“Yeah?” she asked.
“You accept both invitations and you wait it out. The junior girls don’t start until later into the tournament. You’d have to at least get to the third round of the women’s doubles draw before you’d play your first-round singles match. If you have to drop one after that, so be it, but there’s no reason to worry about that until it actually happens, if it actually happens. Once those two calm down enough to think clearly, they’ll figure it out on their own. No sense in you worrying about it.”
Indy smiled and she felt all the stress of the last few minutes completely disappear. “I should have hired you to be my agent.”
Jack shrugged, his expression blank again. “I don’t know about that.”
Her smile dropped. “Well, thanks. I’ve gotta get going. I’m sure rumors are flying around here about me dropping doubles by now. I better talk to Jasmine before she has a total breakdown and decides to slap me again.”
***
The Randazzo house was easy enough to spot as she drove down Ocean Trail. It was the biggest structure around, aside from the OBX buildings.
The gates to the large stone driveway were propped open, saving her the embarrassment of explaining “Hi, I’m the girl who beat Jasmine at the Classic. Can I come in?” That would go over really well.
Indy took a deep breath, reached out and rang the doorbell. Moments later, she heard shuffling on the other side of the door, then it was opened by a woman who looked exactly like she imagined Jasmine would in about twenty years. Lisa Vega-Randazzo, a legend in the tennis world for her talent and for giving it all up to start a family. Indy tried not to be intimidated, but it wasn’t easy.
“Hi, Mrs. Randazzo, I’m….”
“I know who you are, come in, come in,” she said, waving her inside. “Jasmine!” she shouted up into the house, her voice echoing in the large entryway.
“What, Mom?” Jasmine shouted from somewhere on the second floor, before she appeared on the landing. “Oh, it’s you.”
“Jasmine, there’s some fresh lemonade in the kitchen. Why don’t you and Indiana go in there and talk?” It sounded like a suggestion, but Mrs. Randazzo was sending her daughter a piercing look that Indy remembered well. It was the same one her mom used when she had to do something…or else.
A minute later, she was sitting at the table in the Randazzo’s kitchen, a full glass of lemonade in front of her. Jasmine was silent as she marched across the polished wood floor, replacing the glass pitcher of lemonade and slamming the stainless steel door closed. The silence was just too friggin’ awkward so Indy took a large gulp of her drink.
“I heard you got an entry into the French Open Juniors. Congrats,” Jasmine said, joining her at the table.
Indy swallowed quickly. “Thanks. Look, I know there are rumors probably flying around right now that I’m dropping doubles, and I came here to tell you that’s not true.”
Jasmine twisted her mouth and nodded. “I might have gotten a text or two about it.”
“Well like I said, it’s not true. I’m going to accept both invitations and then see what happens from there.”
“See what happens?” Jasmine repeated, like she wasn’t sure what it meant.
“Yeah, the way the schedule works, we should be okay.” Indy left out the part about what Jack said about eventually choosing which to drop if she had to. Jasmine didn’t need to know that part, at least not yet.
“So is that why you came all the way over here?”
“Yeah, and well, I wanted to, I guess apologize. All those things you said the day we fought, I’m sorry I made you feel that way. I didn’t mean to.”
Jasmine sat still for a second and then nodded. “I guess I knew that, at least now I do. I was just looking for someone to blame for, well for everything. This year isn’t exactly going how I imagined, so I took it out on you.”
“You sorry for smacking me?” Indy asked.
“No, you deserved that.”
Despite herself, Indy smiled. “Maybe I did. Look, I think Dom’s on to something here with this doubles thing.”
Jasmine tilted her head. “I think so too.”
“If we can just get our act together during your service games, I think we’ll be fine,” Indy said, hoping the joke didn’t miss the mark.
Jasmine smirked. “Excuse me? The problem isn’t my serve. The problem is your net game.”
“Right, because I’m supposed to be able to cover the entire court when you serve up a meatball.”
