Lucky Loser

by Yolanda Wallace

  She spent her post-match shower trying to formulate a game plan.

  The Freeman sisters were never far apart when they played a Grand Slam event, one observing while the other played. Though their parents were their official coaches, they usually turned to each other for advice. When she played Chandler in the semifinals, Sinjin knew Blake would be watching from the Friends Box after telling Chandler what to expect. The game plan that had worked so well against Blake would be useless against Chandler. If Sinjin tried to employ the same tactics, Chandler would be ready for them.

  In the semis, Sinjin would have to play the match of her life. Again.

  She turned off the water and reached for the towel she had hung on the peg just outside the shower stall. She came up empty. She sluiced water off her face with her hands. She looked down, thinking the towel had fallen to the floor. It wasn’t there either.

  “Looking for this?” Viktoriya held the towel just out of reach.

  Sinjin jerked her thumb toward the door. “The seeded players’ locker room is that way.”

  “Don’t worry. I won’t stay long.” Viktoriya tossed her the towel.

  Sinjin dried off and quickly began to dress. Most players left little to the imagination in the locker room. She was no different. She could have a conversation stark naked and think nothing of it. Standing in front of Viktoriya, she felt exposed.

  “I just wanted to thank you,” Viktoriya said.

  “For what?”

  Viktoriya’s brilliant smile had enough wattage to illuminate all the British Isles. “I’m still number one and I owe it all to you. Now I can relax and play my best tennis.”

  Viktoriya had barely broken a sweat all tournament. If she hadn’t played her best tennis yet, she would be impossible to beat. Or was that what she wanted her to think?

  Sinjin freed herself from Viktoriya’s clutches. “If you make it past Laure, I’m going to be waiting for you.”

  Viktoriya roared with laughter. “If that’s supposed to be a threat, try again. It sounds more like incentive.”

  “If you make it past Laure, I’m going to be waiting for you,” Sinjin repeated. “And I’m going to beat you.”

  Viktoriya’s smile devolved into a smirk. “For what it’s worth, I hope you do win on Thursday. Then one queen will get to watch another.”

  Viktoriya walked away in apparent triumph. Sinjin let her go. As far as she was concerned, the last word was yet to be uttered. And when it was spoken, she would be the one saying it.

  *

  The next day, Laure settled into her seat on the patio. At the All England Club five miles away, the men were playing their quarterfinal matches. The most anticipated match of the day was Andy Murray’s showdown against Roger Federer. Murray owned the regal Swiss in tour events but had never beaten him in a Grand Slam tournament. If he was to win his first Wimbledon title, he would have to take down the man who had garnered six of them.

  With the men assuming center stage, Laure was grateful for the day off. The break gave her a chance to get some much-needed rest. She was fine physically—thanks to Gabrielle and Kendall, she had never been in better shape—but she was emotionally exhausted.

  For most of the past month, she had been on top of the world. When she won the French Open, she didn’t think she could get any higher. Then she started to develop a new appreciation for Sinjin Smythe. She had trained with her. Bantered with her. Laughed with her. Cried with her. She had listened to her stories. She had shared her own. Each day, her heart had soared to greater heights. Which made her current low feel that much worse.

  She opened her sketchpad, pulled out her charcoal pencil, and began to sketch something suitably dark.

  Her cell phone rang. She wiped her hand on her shorts and automatically reached for her phone. Sinjin’s mobile number was printed on the display. Laure’s thumb hovered over the Answer button. Was Sinjin calling to apologize or pretend nothing had ever happened? Last night or over the past few weeks.

  She sent the call to voice mail and returned to her sketch. She kept one eye on the phone until the message indicator began to flash.

  “And now for the coup de grâce.”

  She accessed her voice mail and lifted the phone to her ear.

