Code of Conduct

by Cheyenne Blue

  Would Irene be up for the trip? But then she remembered Irene was working that week, one of the smaller tournaments somewhere in Asia.

  Gabriela opened Skype. She needed to get over this introspection, shake the mist out of her head. Maybe her sister would be around to chat with, but Carla was offline.

  Gabriela stared at her screen. Who was she fooling? She didn’t just want company; it was a particular player’s company she wanted. She wanted what she’d denied herself for these last weeks as she hung on to the prospect of gold badge. But gold badge was not happening. Not this year anyway.

  She went back to the flight site. A single flight, from Brisbane to Kuala Lumpur. There was one available on the date she needed, and it was cheap. And there was a flight tomorrow on a budget carrier from Melbourne to Brisbane.

  Was Viva even in Brisbane, at the apartment she owned? Viva could be anywhere, although Gabriela’s gut said she’d be in Queensland. At home, basking in the pleasure of being in one place. If not Brisbane, then Waggs Pocket.

  The email from the ITF resounded in her head. Was she hanging herself out to dry by attempting to see Viva again? Maybe, though, she had nothing to lose. She wouldn’t even get a shot at gold badge for another year, and in the meantime, maybe there was other happiness for her to take. She could take a week, a single quiet week of what her heart was calling for, before returning to the tour. If Viva had moved on and wanted nothing to do with her, well, then she’d spend the time elsewhere in Queensland. Maybe enjoy some of the beaches.

  She picked up her phone. Now that her mind was made up, the sensible thing would be to call Viva, but she hesitated. Their last conversation had ended on a sad note, and there was no guarantee this one would end any better. There were still the same blocks in place for anything long term: she still couldn’t have any sort of relationship with Viva. Her career was still at stake. This was a short-term, off-the-radar catch-up. Maybe it would be a friendly drink and a winding-up of what they had shared. The finality of friendship.

  She would go to Queensland. If Viva was there, well, so be it.

  It was the end of the long summer holidays, and there were long lines at the check-in desks and baggage drops at Melbourne Airport. Gabriela was early, and rather than fight the crowds in the food court, she headed for the airline priority lounge, one of the perks of being such a frequent flyer. Inside was an oasis of calm after the craziness of the departure area. She helped herself to coffee and a plate of fruit from the buffet and found a table. She’d just opened her ereader and settled into a spooky thriller when a discreet cough sounded next to her.

  “Gabriela?”

  She looked up and immediately rearranged her face into lines of polite welcome. George Kostantis was one of the bigwigs in the ITF. It was a surprise he had even recognised her, let alone said hello.

  “George, how nice to see you.”

  He hovered, coffee in hand. “Do you mind if I join you?”

  She swallowed her surprise. “Of course not. I am just killing time before my flight to… My flight.” She bit down on too much information.

  He nodded. “A week off before Malaysia. Anything exciting planned?”

  She stirred her coffee. “Not really. Just a bit of touring, maybe catch up with a friend.”

  “Yes. You have to take your chances when you can when you travel so much. I’m going to the States. Meetings.” He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “I’m glad I bumped into you, though. It gives us a chance to talk a little, off the record.”

  Gabriela set the spoon down carefully. “Oh?” Nerves fluttered in her stomach. This was a new thing to her. She’d never been friendly with any of the ITF officials—indeed, she wasn’t aware that anyone was. They were the upper echelon of officialdom: remote, shadowy figures who made occasional TV appearances when there was some scandal or change to the game and who sent the anticipated email once a year. The rest of the time, any contact with the ITF was done through the workforce of administrative personnel.

  “You’ve opted out of a few tournaments lately. The end-of-year WTA finals, this current week. Are you cutting back on your schedule for some reason?”

  “No.” She kept her face impassive although questions churned inside. “I have skipped the WTA finals for a few years now. That close to the end of the season, I need the break. As for this week, it is a small tournament, and I knew Irene was working it. I was not aware it was a problem.”