“I know it might be a foreign concept to you, but sometimes you have to hit more than one shot to win a point.”
“Didn’t have a problem doing that against you during the Classic, did I?” She saw the hurt flash in Jasmine’s eyes and Indy cringed. That line she wasn’t supposed to cross. It was behind her. “Shit, I’m sorry.”
Jasmine shook her head, her eyes suddenly looking very tired. “Forget it. Are we still playing doubles or was this all a ploy to get me to drop out so you could play singles without Dom having a shit fit?”
“What? Of course I’m playing doubles. I just told you that.”
“Good, then if you don’t mind, I have some school work to finish up before we leave tomorrow.”
Jasmine silently led her to the door. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” she said.
“Yeah, tomorrow,” Indy said, but the door was already closed behind her.
Chapter 17
May 25th
Charles de Gaulle airport was a large, bustling international hub and yet their customs line was always painfully slow. The entire tennis world was descending upon Paris for two weeks and apparently someone forgot to warn the French Customs Office. Penny could see fellow players, their coaches and families, along with dozens of tennis people—reporters, officials and their ilk—all trapped and waiting their turn.
Her eyes looked over the faces, wondering if Alex had arrived yet, but the familiar, tall frame, broad shoulders and sandy blond hair were nowhere to be seen. She exhaled through her nose and felt her stomach tighten. She hated having things so unresolved between them. The French Open deserved her total focus, but she wanted Alex in her life and that meant trying to strike a balance. It wouldn’t be easy, but she was willing to try. It would be a lot easier if he would just talk to her, instead of the near complete cutoff the last few days.
At the front of the line a haggard-looking civil servant with a stern face asked, “Passeport?” rolling the R at the end of the word in that effortless way only a native French speaker could.
She slid her passport across the counter.
“Où êtes-vous?” the customs agent asked.
Penny couldn’t speak French, but she’d done this enough to know what she was being asked. “North Carolina in the United States.”
“Pourquoi êtes-vous en France?”
“Roland Garros,” she said simply.
The agent’s eyes flew up and lit with recognition. A tennis fan. The corner of the agent’s mouth lifted in what could almost be called a smile.
“Avez-vous quelque chose à déclarer?”
“No.”
“Très bien. Bonne chance, Mademoiselle Harrison.”
Her passport was passed back across the counter with a new stamp adorning its pages. “Merci.”
Jack’s interview was just as fast and they soon found themselves dragging two weeks’ worth of luggage and equipment toward the exit. They stepped out of the arrivals gate and into a rainy Paris morning. Raindrops dripping down from the overhang assaulted them.
Penny let out a sigh of relief when she saw a man holding a sign with her name on it. Having a car waiting was a large improvement over standing in yet another taxi line. She hoped the driver wasn’t in the mood to take a creative route to their hotel.
“You’re welcome,” Jack said.
“You rock.”
“Mademoiselle,” the driver said, drawing her eyes away from the rain as he held the door open for her. It was a Mercedes like
so many of the taxis across Europe. That phenomenon had always fascinated her. A car that was such a status symbol in America was pretty much the standard cab across the Atlantic.
“Merci,” she whispered and slid into the backseat.
The driver edged the car away from the curb and soon they were humming along down the highway through the outskirts of Paris—mostly open grass fields, modern office buildings and shopping centers—a view you’d find around almost every airport in every major city. Penny closed her eyes and rested her head against the seat. The vibrations of the car nearly lulled her to sleep.
“Don’t conk out yet, Pen,” Jack warned a few minutes later.
She opened her eyes. They were almost into the city itself and Penny didn’t want to miss it. This was likely all the sightseeing she’d get. At first the road was lined with buildings built in the last half of the 20th century, brand names held aloft on their roofs by scaffolds. Then the car sped through an underpass, made a sharp right turn, and they were in the real Paris—at least the part of Paris that everyone imagined. The rain faded into a light mist, making the entire city glow.
