Laure dropped her racquet bag on the floor as her resolve finally broke. Sinjin spread her arms. Laure stumbled into them.
Sinjin held her as she cried, gently rubbed her back as powerful sobs nearly tore her in two. She didn’t try to dissect the match or ask her what went wrong. There would be plenty of time later for what ifs and if onlys.
After what seemed like hours but was actually no more than a few minutes, Laure pulled away. “Thank you for this, but you’ve got a match to prepare for,” she said, drying her eyes on her sleeve.
Sinjin rested her palm against Laure’s cheek and tenderly thumbed away a stray tear. “The match can wait. Are you okay?”
Laure shook her head. “I can’t do this anymore. I’m done.”
“Are you sure? I know this was a tough loss, but don’t you want to take time to think about it?”
“I gave everything I had. I’m physically spent. I’m emotionally gutted. I’m empty. I’ve got nothing left. No amount of time off is going to replenish my supply. I’m done.” Laure rubbed her face with the heels of her hands as if she could scrub away the hurt. “But don’t worry about me. You’ve got a match to win. And as soon as I get my press conference over with, I’ll be there to watch you do it.” She managed a smile, but the expression didn’t reach her eyes. “Sorry I broke our date for Saturday.”
“But we’re still on for the Champions Ball, right?”
Laure’s serious mien finally began to lighten. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
She turned to leave, but Sinjin’s voice stopped her.
“Laure—”
Sinjin hesitated, uncertain what to say.
“Yes?” Laure asked gently.
“Congratulations.”
“For what? I lost.”
“But you did it the way you do everything else: with dignity.” She took a step forward. “I want to be you when I grow up.”
She held Laure’s face in her hands and gently kissed her lips. She looked into Laure’s eyes, wishing she had the courage to say the rest of the words in her head. In her heart.
*
Laure felt the pieces of her broken heart begin to mend. She placed her hands on top of Sinjin’s to keep her from breaking contact. “It seems to me you’re doing a pretty good job of being yourself. Why don’t you keep doing that for a while?”
She left the locker room and headed to the Millennium Building to face the gathered media. She knew the forthcoming press conference would be brutal. She hoped it would also be brief. Sharing her innermost thoughts with a roomful of strangers holding tape recorders had never been her idea of fun. Neither was rehashing a gut-wrenching defeat. Now she had to do both.
She stopped by the tour leaders’ onsite offices to prepare them for what was about to happen.
“I wish you had given us some warning. We could have held an on-court ceremony for you after the match ended,” the tour chairman said.
“I don’t want a going-away party. I want to leave the sport the way I came into it: with no fanfare.”
The chairman gave her a warm hug. “I’m not going to say good-bye or even so long. I’ve seen you come back in matches before. I’m going to hold out hope you’re going to do the same this time.”
She managed a smile. “You can hold out hope. Just don’t hold your breath.”
“Don’t you want to do something with your hair or put on some makeup?” the marketing director asked, holding out a bag of free samples from a cosmetics company tour officials were hoping to land as a sponsor.
Laure didn’t reach for the proffered goods. She eyed the marketing director’s shellacked hair and camera-ready wardrobe. “I don’t have time for pretty. I want everyone to know how much this hurts. All those people who say women’s sports don’t matter, I want them to see how much it matters to us.”
She walked to the press room and took a seat behind a bank of microphones. Her throat went dry when she realized what she was about to do. She opened one of the bottles of mineral water that had been placed on the table.
“Before we begin,” she said after taking a long swallow, “I have an announcement to make. When the season started, I knew this would be my last year on tour. What I didn’t know was that Wimbledon would be my last tournament and this would be my last match. As of this moment, I am officially retired from the women’s tennis tour. It’s been a great run. I’ll miss everyone and I hope, on some level, you’ll miss me as well.”
“What are your thoughts on today’s match?” someone asked.
“I’m obviously very disappointed about the loss. I had a good chance and I thought I was going to win.”
“What went wrong?”
“I think I wanted it too much. In the beginning, I was thinking about the result instead of the process. I couldn’t relax and let my shots flow. I got back in the match in the second set and managed to take the lead in the third, but Viktoriya played unbelievably well throughout. Her level never dropped. Her consistency made all the difference.”
“What about the forehand you missed at five-four, thirty-fifteen in the final set?” someone asked. “Do you wish you could have it back?”
Laure knew she would be replaying the shot for days, weeks, and perhaps years to come. “No,” she said with a wry smile, “I wish the net had been a little bit lower.”
*
Sinjin lay on the floor and stared up at the ceiling as she took inventory of her body. She felt pretty good, considering how much tennis she had played in the past three weeks. Counting qualifying, she had already played—and won—enough matches to earn the title. But thanks to having to qualify, she still had two rounds to go.
A month ago, she felt like she was held together with spit and duct tape. Now she felt almost like her old self. Winning was truly the world’s best cure-all. Modern medicine didn’t hurt. She made a mental note to thank Kendall for being such a kick-ass trainer. Kendall’s workouts had enabled her to play her best tennis when most thought her best days were behind her. And Laure was the best training partner ever.
