The American Princess - Best Love Story Ever

by Jennifer Tate

  -40-

  BETTY-JO CHANCE & BRAD RAIDEN

  Tough Love

  Betty-Jo needed Tour experience before the ITF Grand Slam U.S. Open in August, and Brad had freed up his summer so he could be with her. Her first professional tournament was the Liberty Open, and she was thrilled to be there—until she lost her qualifying match. With that match, her dream crashed and burned.

  Brad held her while she sobbed in his arms.

  "I'll never play tennis again," she said.

  He stroked her hair. "You shouldn't," he agreed. "Let someone else win your majors."

  "My majors? Are you totally dense? I can't even make it through a qualifier!"

  "You'll win your next qualifier for sure."

  "How can you say that?"

  He grinned at her. "Because, if you don't, you'll be driven to Mexico, tied naked to a stake, and fed to the killer bees."

  Betty-Jo still wanted to feel sorry for herself, but how could she when Brad was making her laugh. "Not the killer bees again?"

  "And now we have to celebrate," he said.

  "Celebrate! There's nothing to celebrate!"

  He grinned again. "We're celebrating your first professional match, and many more to follow. Besides, I want to enjoy the most desirable woman in the universe now—just in case."

  "Just in case what?"

  "Just in case you lose again, and those killer bees decide they love you as much as I do."

  Back at Myrtle Beach, Brad suggested a number of modifications to her game. But his ideas weren't always appreciated, and one even resulted in her sleeping by herself in the weight room.

  He wanted her to practice with men who could beat her. "After playing men who can run you ragged, your matches against women will be a cake walk."

  She easily found guys to play against; they delighted in watching her move around the court. But the five-set matches were grueling. "I'm sorry," Brad told her, "but long practice matches will give you the stamina you need to go full out for three sets in your matches against women."

  He wanted her to switch from a mid-sized, to an over-sized racquet head, but she refused.

  "How long have you been playing with a mid-sized?" he asked.

  "For as long as I can remember."

  "When metal and composite racquets were first introduced, most of the stars refused to give up their woodies, even though the new technology was clearly superior."

  "I paid you for a history lesson?"

  "Now we have a similar situation with the over-sized head. When Prince introduced the bigger head, it was obvious that they had a better mouse trap. The problem for the other racquet manufacturers, was that Prince had patented the better mouser."

  "My racquet's killed as many mice as theirs."

  Brad grabbed her, swiveled her around, and put his hand over her mouth. "The largest racquet head the other guys could make was mid-sized. So that's what they made and promoted—ow!" Somehow, she'd managed to bite his finger. "A smaller racquet head is less efficient than a larger one. How can its fifteen percent less hitting surface, and a twenty-five percent smaller sweet spot, be better?"

  "I don't care. I like my racquet!"

  "That's because you're used to it. If you play with an over-sized racquet for a week, you'll never go back to mid-sized. Besides, you have no choice."

  "You're going to make me?" Her emerald eyes lit up, and Brad was their target.

  "You have no choice, because in a game where consistency is paramount, where unforced errors are what win or lose matches, you can't give yourself that great a handicap, and expect to win. When the guy with the best ground strokes in the men's game, and, come to think of it, the best girlfriend."

  "You mean Brooke?" She messed his hair.

  "Who else? Where was I? ...Oh yeah. When Andre uses a racquet head with 110 square inches, why would you choose one with only ninety-five squares?"

  "I went with you and your seven inches. Following your logic, I should trade you in for a nine inch guy."

  He took a step toward her, and she scurried behind the love seat. "What you need is an incentive." He handed her a present that looked suspiciously like a gift-wrapped tennis racquet. It was an oversized Head Radical Tour—Andre's weapon of choice. The card read, "Use this racquet for a week, and you get a dinner and me for the weekend."

  "What does 'get you for the weekend' mean?"