The car pulled to a halt in front of their destination. During her last trip to the French Open, she’d stayed at this very same hotel, and since she’d won the junior tournament that year, Penny didn’t see any reason to mess with good karma. La Metropolitan was a beautiful boutique hotel only a few minutes from Roland Garros, making the commute to and from the courts no longer than her drive to OBX, plus the upper floors of the hotel had some of the best views in Paris.
The driver opened her door, and as soon as she stepped out of the car, camera flashes barraged her. Shit, paparazzi, lots of them. They were yelling—mostly in French and she barely understood a word of it.
Then a voice rang out clear as day, “Penny, where’s Alex?” The rest of the paparazzi took the cue, switching to English.
“Penny, do you know what Alex is doing in London?”
“How long have you two been together?”
“Did you cut the breaks on his motorcycle so he’d crash in Australia?”
Then a bellhop launched himself out of the front entrance, dodging through the throng of frenzied reporters. “Allez,” he said, waving them toward the door. “Je vais porter vos bagages. Allez.”
Jack came around to her and she pressed into him as the crowd of reporters pushed forward. Stepping easily into the role of bodyguard, Jack snaked an arm around her shoulders and used his bulk to shove the camera-laden men aside, breaking a path into the hotel.
Her heart pounding in her chest, Penny stared at Jack in shock. “What the hell was that?”
“Things are different now, Pen,” Jack said, shaking his head in apparent disbelief.
“Yeah, I’m getting that.”
“Next time we’ll call ahead, come in through the back or something.”
She nodded, still trying to catch her breath. That was so intense, a claustrophobic thrill—scary and beyond exciting all at the same time.
They checked in and followed the bellhop who’d rescued them into the elevator, up to the sixth floor and then down a long hallway to her suite.
“If you’re with him, that crowd down there and the attention, it’s only going to get worse. Are you sure this is what you want, Pen?” Jack asked as soon as they were alone.
Penny wandered toward the balcony and rolled her eyes.
“I can see your reflection in the window. Don’t roll your eyes. Just be honest with me.”
“Don’t worry about it,” she said, brushing off the question. Of course she wanted to be with Alex. She’d been fighting it for months now, but whether what she wanted was good for her, she had no idea.
“Fine. I’m going down to my room. You need anything?”
Glancing around the luxurious suite, she grinned at her brother. A large sitting room, the furnishings new and clearly expensive, an attached bedroom with a king sized bed, an en suite bathroom with a shower big enough for two and a soaking tub. It was nearly as big as the entire second floor of her parents’ home. “I think I’ll be fine.”
The door clicked shut behind him and finally alone, Penny turned back to the balcony. Her suite was impressive, but the view—that was spectacular. The 16th arrondissement, one of the nicest neighborhoods in Paris, spread out before her with the Eiffel Tower looming in the distance as the sun began to peek through the fading rain clouds. She sat down on one of the chairs, a cushioned chaise lounge, and let her mind go blank, letting the scenery wash over her—not fully awake, but not quite asleep either.
Her cell phone buzzed in her pocket with a message from Indy: We’re here! She wasn’t sure how long she’d been sitting there and a quick glance at her watch told her nearly an hour had passed by in a blink. She was typing a response when a shrill ring from the phone sitting on the desk just inside the balcony door interrupted her. “I’m so popular,” she mumbled, stepping back into her room to answer the phone, as she texted her room number to Indy.
“Hello?” she asked, balancing the receiver between her shoulder and her neck.
“Mademoiselle Harrison, there is a package for you at the desk,” a woman with a French accent, not unlike Caroline’s, responded. “Shall I have it sent up?”
A few minutes later, a knock sounded against her door. A bellman was on the other side, holding a small square black velvet box wrapped with a cream-colored ribbon, a card tucked into the bow. Then a flash of blond hair appeared just behind him. The bellman handed Penny the package and with a nod, was off down the hallway.
“Hey,” Indy said, smiling. “What’s that?”
