Code of Conduct

by Cheyenne Blue

  “Thank you. I need to figure out how to get it from you.”

  “It’s in my car right now.” Viva glanced across at her coach, who lifted a hand in acknowledgement and left the court. “That appears to be the end of my session today. I can get it for you now.”

  “Thank you. I appreciate it.”

  Viva’s forehead wrinkled. “You were playing just now?”

  “Yes. I do know how to.” She tried and failed to keep the sarcasm from her voice.

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean that. That was you hitting with Jorgen, then? I thought his opponent looked familiar. You’re pretty good.”

  “Social tennis.” She waved a hand in dismissal. “Is now a good time to get the bag? I will walk with you if so.”

  Viva studied Gabriela, her gaze sweeping from the top of her sweat-soaked hair to her well-worn tennis shoes. It was a leisurely assessment that paused and lingered. “I’m done here for the day. If you are too, it will be quicker to shower and then get the bag.”

  “Sure. I will meet you in the locker room.” Gabriela turned and headed off without waiting for Viva’s reply. Her pulse skipped in double time, and her feet kept pace. With luck, she would be in the shower before Viva arrived. Unselfconscious nudity was the norm in the officials’ locker rooms at various tournaments. Skin was just skin. A body was just a body. Gabriela didn’t have a problem with that, but suddenly, instantly, in the moments when Viva’s gaze had passed over her body, Gabriela was unaccountably nervous. Not that Viva might see her naked—she had no false illusions about how she looked: neat, compact, fit, taut. No beauty. Nothing to make anyone look twice.

  Except that Viva had.

  When Viva returned to the locker room, Gabriela wasn’t in sight, but the shower was running in the end cubicle. She’d caught up with Deepak, told him she was going home for a while, and then would be at the physio in the afternoon.

  Deepak’s voice had been gentle. “Maybe you could call Dr Jacobwitz and arrange for the injection. If you want to have any hope of playing the Australian season, the sooner you get that done, the better.”

  She had nodded, a jerky up-and-down, and spun away to jog back to the locker room before he could see the tears forming. They fell in the shower, the hot water taking them away along with any other visible sign of her upset.

  By the time she came out of the shower wrapped in a towel, Gabriela was dressed and sitting on a bench, lacing her shoes.

  “Won’t be long.” Viva turned her back, dropped the towel, and reached into her locker for lotion.

  When she turned back, Gabriela hadn’t moved. Her gaze flicked away from Viva’s body, and a rosy flush suffused her throat.

  Viva’s fingers clenched on the bottle, and a glob of lotion spurted from the top. She wiped it with her fingers, smoothing it on her thigh.

  “I need to dry my hair.” Gabriela rose and bolted to the far end of the room where the hairdryers were. The noise of the dryer, fluffing Gabriela’s nearly dry hair made any further conversation impossible.

  Viva’s gaze lingered on the upright rigidity of Gabriela’s back. She seemed uneasy, nervous in Viva’s company. She couldn’t blame Gabriela for that. Viva squirted more lotion and rubbed it on her arms. Shame twisted in her stomach. Her parents had brought her up to be fair. The Institute of Sport, too, put big emphasis on sportsmanship. Her actions towards Gabriela had been anything but fair. No wonder Gabriela was uncomfortable in her presence.

  A memory surfaced of another locker room, over a year ago. Herself consoling Michi after a first-round loss, a match Michi had ultimately lost on a line call. There was no Hawk-Eye on the outside court, and Michi was convinced the call was wrong.

  “You have to roll with it,” Viva had said to her. “Accept it, move on.”

  Good advice. Except that she, Viva, seemed incapable of following it when she was on the end of the bad call. She dressed slowly. It was time for her to follow her own advice.

  Viva’s car was in the members’ area, under the shade sails. She opened the boot and hauled out Gabriela’s sports bag. “Where’s your car?”

  “I don’t have one. I get a short-term rental when I want to explore a bit. Like when you rescued me.”

  Viva shifted the bag more fully to her left hand. “How are you getting home?”

  “Train.”