  “It’s not. Curiosity, that’s all. I wondered if you were setting your sights elsewhere. Coaching, maybe a position with a national tennis body.”

  “No. I love being an official. This is my career for the foreseeable future.”

  His direct gaze skewered her, and she resisted the urge to shuffle in her seat.

  “So, when you received the email saying you were to remain as a silver badge umpire, you were disappointed.”

  It wasn’t a question. Gabriela swallowed hard through a suddenly dry throat. Was this leading up to something big, something unwanted? She took a sip of coffee to buy time. “Yes, I was somewhat. I have been a silver badge for a few years now. I realise the importance of gold badge and the relatively few officials who attain it, but I thought I was in with a good chance. Did anyone reach gold this year?”

  “No. No one.” George replaced his glasses. “Surprised?”

  “Yes. A little.” The comment was as noncommittal as she could make it.

  George leant forward, his hands flat on the table between them. “I pushed for you. You’re next in line. But the committee wouldn’t recommend it. I think you know why.” He glanced at his watch and took a hasty swallow of coffee. “I’m going to have to sprint to the gate in a minute, so now isn’t the time for prevarication.”

  “Because of Genevieve Jones.” There it was. All of her fears confirmed.

  “Yes, because of Viva. You know the rules, Gabriela, I’m not going to repeat them to you. The committee was appreciative that you disclosed the relationship before the Brisbane International, along with the fact that it had ended. But then there was that picture in the paper.”

  “I told you the truth. The relationship has ended. That picture was just coffee.” She pushed the image of a hot and dusty back lane and Viva’s heated kiss from her mind.

  “I believe you. The press can be relentless. The scandals we’ve had to dampen over the years… But the fact remains that Viva, while retired from singles, is still an active player. She’s indicated her intention to play doubles with Michi Cleaver. They’re entered for Indian Wells, if I remember correctly.”

  “I get it. As long as Viva’s still an active player in any capacity, as long as there’s even the perception of a relationship between us, even though it’s ended, then no gold badge for me.”

  “That’s it, I’m afraid. I wish that wasn’t the case, at least as far as you are concerned. I have no doubts about your integrity, Gabriela. None whatsoever. But we can’t make an exception for you and not set a precedent.” He pushed his coffee cup aside and stood. “I have to run. I’m happy I caught you. I wanted to set things straight. Right now, even though the relationship is over, the fact that there was one in the first place is an issue. When Viva retires from doubles, then there isn’t any problem that any of us can see to raising you to gold.”

  Gabriela rose too and shook his hand. “Thank you, George. I appreciate your candour.” She watched him hurry from the lounge.

  The plate of fruit that had seemed so appealing now turned acid in her stomach. Any remaining thought that maybe she could try a relationship with Viva was shot to smithereens. Viva could potentially have a long doubles career if she was careful with her wrist. As long as Viva remained active, Gabriela would not reach gold.

  But the damage was already done. How much worse would it be if she and Viva were open about their relationship? George hadn’t spelt that out. But she knew, with
out needing to be told. If she were open about her relationship with Viva, not only would she not make gold, but she would also find herself sidelined. Fewer matches, especially prestigious ones, and even when Viva retired from doubles, if that was years down the track, then despite what George had said, it would be difficult for her to advance. By then she would have a record of umpiring low-level matches. It would be nearly impossible.

  Gabriela pulled out her boarding pass for the flight to Brisbane. Was there any point in even going now?

  She went to pour another cup of coffee. Indecision swirled around her head. She closed her eyes, tried to filter the thoughts, remove the anger and doubt and injustice that was clogging her mind.

  She would take the week. Go to Queensland, hopefully spend the week with Viva. One week. That was what she would allow herself. She wouldn’t tell the ITF. After that, she would put Viva from her head, fly off to Malaysia, and hope the ITF would eventually be persuaded that the relationship was truly over.