Penny shrugged, as they went back inside her suite. “I have no idea.”
The card slipped free of the ribbon easily enough and she opened it, smiling as she read the note.
For luck – Alex
Slowly, she pulled the bow free, but her hand paused before opening it. It was definitely jewelry, probably a necklace from the shape of the box. Why would he send her jewelry? Was he apologizing for his near-total silence for the last couple of days? Penny shook her head. She had to stop overanalyzing everything and just open the gift.
“Wow,” Indy said, from just over her shoulder. “So I guess he doesn’t hate you.”
“It’s perfect,” Penny said, running a fingertip over the old British coin attached to the long chain. It was a 1936 penny, minted the same year Fred Perry won Wimbledon, the last British man to do so before Alex. It was exactly what she would have picked out for herself, except that she wouldn’t have thought of it in a million years. The gift was beyond thoughtful. It wasn’t just some expensive, shiny object, but represented both of them. Still, having him with her was what she really wanted.
“You’re going to wear it to the gala tonight, right?” Indy asked. “If you don’t, I will.”
“It’s a penny necklace, Indy. I don’t think people will get it if you wear it.”
“Ha! The paparazzi would probably make up some story about me ripping it off your neck and stealing Alex away from you. Caroline would love that. Think of the buzz that would stir up.” Indy looked back at the necklace. “God, it’s the most perfect gift I have ever seen. You two are just—you kind of make me want to vomit.”
“Love you too,” Penny said, checking her phone. No messages. Where was he? “How was your flight?”
Indy tossed herself back onto the bed and let out a long-suffering sigh. “Jasmine didn’t speak to me the entire trip here. How do you think it was?”
“You can’t take all that negative energy out onto the court. You guys will get destroyed.”
“Don’t sugarcoat it or anything.” Indy stretched her neck and groaned. “I’m working on it, promise.”
“Good, but for now I think I have something that’ll cheer you up,” Penny said, grabbing her phone and texting Jack. “The dresses will be here in fifteen minutes.”
***
Penny couldn’t quite reach the zipper of the dress she’d chose
n for the player’s gala. Strapless taupe silk embellished with beading at the waist and hem, it gave her an exotic look she usually avoided. She bent her arm back, gave the zipper one last tug and it slid into place.
“There,” she said, turning and twisting in the mirror. Perfect.
A knock sounded against the door and she moved to open it. “Indy, hurry up,” she called toward the bathroom, “We’ve only got like….” Her words were cut off by a hard body storming through the door and crashing against hers, strong arms enveloping her in warmth. Her body recognized Alex before her mind did, letting him press her against the wall of her hotel room. He engaged her lips in a searing kiss and his hands buried into her hair, totally ruining the tresses she’d meticulously arranged just minutes before. Penny didn’t care as she curled her leg around his calf, pulling him even closer.
Ignoring the pointed throat clearing from just behind them, likely Indy emerging from the bathroom, Penny pulled away then kissed him lightly one more time, as Indy’s gagging noises faded back into the bathroom.
“You got the necklace.” His hand came up to where the coin rested against her skin, just above the neckline of her dress, rising and falling with every breath she took. “Do you like it?”
“I love it.”
“I’ve had it with me during every Grand Slam I’ve ever played in and I wanted you to have it.” She leaned forward again to kiss him, but he rested his forehead against hers, stopping her. “I’m sorry about how I left things between us,” he murmured against her lips. “I couldn’t figure out a way to say that over the phone, so I thought this might do it for me.”
If he kept this up, all of her lingering doubts would be long gone in no time. This was how it needed to be, them talking things out, not stressing over stupid misunderstandings when their minds needed to be on the court. “You thought right. It’s perfect. That doesn’t mean I’m not going to worry about your knee, though, okay?”
He winced. “Yeah about that, I saw my surgeon in London while I was there. I told him about the pain and he took a look. Knee’s fine, I promise, but worry away if it’ll make you feel better.”
Game. Set. Match. Page 17