  “You’re staying in West End, right?” At Gabriela’s nod, she continued, “My apartment’s in South Bank. I can give you a lift.”

  Gabriela’s face wiped clean of expression. “Thank you. But I will be fine.”

  Gabriela would rather lug a heavy bag to the train station than accept a lift. That same twist of shame pushed to the forefront of Viva’s thoughts. She hadn’t been fair, and she had been unpleasant. Well, she could try to remedy that right now.

  Viva placed the bag on the ground between them. “Look, I owe you an apology. I haven’t treated you so well. I was rude to you at my parents’ place. You didn’t deserve that. I’ve been having a bit of a difficult time lately, but that’s no excuse to take it out on you.” Her mouth quirked up at one corner. “Mum chewed me out for my lack of manners. I’m truly sorry for being a brat.”

  When Gabriela smiled, her face lost some of its stern lines and she became less the blank-faced official. “Apology accepted. And your parents are lovely.”

  “They liked you too.” Viva snorted. “More than they’ve liked my last couple of girlfriends. Oh!” Warmth crept up her cheeks. “That didn’t come out right. I didn’t mean to imply anything.”

  Gabriela’s smile was impish. “Parents never like partners. Not until the partner is for keeps.”

  Viva placed the bag back in the boot of her car. “Get in. It’s crazy you taking the train when I’m going your way.”

  Gabriela slid into the passenger seat, and Viva got in and pulled away, joining the line of traffic heading towards the city. She accelerated to merge onto the freeway. Viva concentrated on the traffic, rather than on Gabriela’s smooth, brown thighs underneath her denim shorts. The traffic was far less distracting.

  “You must like it here as you spend all this time in Brisbane.” Viva accelerated into the outside lane.

  “Yes. It’s nice to have a base, and Australia is so relaxed compared to other places.”

  “Spain’s lovely too, though. The Madrid tournament is one of my favourites. The food!”

  “There is that. When I visit my brother there, we usually manage one evening in the tapas bars. It’s a highlight of my visit.”

  Viva rubbed her right wrist absently as she drove. Gabriela’s family seemed so different from her own. She glanced across at her passenger.

  “It’s not fixed, is it? Your wrist.” The words were quiet.

  The sympathy in Gabriela’s voice was her undoing, and she swallowed hard against the thickness in her throat. Everything she should be considering but couldn’t bear to think about came rushing to the fore. Injections, surgery—or not. Resting the wrist. The Australian summer of tennis.

  Retirement.

  What would she do with her life if that was her only option? What could she do? Tennis was all she had known. It was all she loved. The chaotic thoughts of before deluged her.

  “It’s not perfect, no. But it will do.” Her voice croaked.

  She glanced at her watch as the traffic moved slowly towards the city. It was only ten in the morning, and the day stretched long and desolate in front of her. On a normal day, she’d rest up for a bit while watching replays of her opponents’ matches, studying their strengths and weaknesses. Have a light lunch, then more training. A run, maybe weights. Or back to the courts for strength and agility exercises with her fitness trainer. Her wrist ached. Deepak was right; if she intended playing the Australian season, she needed to have that injection as soon as possible.

  She glanced over at Gabriela, who was staring
out at the traffic, seemingly absorbed by the ebb and flow.

  “Would you like to have dinner with me this evening?” The words came from nowhere, surprising Viva when they fell in the air between them.

  A tiny wrinkle appeared between Gabriela’s eyes. “Why?”

  “Why not? You’re alone in a foreign city. I’m not doing anything tonight. I’d enjoy your company.”

  Gabriela studied her across the car. “You did not seem to enjoy it much in Waggs Pocket.”

  Viva lifted a shoulder. “You’re right, and I’m truly sorry. I was very rude. I would very much like to take you out to dinner tonight—make it up to you in some small way.”

  “Players and officials can’t date.”

  “Not a date. Just two acquaintances having dinner together.”

  “You are splitting hairs.”

  “We had dinner together in Waggs Pocket. I have dinner with people on the tour all the time. It’s more pleasant than eating alone. That’s all I’m suggesting.”

