A late break had earned her the first set; an early one had given her the lead in the second.
Keeping the points short, she played exclusively serve-and-volley in her next service game to pull ahead 5-3. One more game. If she broke serve, the match was over.
Even though her back was to the wall, Madeline refused to give in. She fought her way out of a 0-30 hole to hold serve and pull to within a game. Then she spent the entire changeover attempting to convince the chair umpire to call the match.
“It’s so dark out here I can barely see my hand in front of my face,” she said while the crowd whistled in displeasure. “What do you want us to do, play by moonlight? If you expect us to do that, you’d better round up some balls that glow in the dark.”
The chair umpire called the tournament referee for advice.
Sinjin’s heart sank when the official reached for his walkie-talkie. She wanted to play the next day, but in the quarterfinals, not the round of sixteen.
The chair umpire lowered the volume on his two-way radio and signaled for both players to join him. The overflow crowd strained to hear the quiet conversation. “You have one more game. After that, we call the match.”
“Why don’t we call it now?” Madeline asked.
The chair umpire stood firm. If a match had to be called, officials preferred to do it at a point that didn’t favor one player over another. After one more game, the set would end at 6-4 or be knotted at 5-all. “It’s only fair.”
The crowd roared its approval when the players returned to the court. Standing at the service line, Sinjin did her best to keep her knees from knocking. She had never felt such pressure. Every cliché in the book could be attached to this next game. If she won it, she would join the Last Eight Club. If she lost it, all bets were off.
Two sloppy volleys put her in a hole.
“Fifteen-thirty,” the chair umpire said.
Slow down. Sinjin reminded herself to play one point at a time. Though she wanted to get the game in before darkness fell, doing so would be pointless if she let the game slip through her fingers.
Picking on Madeline’s suspect backhand, she tossed a serve out wide and followed it to the net. Madeline’s return was better than she expected, but she picked it off her shoe tops for a drop volley winner.
Thirty-all.
She reached match point with an ace down the middle, then promptly squandered it by blowing a forehand volley.
When the crowd groaned in disappointment, Sinjin resisted the urge to hang her head.
It was just one point. You’ve got to play at least two more.
Granted new life, Madeline took advantage of her second chance. She smacked a blistering forehand passing shot to reach break point. The crowd groaned even louder and Sinjin’s shoulders slumped for the first time all tournament.
Sinjin slowly picked herself off the ground. Her diving effort to reach Madeline’s forehand had come up just short. Would she do the same?
This is your chance, she thought as anger replaced her nerves. This is your moment. Don’t throw it away.
Her clothes were covered in grass stains, but she paid them no mind. When the ball boy offered her a towel, she waved him away.
It was time to get dirty.
Her eleventh ace brought her to deuce. Her twelfth to match point.
She waited for the ball boy to toss her the ball she had used to serve the previous point. This is the one, she thought, giving the ball a fervent kiss. Let’s end this.
The serve felt pure when it left her racquet. For a split-second, she thought she had hit another ace. Evoking vintage Jimmy Connors, Madeline threw herself at the return and somehow managed to get her racquet on it. Sinjin stretched her eyes wide to see clearly in the fading light while she raced to the net to intercept the weak return. When she drew her racquet back, the crowd murmured in anticipation. She smashed the ball into the open court. It landed well out of Madeline’s reach and bounced into the stands. She sank to
her knees as the crowd leaped to its feet.
“Game, set, match, Miss Smythe,” the chair umpire said. “Miss Smythe wins two sets to love. Six-three, six-four.”
*
After they completed their respective press conferences, Laure and Sinjin headed to Notting Hill. Sinjin slumped on the couch, seemingly too tired to string two sentences together let alone take advantage of the fact they were alone for the first time in days. Carrying a nation’s hopes and dreams on your shoulders was exhausting. Laure had carried the same weight for years. When she had finally relieved herself of her burden by winning the French Open a few weeks prior, she had felt lighter than air. She hoped Sinjin would experience the same sense of euphoria one day. But not this year. This year was her time.