  "That means that from Saturday morning until Sunday evening, you get to do whatever you please with me. You have to suffer through a racquet change, and I'm prepared to suffer along with you. You can take your frustrations out on me."

  She thought for a moment, grinned, and took a few practice swings with her new racquet. "When the weekend comes you'll have one consolation."

  "I don't want to hear this."

  "Anything that doesn't kill you, will make you stronger."

  Brad also wanted her to change her grip to the 'western' grip, something Coach Bender had been trying to get her to do all year. She'd refused. That kind of a change could retard her game for months.

  She knew why she needed to make the change. She possessed serious upper body strength for a woman, strength that gave her the ability to hit outright winners off either of her two forehands. But her power led to too many unforced errors—her shot was too flat. By moving her grip back on her racquet handle, in the western style, she would add topspin to her shots for greater net clearance, and therefor, fewer unforced errors. Fewer unforced errors, would give her the confidence to hit her forehand ground strokes with greater pace, for more outright winners.

  "It's difficult to change something you've been doing for years," she told him.

  "Tell me about it. Changing the follow through on my wrist and slap shots was brutal. Take it slowly. Practice a little each day until it feels natural."

  But she'd about had it with him. He was trying to change her whole game.

  "What makes you think you're such an authority on tennis anyway? I can bagel you any time I want, and when we play mixed doubles, it's me who carries you. Gets any worse, and I'll need shoulder surgery."

  "That is true, but it's not a nice thing to say."

  She didn't care. She was on a roll. "You think that's not nice? It's a miracle that someone let you coach tennis in Toronto. You don't have any idea how the game should be played. With coaches like you, it's no wonder a Canadian has never won a singles Grand Slam title."

  He grinned at her. "That's why I only coached beginners," he said. "They didn't know how to play tennis either."

  "Good thinking. Ruin their game while they're still young. 'If ignorance is bliss you must be the happiest man alive.'"

  Brad laughed, and moved her gold wafer against More Fun's polka dot, but she shoved his hand away. "Who said 'The course of true love never did run smooth?'"

  "I don't know," Betty-Jo said, "but it would run a whole lot smoother if you'd leave my grip alone!"

  He looked glum. "B-J, it has to be changed."

  "I double-dog dare you to make me!"

  "A single dog dare I think I could live with, but your double-dog dare upsets me."

  "Then I triple-dog dare you!"

  "Is that your final dog dare?"

  "I quadruple-dog dare you!"

  "Your quadruple-dog dare has forced me to ask you my beauty spots'..."

  "Don’t you do it!" If you were smarter than you appear to be you’d listen to Will Rogers. He said, 'never miss a good chance to shut up.'"

  "Tawny Cat," Brad said, "don't get your panties in a bunch over this grip change thing."

  "And don't you 'don't get your panties in a bunch' me—'cause you know I'm not wearing any!"

  Brad laughed. "My roommate the mule," he said. "Luckily for you, I'll always love you just the way you are."

  "Mule, eh! Well as far as I'm concerned you can goose a moose or sleep with a sheep! I'm sleeping in the weight room tonight!"

  "So what am I supposed to do—take matters into my own hand?"

/>   "What part of, 'as far as I'm concerned you can goose a moose or sleep with a sheep,' did you not understand?"

  He gave her a solemn look, and an unreciprocated hug. Then he made a bed for her on the mattress in the weight room.

  Betty-Jo made it through one lonely night, but by the second evening, the western grip was staring to appeal. She had discovered that, without Brad, she no longer felt like a fairytale princess—she missed him terribly.

  When he listens to me, my worries evaporate. I need him to snuggle up to. I need his touch and his smell. Until now, I had no idea how much.

  "Okay, Brad. I'll use the western grip for a week. Now hold me, kiss me, and love me."

  "One night without you felt like forever," Brad said, "but I can't."

  "What do you mean, but you can't!"