Though she was taking the time to look back at what she had accomplished, she had to keep moving forward. How many surprise semifinalists had gotten to this point and failed to progress? Too many to count. She desperately wanted to add her name to the roll of past winners just inside the entrance to Centre Court. If she did, she would become a Grand Slam singles champion. Just thinking the words gave her butterflies.
“Two more matches,” she said, momentarily straying from her mantra of one match at a time. “Two more.”
“Miss Smythe? It’s time.”
Sinjin heard the nervous tension in her newfound friend’s voice. The attendant wasn’t alone in her apprehension. British fans had been down this road before. A player made a deep run, fostered hopes of a title, then failed to deliver. Now it was her turn. The odds weren’t in her favor—the match in Miami was her only win over Chandler in six career meetings—but she liked her chances. She had already beaten three top ten players in the tournament. What was one more?
Hold your serve and you’re in there with a chance. That’s all you can ask for.
As she had feared, watching Laure’s match had taken something out of her. But the kiss had put it all back and then some. She pressed her fingers to her lips, remembering the kiss she and Laure had shared. Remembering how hard it had been to limit herself to just one. She didn’t need the dance music she normally listened to before matches to get her endorphins pumping. She was doing just fine on her own.
“Miss Smythe?” the attendant asked.
“Yes, I’m coming.”
Sinjin gathered her bags and followed one of the tournament officials out of the locker room. In the holding area, she bounced on her toes like a boxer warming up for a fight.
Chandler watched her gyrations with a bemused smile on her face. “Before you ask,” she said, plucking at the hem of her white tennis dress, “my wrist is fine. Do you have any other questions?”
&n
bsp; Gifted with the same sarcastic sense of humor, Sinjin and Chandler had a friendly but prickly relationship. Sinjin responded to Chandler’s jibe about gamesmanship with a teasing dig of her own. “How’s the movie performing?”
“The reviews are terrible. The returns are even worse. The paycheck was good, but I think I’ll stick to my day job.”
“Smart idea.”
“I’m the one who usually makes headlines.”
Everything Chandler did made front-page news, sometimes for the wrong reasons. When the press wasn’t talking about her latest dramatic come-from-behind victory or equally dramatic outfit, it was focused on her very active love life. In the past four years, she had been romantically linked to an actor, a rapper, a Saudi prince, and a racecar driver. Her current flame wasn’t as high profile as her previous ones. She had been seen out on the town with a stunt man she had met on the set of her latest movie, meaning some good had come out of her cinematic bomb.
“Way to steal my spotlight this week,” she said. “Mind if I have it back?”
“Why don’t we share it for a while, say ninety minutes or so?”
“I was thinking more like sixty.”
Chandler normally talked a blue streak after her matches but not before. Prior to a big match, she was as silent as a monk. Unless she was nervous.
Sinjin could tell Chandler’s constant chatter was an effort to settle her frazzled nerves. She went along with the ribbing because the back-and-forth helped ease her anxiety, too. She loved the camaraderie of the tour, where everyone wanted to win, but for the most part, weren’t willing to step on other players’ necks to do it. Viktoriya was the exception to the rule. Then again, Viktoriya was the exception to a lot of rules. But Viktoriya’s time was coming. So was hers. Maybe that time was now.
*
Laure wondered how long it would take to put the loss behind her. A day? A week? Months? Or perhaps never. She had been able to joke about it during her press conference, but she couldn’t stop dwelling on the forehand she had missed while serving at 5-4, 30-15 in the third set. If the shot haunted her this much while she was awake, how bad were her dreams—her nightmares—going to be?
She showered and changed before joining her parents in the holding area outside the Royal Box. As a former champion, she was granted lifetime priority seating in the prestigious section.
“You’ve had a wonderful career,” her mother said as they waited to take their seats. “You’re going to be remembered for your wins, not this loss.”
Laure hoped she was right.
Her mother and father, along with Nicolas and Gabrielle, had sat in on her retirement announcement. She would be eternally grateful for their unwavering support. The four of them had been there for her whenever she needed them. Now it was her turn. The next phase of her life had begun.
She and her parents climbed the stairs that led to the Royal Box. A wave of applause greeted them as soon as they stepped out of the tunnel. At first, Laure didn’t realize the greeting was for her. When the wave began to crest, she looked to see if Sinjin and Chandler were walking onto the court. Then the crowd began chanting her name.
Feeling unworthy of the adulation, she raised her hand to acknowledge the cheers and quickly took her seat. The crowd’s sustained applause—and the hand of a tantalizing young royal—lifted her out of it.
Laure said “Thank you” to both.
Just as they had during her match, Stephanie and Kendall led the cheers. Gabrielle and Nicolas sat to Stephanie’s right, Kendall to her left. Stephanie must have been wearing a nicotine patch because she looked to be the calmest of the bunch. Next to her, Kendall bounced like a Mexican jumping bean, filled with so much nervous energy she couldn’t sit still. Laure knew the feeling.
The longer the tournament went on, the more expectations for and pressure on Sinjin continued to grow. Now the hopes of a nation sat squarely on her shoulders.