  “Waggs Pocket was a necessity, and you know it. We do not eat together when we are on the tour.”

  Viva shot a glance at Gabriela. “There’s nearly a month until the season opening. No one will see us. I’m sure you’ll be completely impartial if you umpire any of my matches.”

  Gabriela’s frown grew more pronounced.

  “It’s one dinner. I’m not asking you to marry me.” She lifted her chin. “If you don’t want to, that’s fine. It was just an idea.”

  Gabriela was silent, and her gaze followed the line of traffic. Then her hunched shoulders relaxed. “Thank you. I would like that.” Her lips tilted up on one side, a curiously endearing expression. “You are right. It will be pleasant to share a meal with someone. What time?”

  “Is six too early? I’m usually in bed by ten when I’m training.”

  “That’s perfect. Where shall I meet you?” She pointed. “Turn left here.”

  “Do you know The Soul Bar on Broadbent Street?” At Gabriela’s nod, she continued, “I’ll meet you there.”

  “Next right please. This is my street.”

  Gabriela indicated an apartment block, and Viva stopped the car. “I’ll see you later, then.”

  “I’m looking forward to it.” A quick smile made her rather stern features come alive. “Thank you for the ride.”

  Chapter 8

  When Gabriela arrived, Viva was waiting at the Soul Bar with a large glass of water in front of her. She stood, and Gabriela’s glance was drawn to Viva’s smooth cheek. What would it be like to press her lips to that tanned skin? She looked away. This is not a date. This is two not-quite-friends having dinner. Nothing more. She contented herself with a quick smile, sat, and picked up the drinks list. “What are you having?”

  “Water.” Viva picked up the glass and drained half of it. “I’ll have a glass of wine with dinner.”

  Gabriela pushed the list across. “How about a mocktail? No alcohol.”

  “That’s a good idea. Thanks.” She glanced at the list and selected a lime-based drink.

  Gabriela ordered the same and studied her companion across the table. With her thick chestnut hair hanging loose halfway down her back and wearing a sleeveless blouse and a short skirt rather than sportswear, Viva looked younger and more relaxed. She looked like someone Gabriela would date. No. She clasped her hands in front of her, primly, like a school marm. That thought had sprung, fully-formed, into her head, and it could leave just as quickly.

  “What part of Spain are you from?” Viva studied her over the rim of her glass, her blue eyes intent.

  “Extremadura. It’s a dry inland area bordering Portugal. It reminds me a little of parts of Australia.”

  “I know it—well, parts of it—a little. I had a week off after playing Madrid a couple of years back. My girlfriend and I went road tripping. Had a great time.” She grinned. “No one knew who we were, so we could be a bit more open than usual. I remember fat black pigs and almond groves.”

  The drinks arrived. Gabriela sipped hers and looked at Viva’s arm where it lay on the table. How bad was the injury? The urge to take Viva’s wrist in her hand and run her fingers over it was strong. Although was it to diagnose or caress? She couldn’t tell. She clenched her fingers on the glass.

  “This morning when I was hitting with Jorgen,” she said. “he called you Queensland’s golden girl.”

  Viva laughed. “That’s what he calls every Queensland player, and there’s been a few over the years. Do you hit with Jorgen often?”

  “That was the first time, but we are playing again on Thursday.”

  “You must be good, then. Otherwise, he’d have thanked you and not suggested another time.”

  “Not really. But I enjoy playing to keep fit.” She grinned. “Sitting in an umpire’s chair isn’t much of a work-out.”

  Viva’s smile wiped from her face. She leant forward. “I have another apology to make. It seems I’m always apologising around you.” She met Gabriela’s eyes squarely. “The US Open. When you called me on a foot-fault. Twice.”

  Tension flooded Gabriela’s body. Was Viva about to get angry about that once again? She shot her a glance.

  Viva lowered her head and fiddled with the straw in her drink. “I blamed you for my loss. There on court, in my head. I blamed your bad call for losing the point, then the game that lost me the match. Of course, it wasn’t your fault; it was entirely mine. Even if you had made a bad call, well, that’s part of the game. Strong players are able to set it aside and find a way back.” She shrugged. “I didn’t do that. All I saw was my title defence going, and rather than accept I wasn’t good enough, I blamed you.”