  He adjusted her black velvet choker, and produced his Tom Cruise grin. "Last night, for no good reason, you ruined my evening. So now, you have to apologize. Something simple like, forgive me Brad, for I have sinned. It's been," he checked his watch, "twenty-nine hours since I last made love with you."

  "You'll pay for this," she said, but her threat lacked conviction.

  He put his arms around her and kissed her—forcefully, possessively. "What's your bear's name?"

  "I Love Only You Bad Brad. Now please! Please do me."

  * * *

  So Betty-Jo's game had been given what it needed to take a quantum leap forward, and she and Brad, if possible, were more in love than ever. Everything was perfect, except for one thing—Venus.

  -41-

  BETTY-JO CHANCE & BRAD RAIDEN

  What Price Fame?

  Betty-Jo attributed the large crowd at her disastrous professional debut to her unique ambidextrous forehands, but Brad and her fans knew better. Although she dressed in baggy, unattractive tennis wear, there was that bounce of hers that couldn't be disguised. So it came as a surprise to Betty-Jo, when Brad told her it was time for them to have a chat about sex appeal. He lit a candle, sat on their love seat, lifted her skirt, and eased her onto him.

  "Mmm," he said, "Karezza with you is fabulous. It's a brush with heaven." Then he set the timer on his watch.

  "What are you doing?"

  "I'm setting my watch for your ETA."

  That, I do not believe. "You're setting your watch for my arrival time?"

  "We mandarins are busy people."

  "You mandarins, especially you, Mr. Mandarin, are deranged!"

  "Time for us to chat."

  "I hate heart-to-heart talks with you, when I'm being your concubine. You have an unfair advantage when you're in me."

  He grinned at her. "It's also difficult for me to argue with you when I'm doing my mandarin thing—but we have to talk. Women's tennis needs help. People only watch women's tennis because the women's final is sandwiched between the men's semi-finals."

  "Wrong. People watch women's tennis because women play great tennis."

  "Great tennis? Twenty years ago, Bobbie Riggs played Margaret Court on mother's day. Riggs must have been close to a hundred, but he still trounced her. That gives you some idea of the caliber of women's tennis."

  "He was fifty-five, and the old piglet should have quit while he was ahead. Billie Jean easily avenged the Mother's Day Massacre in the Battle Of The Sexes."

  "Granted, what Billie Jean did to Bobbie wasn't pretty. Nevertheless, relative to men's tennis, the women's game is tedious. Nobody wants to watch women play tennis solely for their tennis prowess. But in a few sports, women have figured it out. They dominate at mud wrestling."

  I don't believe he said that. "Try slapping yourself! Although I doubt that slapping will cure idiocy."

  "Another major sport for women is the wet T-shirt contest. Have you ever seen a wet T-shirt contest for men?"

  This boy has lost it. "I know what your problem is," she said, with barely contained anger.

  "You do?"

  "You're a fool on the lunatic fringe!"

  "You can't say that."

  She glowered at him. "And why not?"

  "Cause this is a no name calling zone."

  "That's fine by me. As long as it's also a no fool zone!"

  He laughed, and toyed, through her blouse, with her eager polka dots. She scowled at him. "In some sports, women recognize that grace and beauty are unique and desirable gifts, that they can include in their package. Those women dress to display their feminine charms. Like it or not, women are hot."

  "They don't do anything for me."

  "In figure skating, women are the feature attraction. That's because women's figure skating is where the yummy is."

  "The yummy?"

  "Some men can do a quadruple toe loop. So what? It's more fun to watch an attractive woman attempt a triple, praying, as she spins through the air, that she won't land on her enchanting tush."

  "God willing, you'll end up on your enchanting tush in your next hockey game. Maybe that would knock some sense into that numbskull of yours. In your case, the ass and the brain are obviously connected."

  That got a grin out of Brad. "That's a nasty thing to say to your favorite and only lover."

  "If the shoe fits, or the ass and the brain connect."