Laure’s father leaned toward her after she sat again. “By the time the next match is over,” he said, glancing at the distant member of the royal family who was openly ogling her, “are you going to have another phone number to add to your mother’s refuse collection?”
Laure smiled, remembering the redhead from the National Gallery and the countless others like her who had sought her attention over the years. The prospect of a few hours of fun with them didn’t compare to the promise of the future that lay before her.
“By the time the next match is over, I hope to have a return engagement in this seat to watch Sinjin play the final.”
*
When the match began, Sinjin looked to exploit Chandler’s one discernible weakness—her movement. Chandler moved beautifully side-to-side, her deep ground strokes keeping her opponents pinned to the baseline. Her movement forward was suspect, however. So were her volleys. She advanced to the net only on her own terms, usually after one of her huge approach shots evoked a weak reply. Sinjin aimed to draw Chandler into the net at every available opportunity. Instead of zealously defending the net as she had against Blake, she intended to give it away. At least on Chandler’s serve. When she had the ball in her hand, she planned to serve and volley on every point. She didn’t want any rally to last longer than five strokes. The choppy nature of the match—old-school grass court tennis at its best—should prevent Chandler from finding a rhythm. If she could keep Chandler from settling into a groove, she would live to fight another day. If not, her inspired run would come to an end.
Chandler won the toss and elected to serve. The proud owner of the consensus best serve in women’s tennis, she would be able to put it to immediate use.
“Let’s go, Chan!” a familiar voice called from the stands.
Blake Freeman was sitting in the back row of the Friends Box, her parents on one side and Chandler’s boyfriend on the other. Her hands cupped around her mouth, Blake continued to shout encouragement.
Not to be outdone, Stephanie followed suit. “Break her, Sin!”
Then the rest of the crowd got involved, each fan trying to boost the morale of his or her favorite player. Sinjin was the overwhelming crowd favorite, but Chandler’s supporters made sure their voices were heard.
“Quiet, please,” the chair umpire said.
Chandler bounced the ball on the face of her racquet as she waited for the crowd to comply. After a few more cheers, the fifteen thousand fans gathered on Centre Court gradually fell silent. Chandler stepped to the baseline, took a deep breath, and prepared to serve. The beginning of her service motion was slow and exaggerated, the ending swift and sudden. When her racquet made contact with the ball, the percussion often sounded like a sonic boom. She combined the force with pinpoint accuracy. Her second serve was less potent but no less a weapon, its high kick quickly bouncing out of most players’ strike zones. Many players would have been happy to have her second serve as their first.
Sinjin knew Chandler wasn’t going to be easy to beat. But if she held her own serve and kept pace, perhaps Chandler would begin to feel the pressure and miss a few of her first deliveries. Because of her height, Chandler’s high-bouncing second serve didn’t bother Sinjin as it did other players. She could tee off on it like batting practice—if she got to see one. Chandler was serving so well during the tournament her second serve was practically missing in action. No wonder bettors had made her, in her sister’s absence and in light of Viktoriya’s recent struggles, the odds-on favorite to take the title.
Chandler won the first point with an ace and let out the kind of growl she normally reserved for the crucial stages of a tight third set. Sinjin took the hint. She couldn’t afford to work her way into the match. If she didn’t match Chandler’s intensity from the outset, she would be swept off the court.
Chandler got her first serve in on the next point, but Sinjin guessed right, hit a deep return, and won the point by steering a backhand winner down the line. She clenched her fist as she prepared for the next point but she didn’t celebrate. No need for histrionics on e
very point. Just the important ones.
At 15-all, Chandler pumped in a first serve that registered one hundred twenty-five miles per hour on the speed gun. Taking a page out of Roger Federer’s book, Sinjin blocked the ball back to get the point started. She responded to Chandler’s crosscourt backhand with a slice forehand that landed in the middle of the service box. The short shot drew Chandler to the net just as Sinjin intended. Chandler got to the ball in plenty of time, but unable to stop her forward momentum, butchered the shot. Her forehand sailed well over the baseline.
Rattled, Chandler missed her next serve by four feet. Sinjin crept forward for the second serve, her heels just inside the baseline. She got the backhand she was looking for and went for a big return. Expecting another short reply, Chandler started to move forward before Sinjin started her swing. The pace of the shot took her by surprise. Caught in no-man’s land between the baseline and the service line, her attempted half-volley found the bottom of the net.
“Come on,” Sinjin said under her breath. Her quiet exhortation was lost in the roar of the crowd.
The underdog had a chance to go up an early break.
A good start was important for both of them. If Chandler could keep her nose out front, she could keep the partisan crowd quiet. If Sinjin got an early lead, the place would be bedlam.
Down double break point, Chandler took some extra time before stepping up to the service line. If she fell behind, she had it in her to come back—more than one opponent had taken seemingly insurmountable leads against her only to watch helplessly as she found her game in time to pull out the win—but she couldn’t afford to press her luck. Sinjin was a dangerous opponent on most days. Someone who made you sweat, but unless you were having an off day, wasn’t a real threat to pull off an upset. The way Sinjin was playing now, though, if she thought she had a chance to win, she would take it. Chandler had to make sure their latest meeting wasn’t a repeat of their last.
Lucky Loser Page 15