  Viva’s slim fingers worried the edge of the menu, setting it square to the table edge, then turning it sideways once more. “See, with tennis usually there’s no one else to blame. Sure, some players scream at the box, yell at their doubles partner, take issue with spectators or noises in the stadium, but really that’s nothing to do with it. The match is won or lost by your strokes, your play, how fast, how agile, how mentally tough you are. But that match, there was someone else I could blame. So I did. Because then, I didn’t lose; I was just unlucky.”

  “You’re not the first person to do that.” Gabriela touched the back of Viva’s hand, stilling the nervous motion. “I have been insulted by players before—on court, off court. It’s not nice, but you learn to ignore it.”

  “I’m sorry.” Viva turned her hand over so that they were palm to palm and laced their fingers together.

  The touch sent shivers along Gabriela’s nerves from her fingers, up her arm. Feelings fluttered in her belly. Her breath hitched. No. Viva’s clasp in public was unexpected. It was daring. It was wrong. But her own reaction, to allow the touch, to encourage it even, was more dangerous. Her fingers twitched, the need to withdraw from the touch warring with the simple pleasure of skin on skin. Gabriela stared at their hands. Another few moments. Then I’ll move.

  “I carried that grudge for a long time,” Viva continued. “Until this morning, to be honest. But you don’t deserve that. You were doing your job.”

  Viva’s fingers gripped hers. They were cool and dry, despite the warm evening. To break the clasp now would be awkward; it would imply rejection of Viva’s apology. A pulse beat strongly in Viva’s throat, and Gabriela’s gaze fastened upon it, that tiny movement, strong and regular against soft flesh. An image flashed in front of her eyes: herself, leaning over to place her lips upon that pulse. The thought was so instant, so real, that she pushed her free hand underneath her thigh to stop herself from reaching out to touch.

  Where had that come from? She focussed instead on Viva’s bent head, the part of her hair, the long tendrils that fell forward. That was no better—what would the mass of Viva’s hair feel like entwined in her fist? Gabriela’s fingers tingled, her pulse skittering in dou
ble time.

  “If I hadn’t bumped into you, I probably would still be carrying that grudge,” Viva continued. She looked up again, catching Gabriela’s gaze with her own. “You officials… You’re so distant, remote. Players know your names and faces, but we don’t know you. We might know the country you’re from, but that’s it. Do you have wives, husbands, children? Do you love tennis with a passion, or is it just a job? I understand the reasoning behind the divide, but that distance makes it easier to blame you.”

  The divide seemed smaller now. It had closed to a crack, the tiniest sliver of propriety between them. Viva’s fingers still clasped Gabriela’s hand. Her focus narrowed to the woman in front of her, Viva’s oval face, with its high forehead, wide cheekbones, and the soft pink curve of her lips. Oh God, her lips.

  “Officials are the faceless people.” Gabriela’s thumb twitched with the impulse to caress Viva’s hand. With an effort, she stilled it.

  “Yeah, that’s part of it. I was playing doubles at Indian Wells a couple of years ago. My partner is Michi Cleaver.”

  “I know her. She is hard to miss, especially with that pink hair.”

  Viva grinned. “There is that. She’s the most outgoing person on tour. Bouncy.”

  “That’s an understatement.”

  “Anyway, it was match point against us. The opponents’ ball landed on my side of the court. I had the shot, but Michi came barrelling over yelling ‘mine’. I’m not sure why. She took the shot, it went long by a mile, and we lost. Did I blame her? No. Because she’s my friend.” Viva stared at their joined hands as if she had just realised they were still touching. She withdrew her fingers.

  Gabriela’s hand closed around the empty space where Viva’s had been.

  “I miss her. She’ll be here in a couple of weeks, but in the meantime, she’s home in Colorado with her coach.”

  “Who is also her husband.” Gabriela grinned at Viva’s surprised look. “Officials gossip too. When those two got together, we gave their relationship two years at the most. How long has it been now?”