“You never said it would be this hard,” Sinjin said. “Winning a tournament is tough, but this is like winning two or three of them. The second week, the matchups in each round are worthy of a final. And that”—she pointed to her cell phone, which was vibrating almost nonstop on the table—“that is driving me crazy. Companies are coming out of the woodwork, all wanting to know if I’ll endorse their products. Even my old clothing company has come courting. They offered me a signing bonus and a lucrative extension if I agreed to let them reinstate my deal.”
“What did you say?”
“Thanks but no thanks. Only I wasn’t nearly that polite. If I’m worthy of such fantastic offers now, why wasn’t I four months ago?”
Sinjin’s voice was tinged with anger. Laure couldn’t blame her for having a chip on her shoulder, but now wasn’t the time to seek retribution for real or imagined slights. She tried to smooth her ruffled feathers.
“It’s not you who has changed. It’s the size of your audience. You’re a hot commodity now and will be for a while. Don’t be stubborn. This is your chance to secure your financial future. The trickle of calls you’re getting now won’t compare to the flood you’ll receive when we make it to Saturday’s final.”
Sinjin frowned. “You talk about the two of us playing for the title as if it’s a done deal. Have you taken a look at the draw sheet?”
In the next round, Sinjin would play Blake in the showcase match on Centre Court. Their opening act? Viktoriya against Serena Williams in a battle of current and former world number ones. The matches scheduled for Court One weren’t too shabby, either. Laure would open play by taking on Mirjana Petkovic, a hard-hitting Serbian teenager bidding to become her relatively new nation’s third Grand Slam champion. Then third-ranked Chandler Freeman would square off against the resurgent Kim Clijsters.
“I know we have formidable opponents in our way, players who are playing as well as we are, if not better, but what we’ve been dreaming about for weeks is close to becoming a reality. I’ve never lost to Mirjana and I have a good record against Viktoriya. I’ve beaten her here before and I know I can do it again. On your side of the draw, the Freeman sisters aren’t going to be easy, but Blake’s injured and Chandler hasn’t won the title in three years. This is the only tournament where she consistently runs into players who believe they can beat her even when she’s playing her A-game. Blake has beaten her here three times, I’ve done it twice, and Maria Sharapova has done it once. Thursday, you could add your name to the list. Pretend it’s Miami all over again. Would that help?”
The ten-day hard court tournament in Miami was considered the tour’s fifth major. The last time she had qualified for the event in her adopted hometown, Sinjin had upset Chandler in the third round.
“In Miami, I beat Chandler and lost to Blake. I don’t want to lose. To anyone.”
Laure stroked Sinjin’s furrowed brow. Sinjin had been irritable all day. At first Laure had attributed her unease to the weather. Now she feared something else might be the cause. Was the stress of the tournament or the uncertainty of a new relationship to blame?
“Let’s stop worrying about wins and losses and enjoy our time together. My parents are having dinner in town tonight. Stephanie and Nicolas are off doing who knows what. Gabrielle and Kendall are off doing who knows who. Why don’t we stay in instead of going out to dinner?”
“Because it feels like the walls are closing in and I need to get out of here. I need to breathe.”
Laure remembered the moment of panic she’d faced when she neared her first Grand Slam title. When everything she had worked so hard to achieve was just a few steps away. So near and yet so far.
“Let’s go out,” Sinjin said. “There’s a table at Fog with our names on it.”
Laure shook her head. “We have matches to play tomorrow. I don’t want to trek all the way into town, wait an hour for our food, then spend another two hours trying to extricate you from the clutches of your adoring public.”
Sinjin cocked her head as if seeing the world from a different angle would help her see things more clearly. “Or is there another reason you want to hide out behind closed doors? It’s the press attention, isn’t it? You can’t afford to be seen with me.”