  “Are you screening all your calls or just mine?” Sinjin’s message began. “Even though it’s only been twenty-four hours, I feel like it’s been twenty-four days since the last time I talked to you. I almost called you so many times last night. I reached for the phone so often I’ll probably develop a hitch in my forehand.” A deep sigh, followed by a long pause. “I suppose I should get to the point. I wanted to thank you for everything you’ve done for me. Yes, I know I’ve told you before. I’m going to keep telling you until you finally realize how generous you’ve been. Good luck tomorrow. Maybe, when this is over, you’ll let me buy you a drink. I know where I can get a good deal on a bottle of wine. Cheers.”

  Laure fingered the numbers on the keypad. No matter how much she wanted to remain angry with Sinjin, she couldn’t manage the feat. But she couldn’t call her back. Not yet. She had two more matches to win first.

  She toggled over to her text messages, pulled up Sinjin’s number, and typed a short reply.

  You’re welcome.

  *

  Against Andrew’s objections, Sinjin had decided to take the day off. What had Laure said in Roehampton?

  “Tennis is a big part of my life, but I don’t let it consume me. 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’s drawing skills were so bad she could barely make a stick figure recognizable. She found her balance where she always did. On a bench in Hampstead Heath.

  She stretched her legs in front of her and enjoyed the warmth of the late afternoon sun. She raised her face to the sky.

  “Almost there, Mum,” she whispered. “Almost there.”

  Her phone buzzed against her hip. She pulled the phone out of its holster. She had two text messages.

  The first was a score alert. Andy Murray had just lost to Roger Federer in five grueling sets. Combined with Abby’s loss in doubles earlier in the week, that left her as the only player of local interest in the entire tournament. She felt the tremendous weight on her shoulders grow even heavier.

  The second message was from Laure.

  You’re welcome.

  She didn’t know how to interpret what Laure had written. Was Laure warming up or growing colder?

  She slid the phone back into its holster. She might be two matches away from winning Wimbledon, but she might have already lost something much more important.

  Semifinals

  The match was ninety minutes old, but Laure still hadn’t found the range on her serve. Each time she went for the hard, flat one down the middle, she’d hit it just long or into the net. Facing one of the best returners in the sport, she knew she was lucky to be in the match at all, let alone tied at a set apiece. Guile had gotten her this far. Now, with Viktoriya starting to get a better read on her serve, she would have to rely on guts. She needed to sacrifice pace in favor of percentage—and hope like hell her ground game could save the day.

  As she grew older, wins—especially Grand Slam wins—became more precious; losses more devastating. She wanted to win this Wimbledon nearly as much as she had wanted to win the French Open. Her win at the French had felt like the culmination of her career. Another win at Wimbledon would remind her of the beginning. The All England Lawn Tennis Club was the site of her first Grand Slam singles title. She had won the Ladies’ Plate when she was twenty, claiming the coveted trophy while she was too young and too naïve to realize winning majors was harder than it looked.

  Knowing she was in the Wimbledon semifinals for the last time, she had started out anxiously. Facing Viktoriya was a daunting task that required every ounce of her concentration, which had faded in a
nd out during the early rounds. By the time she got locked in during the semis, she had already fallen behind.

  She had double faulted twice in the first three points, gifting Viktoriya a break in the opening game of the match. Viktoriya had claimed the first set 6-4, but she had bounced back to win the second set in a tiebreaker. As the third set began, momentum was on her side. So why did she feel like she was holding on by her fingernails?

  She looked at the stats as they flashed across the scoreboard. She had more winners than errors and her first serve percentage was a gaudy eighty-five. Both positive signs. But she hadn’t come close to breaking Viktoriya’s serve. In fact, the break in the first game of the match was the only time either player had dropped serve all day. Each of her service games had been a struggle. Viktoriya had breezed through hers while she had labored to hold.

  She tried to look on the bright side. If she could hang on long enough—if she could keep fighting off break points and remain within striking distance—she could pull off the upset. All she needed was a chance. Just one chance.

  She glanced at the Friends Box. Viktoriya’s team occupied the front row; hers took up the second. Nicolas and Gabrielle sat next to her parents. Stephanie and Kendall rounded out the row. Laure had never felt so supported or so loved. But the person whose support she needed most wasn’t there. Sinjin, who was scheduled to play the second semifinal, wasn’t there. Not physically, anyway.