  She pulled her phone from her pocket. Now that the decision was made, there was no time to waste in hoping Viva would be there. She dialled the number.

  “Hi, Gabriela.” The wariness in Viva’s voice tore at her. “How are you?”

  “I miss you.” The words surged up from within, forcing their way out of her throat without any preliminaries.

  A long sigh. “I miss you too. So much.”

  “I am about to board a plane to Brisbane. I have a week before I have to be in Malaysia. Can I see you?”

  The silence grew over the line, enough that worry clawed its way up. Maybe Viva had found someone else. Someone less complicated.

  “I’d like that. I’m in Waggs Pocket. I can’t come to Brisbane, not for a few days anyway—I’ve promised to work in the pub.”

  “I will come to Waggs Pocket. If that is okay with you.”

  Another sigh, but shorter, more a gust of relief. “Are you sure? What about your level? What if the press find us?”

  “In Waggs Pocket? It is unlikely. I will hire a car and be there by dusk.”

  “Gabriela, what is this? Is this a visit to say goodbye?”

  How could she answer that? “I have a week. Can you handle that? If not, tell me, and I will stay away.”

  “A week,” Viva echoed. “I guess I’ll take what you’re offering.” A pause. “I’ll reserve a guest room for you.”

  “Not unless you prefer that.”

  “No. Definitely not.”

  “Then I’ll see you later. I’m looking forward to it.”

  “Me too.” The words gusted down the line. “Me too.”

  Chapter 27

  The drive from Brisbane was longer than Gabriela remembered, and the dusty road where she had broken down those weeks ago was drier, more parched, the gum trees grey and drooping. She patted the dash of the rental car as she passed the spot where the previous one had died. “Keep going, little car,” she murmured.

  The car surged on, and soon she was swooping down the road into the valley towards Waggs Pocket.

  The pub was as she remembered it. She glanced up at the balcony where she’d had dinner with Viva, where she’d tried to sleep while being eaten alive by mosquitoes. Hopefully, tonight would be different. For a second, she was light-headed with anticipation.

  She left her bag in the car and pushed the door into the bar open, hoping to see Viva.

  Jack was behind the counter. “G’day, Gabriela. It’s good to see you again.” His cheerful grin reassured her somewhat. “Viva’s out in the kitchen, attempting to cook. Go and find her before we’re all poisoned.”

  Her feet remembered the way over the worn boards to the kitchen, and she pushed through the swing doors.

  Viva had her back to the door. She was bent over a bench, which was covered with salad ingredients. She turned at the sound of footsteps and waited.

  “Hi.” The urge to wrap her arms around Viva’s waist, to raise her lips for Viva’s kiss was strong, but she held back. For a moment, they simply stared at each other, the tension strung so fine, Gabriela fancied she could see it shimmer in the air.

  “This is silly.” Viva took a step forward. “You’ve come all this way. You’re staying a week, and I’m afraid to greet you properly.”

  Gabriela closed her eyes in relief, and when she opened them, Viva was nearer, close enough that Gabriela could see tendrils of her hair sticking to her forehead in the heat, the warmth of her blue eyes. Then Viva was in her embrace, Viva’s arms wrapped around her shoulders, her own wrapped tightly around Viva’s narrow waist. The anxiety of the last few days dissipated, and her body softened against Viva’s. For several moments, they simply held each other in silence. Then Gabriela stretched up, Viva bent her head, and they were kissing, really kissing. There was no tentative peck, no easing into it. The kiss was lips and tongues, heat and need, a duel of mouths that gave and took all in one frantic dance.

  When they moved apart, Gabriela’s heart pounded as if she’d played a three-set match.

  “We’ve a week.” Viva cupped Gabriela’s cheek with her palm.

  Gabriela leant in to the tender touch. Her pulse juddered with anticipation.