If Sinjin had aimed the verbal arrow at her heart, she had certainly hit her mark.
“I don’t like being the subject of speculation, but—”
“Is that code for you can’t make headlines without losing your focus?”
Laure tried to keep her voice level despite the anxiety rising inside her like a flood-swollen river. “As long as we know what’s really going on between us, it doesn’t matter what anyone else thinks. Or writes.”
“What’s really going on between us? I’d love for you to define it for me. We hang out every night, you flirt just enough to convince me you’re interested, then you put on the brakes whenever I make a move, and you send me home with a serious case of blue balls. If what other people said about us didn’t matter, you wouldn’t have waved that tabloid in my face last week when Kendall and I were on the front page.”
Laure backed off as the conversation took an unexpected turn. She didn’t want to start a fight, even though Sinjin seemed to be itching for one. “I think the pressure’s making you paranoid.”
“No, the pressure’s helping me see things clearly.” Sinjin pushed herself off the couch. “I don’t know what I was thinking. The middle of a Grand Slam event isn’t the time to even think about a relationship, let alone embark on one. We should cut our losses and call it a day.”
“I thought you said the time for excuses was over.”
Laure’s words stopped Sinjin in her tracks.
“If you walk out that door,” Laure said, “that tells me you didn’t mean any of the things you’ve been saying the past few months. That tells me you don’t believe in yourself or your game. Do you expect me to believe everything you said in Hampstead Heath was just a line? I was there. I know better. But if you want to take the easy way out, go ahead.”
Sinjin reached for the doorknob.
“Say hello to Abby for me,” Laure said. “Or whoever you happen to pick up on the way home.”
Sinjin whirled to face her. “I’m not that person anymore.”
“Are you sure? From this perspective, it still looks like you’re running away at the first sign of adversity. The second this relationship stopped being fun, you decided to do what you do best—avoid the heavy lifting and take the easy way out. If Blake puts up a fight, are you going to tank your match tomorrow, too?”
Sinjin didn’t respond.
“How many times are you going to do this to yourself?” Laure asked. “How many times are you going to let yourself get close to what you want, then get scared and shrink from the challenge?”
Sinjin still didn’t say anything. Her face was a blank mask. Laure had seen that look before. She had seen it on Sinjin’s face every time she lost a match she should have won. Every time she convinced herself she was second best.
“If you want to beat Blake tomorrow,” Laure said, “I can tell you how to do it. If you want to be with me, you’re going to have to figure that out on your own.”
Quarterfinals
&nbs
p; A crowd shadowed Sinjin during the long walk from the locker room to Aorangi Park. She signed whatever was thrust in front of her and blindly returned it without interacting with the object’s owner. The crowd grew bigger with each step. By the time she reached the practice courts, she felt claustrophobic.
She’d barely slept since she left Laure’s last night. The scene they’d acted out kept running through her head.
Last night she’d had a choice to make. She had to decide which was more important, winning Wimbledon or winning Laure’s heart. She’d chosen the former.
Holding her racquet over her head, she stretched to her left then to her right. She groaned pleasurably when her back gave a satisfying pop. She was so close to getting everything she had ever wanted. So close to getting a second chance. A Grand Slam title was within reach. Laure had already won four majors. Laure could take time to stop and smell the roses. She couldn’t. Not if she wanted to get where Laure had already been.
She and Laure had seen each other almost every other day for weeks. The last few had seen them start to develop something special. Something real. Too real. She hadn’t gone to Laure’s last night intending to end their courtship, but it was the right thing to do.
Being with Laure was easy in the beginning when the championship match was so far away. The closer it came—the closer they crept to playing each other in a final both hungered to win—the harder it got for her to spend so much time with Laure in a casual setting. How was she supposed to look across the net on Saturday and see an opponent instead of a woman she had begun to care for? Laure might be able to compartmentalize her feelings, but she couldn’t.
Lucky Loser Page 12