  Whenever Laure felt herself getting tight, she remembered one of Sinjin’s lousy jokes and immediately began to relax. Whenever her spirits started to flag, she could hear Sinjin urging her on like she had in training. And when she finally strung enough points together to break Viktoriya’s serve and take a 5-4 lead in the third set, she could almost hear her leading the cheers.

  Adrenaline coursed through Laure’s body as she sat in her chair during the changeover. She was so close now she could taste it. So could her family and friends. Her parents looked calm, but she could see their excitement—their relief—bubbling just beneath their placid exteriors. The rest of her supporters were more demonstrative. Stephanie and Kendall stood throughout the changeover, clapping rhythmically along with the rest of the crowd. Nicolas and Gabrielle cheered right along with them.

  “Stay strong,” Nicolas said, shaking his clenched fists. “Serve it out.”

  Gabrielle raised a finger in the air. “One more game.”

  Nodding in assent, Laure knew the next game would be one of the hardest she had ever tried to win.

  *

  A few days ago, Sinjin wondered who she would root for—Laure or Viktoriya. When Laure hit a gorgeous backhand down the line to take the lead in the third set, she had her answer. And it had nothing to do with match-ups or career head-to-head results. It had nothing to do with loyalty or revenge. She wanted Laure to win because she was in love with her.

  “Yes!” she shouted, her voice echoing off the walls.

  The locker room attendant covered her mouth with her hand, but not before Sinjin noticed her indulgent smile, the kind of smile mothers reserved for their children who have done something cute but borderline embarrassing. Blushing, Sinjin moved closer to her computer screen. She had said she wouldn’t watch the match so she wouldn’t expend much-needed emotional energy rooting for or against either player. But hearing the crowd’s distant roar without knowing who or what had prompted the sound was even more nerve-wracking than watching the match unfold. She had booted up her laptop near the end of the second set—just in time to see Laure win the pivotal tiebreaker seven points to five. Now Laure was only four points away from the match. Four points away from the finals.

  Sinjin wiped her sweaty palms on her pants as she peered at the images on the computer screen. She wished the changeover hadn’t disrupted play. Ninety seconds was a long time to think. Especially when tennis history was on the line.

  When play resumed, though, Laure looked focused. She looked like she knew what she had to do. But would that be enough? She had a history of blowing winning leads and Viktoriya wasn’t going to go down without a fight. In the ensuing battle of wills, who would be declared the victor?

  “If you win the first point, the game is yours.” Sinjin talked to the computer screen as if Laure could hear her. She hoped she could. “Win the first point, get ahead of her, and the rest is easy. I’ll be right behind you. We have a date to keep.”

  *

  Laure had always been such a crowd favorite at Wimbledon she sometimes felt half-English. As she prepared to serve for the match, she could feel the crowd’s apprehension. She could feel how much they wanted her to win. And how afraid they were that she might lose. She felt the same fear.

  The first point was crucial. If she won it, she could relax and cruise through the rest of the game. If she lost the game, the match would be even, but momentum would switch to Viktoriya’s side of the court.

  She went for a hard, flat serve down the T. The serve was the fastest she had ever hit in her life—one twenty-five, according to the speed gun—but Viktoriya jumped all over it. Her return was struck with such force it nearly knocked the racquet out of Laure’s hands. Love-fifteen.

  Viktoriya had spent most of the past two off-seasons training in Barcelona in an effort to improve her clay-court game. Rumor had it she had spent more time hitting nightclubs than lobs. Though she spoke Russian when she was upset about losing a point, she used Spanish when she celebrated winning one. A torrent of Catalan spilled from her lips as she sprinted to the other side of the court.

  “Stupid, stupid, stupid.” Laure admonished herself for getting away from her game plan. Placement, not power had brought her this far. Why change tactics now?