  Viva stepped back and gestured to the salad. “I’m so very glad you’re here, don’t think otherwise, but it’s not the best timing. My parents are in Adelaide. They went a few days ago, and they’re not back for another three days. It’s the first decent break they’ve had in a long, long time. I said I’d help Jack with the pub. So I will have time to spend with you, but I’m rather tied here, at least for the first few days.”

  “That’s okay. I do not want to go anywhere; I just want to spend the time with you. I can be chief bottle-washer to your chief cook.”

  “You can be chief cook if you want. You can’t be worse than Dad.” Viva resumed chopping tomatoes. “Pub menus are basic. Mostly, you take food from the freezer and throw it in the deep-fryer. Add a bit of salad garnish on the side. Heap up the hot chips, and no one ever complains.”

  “I can help with that.” Gabriela reached for the menu that sat on the counter and ran her eye down the list. “What is the daily special?”

  “Generally whatever Dad concocts. There isn’t one today. Unless you’re feeling inspired.”

  Gabriela opened the fridge, noting the trays of eggs, ham steaks, and a bag of mushrooms. A pile of red and green capsicum was jumbled on the bottom shelf. “Are you using the capsicum for anything?”

  “No. They’re locally grown. One of the customers brought them in. I have no idea what to do with them.”

  “Then make room for me at that bench. The daily special is huevos flamencos.”

  The kitchen was hot and steamy, and even the air conditioning was struggling. Viva pushed a wisp of hair away from her face with the back of her hand and stole a glance at Gabriela. She was chopping the capsicum with a speed and dexterity that was humbling. Diced onions, sliced mushrooms, and cubes of ham and potato were piled next to her. Viva had no idea what Gabriela intended to do with them, but already it looked way more interesting than the normal fare the pub served up.

  And working side by side with Gabriela was a special pleasure. Sliding past her to reach the fridge allowed a brief kiss on the nape of her neck. Filling a glass of water was an excuse to slowly run her fingers down Gabriela’s spine. And when Gabriela turned around to face her as Viva slipped past in the confines of the walk-in refrigerator, they shared a full-body hug that was not so much about warmth as it was about the joyousness of the reunion.

  Reunion. Not just of their friendship, but tonight they would be lovers once more. Viva was sure of that. Butterflies danced in her stomach in anticipation that no amount of chilled water could douse.

  A week. She pushed that aside. A week could be a long time. No doubt they would talk, but not yet. Please, not yet.

  By the time six rolled
around, Gabriela had assembled her recipe in some large ramekin dishes that had sat forgotten on a high shelf. She’d simmered the diced ingredients in some of the bulk pasta sauce from the larder, spiced with a touch of chilli and pepper. Gabriela showed Viva how to break a raw egg on the top, sprinkle the dish with sherry pilfered from the bar, and then bake it in the oven until the egg was set. A sprinkle of chives from the garden and the huevos flamencos—Eggs Flamenco—was ready.

  They took a break outside before the dinner rush and sat on the back steps with a cool drink of soda and lime.

  “You must bring your luggage in.” Viva gestured to Gabriela’s rental car, baking in the sun.

  “Mmm.” Gabriela looked over the dusty car park. “I know where your room is.”

  Viva moved closer on the step and placed an arm around Gabriela’s shoulders. “You do. And tonight, you’ll stay in it. Not like last time.”

  “I am sure I still have mosquito bites from then.”

  “No mozzies. But I can’t guarantee you’ll be cool.”

  Gabriela turned into her embrace. “I hope not. I would like it to be as hot as hell.”

  And then they were kissing again, and the heat unfurled in Viva’s belly, and the need to take Gabriela’s hand and lead her upstairs grew to a compulsion.

  A discreet cough interrupted them. “No fraternising amongst the hired help.” Jack grinned down at them from the kitchen window. “First dinner orders are in, and Max wants to know what who-eevies flaming-costs is. I told him it’s ham and eggs. Is that right?”

  “Sort of.” Gabriela rose. “I will go and explain.”