  An acutely angled serve drew her even. Another one pushed her ahead. Thirty-fifteen. Two points away now.

  Her string of aces ended on the next point, but she quickly took control of the rally. Appearing to tire, Viktoriya charged the net out of desperation. Laure coolly lined up a passing shot. Her forehand clipped the top of the net, slowly crawled up it, then fell back on her side of the court.

  Laure held her head in her hands as the crowd groaned. If she had made the shot, she would have earned two match points. As it stood, she was still two points from winning. But now Viktoriya was two points from breaking her serve. And her spirit.

  “Shake it off,” Laure whispered as she waited for the crowd to settle.

  But the mistake would prove insurmountable.

  Viktoriya, recharged and firing on all cylinders, won the next two points to break serve. Then she held easily to push her lead to 6-5. Laure spent the changeover telling herself she was still in the match, but she couldn’t shake the feeling she had missed her chance. Before she knew it, she was down triple match point and the crowd was begging her to pull off a miracle. Out of comebacks, she watched helplessly as Viktoriya’s lob cleared her outstretched racquet and landed safely inside the baseline.

  “Game, set, match, Miss Vasilyeva,” the chair umpire said. “Miss Vasilyeva wins two sets to one, six-four, six-seven, seven-five.”

  Viktoriya’s delighted shriek cut through Laure like a buzz saw. Leaning across the net, she extended her hand for the traditional post-match handshake. “Well played,” she said automatically. Her voice was devoid of emotion, belying the feelings roiling inside her.

  Viktoriya gripped Laure’s hand and air-kissed her cheeks as if they were old friends instead of old enemies. “Thanks for the workout. Better luck next year.”

  Melancholy gripped Laure’s heart so tightly the pain brought tears to her eyes. She bit her lip to keep from crying. Not here, she admonished herself as she zipped her warm-up jacket. Not in front of all these people. Try to keep it together until you get off the court.

  She quickly packed her bags, but not wanting to seem like a bad sport, she didn’t leave until Viktoriya was ready to do the same. As she trailed Viktoriya off Centre Court, she looked back over her shoulder as if she was seeing the storied venue for the last time. Jus
t like Billie Jean King had in 1983. Then she knelt and plucked a few blades of the precious grass. Just like Martina Navratilova had in 1994. Like those two great champions, her Wimbledon career was over.

  *

  The locker room attendant was crying. Sinjin felt like joining her.

  “She’s not coming back next year, is she?” the attendant asked.

  Sinjin shook her head.

  “She has always been one of my favorites. Such a classy lady.”

  “She certainly is.”

  “She never has a harsh word to say about anyone. And I’m sure some deserve more than a few.”

  You don’t know how right you are.

  Even when Viktoriya and her ilk were at their worst, Laure never stooped to their level. Either in public or behind closed doors. Even now, when their relationship was more uncertain than ever, Laure had given her the freedom to make her own decisions. She had given her the room to find her way. To find herself. To find true love?

  A tournament official poked her head into the locker room. “Thirty minutes, Miss Smythe.”

  “Thank you.”

  The last thing Sinjin wanted to think about was playing tennis. She wanted—needed—to console Laure. She turned to the attendant, who was discreetly blowing her nose in a monogrammed handkerchief.

  “I know it’s probably against the rules, but would you bring Laure in here, please?”

  “Certainly, Miss Smythe.” The woman’s blue eyes sprang fresh tears. “She could use some quiet time after a defeat like that.”

  After the attendant left, Sinjin paced the room like an expectant parent. She kept returning to the exchange Laure and Viktoriya had shared at the net after the match. Whatever Viktoriya said to Laure certainly hadn’t set well. Laure’s expression had grown even more pained than the one she had borne most of the day.

  The door opened. The attendant led Laure into the room. Laure’s eyes were red, her chin quivering. The torment Sinjin saw in Laure’s face nearly drove her to her knees. She tried to think of something comforting to say but couldn’t find the words. When she looked into Laure’s eyes, she realized words were unnecessary.