  He grinned again. "Figure skating was a marginal sport in America not long ago. And why shouldn't it be? How many Americans figure skate?"

  "Not many."

  "Now it's the number two sport for television, surpassed in the ratings only by football. Men who never watch figure skating stop what they're doing to watch Katarina Witt."

  "The pigs heading for the trough."

  Brad looked forlorn. "I can't understand your attitude. The Lord, in His wisdom, made men stronger than women—so to balance things out, He made women sexier. Female figure skaters realize this, and play it for all it's worth. They dress in skintight outfits—and half the time, they wear skin tones that make it look as if they're wearing almost nothing at all."

  "With your X-ray vision it shouldn't make any difference to you what they wear."

  "So they're out on the ice, freezing their heinie off, and taking nasty falls, without padding or protective head gear. Why?"

  "Because they've taken so many falls they're already brain dead."

  "Cute, but wrong. They recognize that their audience wants to see the throws and jumps, performed by women who dress to accentuate their beauty. Their audience wants to enjoy the female form in motion. You, Tawny Cat could be the tennis equivalent of the maid who stays to steal a kiss'."

  "What are you talking about?'

  "There's a jingle.

  Here's to the maid who steals a kiss,

  And stays to have another.

  She's a boon to all mankind—

  "That's the kind of woman you could be—'a boon to all mankind.'". But you go out of your way to hide your beauty and sex appeal. There's also a jingle for your type:

  Here's to the maid who steals a kiss,

  And runs to tell her mother.

  She's a foolish, foolish lass,

  For she'll not get another.

  "You are just so full of verbal diarrhea!" Betty-Jo tried to pull away from Brad, but he held himself inside her. "Anyway, I'm not like that! I've stolen more than a few kisses from you."

  "True. But you do nothing to bring beauty or sex appeal to women's tennis. You go out of your way to hide your sexy self under some of the worst looking tennis wear on Tour. Soon tennis wear manufacturers will be paying you not to wear their products."

  "I can tell I've really been priming your pump!" She threatened him with her eyes.

  "Tennis is a sport that's steeped in tradition. Change comes at a glacial pace. But women's tennis could be the most popular of all sports because, more than anything, men love to watch attractive women run. They can't get enough of that Baywatch rhythm."

  "And you're Baywatch's number one cheerleader."

  "I'm your number one cheerleader." He swatted her behind for emphasis. "Fortunately for women's tennis, men
don't get many opportunities to watch women run. Sexy you, could bring Baywatch to women's tennis."

  She hugged him and licked his ear. "I am hot. Aren't I?"

  He smiled and nodded. "At the U.S. Open, beauties like Anna Kournikova play on the Stadium Court, while higher ranked women play on the Grandstand, or the outer courts. When it comes to women's tennis, sex appeal counts."

  She frowned. "Men going bonkers over honkers."

  He laughed and kissed her, despite her attempt to avoid it. "You could be a tennis superstar, a tennis supernova. You could light up the tennis world like it's never been lit before. What I'm trying to ensure is that you stand on your stool, and grasp the fame and the glory that can be yours—if that's what you want."

  "A supernova?"

  "Bigger and brighter than a superstar. Eventually, some tennis playing lovely's going to say, 'I'm going to bring glamour and sex appeal to women's tennis.' She'll become an instant celeb. There was only one Elvis, one Monroe, and one Madonna. If you have to imitate, you've lost your kick at the superstardom cat, a cat that could be tawny colored."

  "Tawny colored, eh?"

  "Remember what the Bard said:

  There is a tide in the affairs of [a Tawny Cat],

  Which taken at the flood leads on to fortune."

  "Did William really spake of a Tawny Cat taking the tide on to fortune?"

  "Bless you, child, yes! But there's a flip side to supernovadom. People won't be able to get enough of you. If you dress for success, a hundred million men are going to want a slice of the most desirable woman in the world. You'll become everyone's American princess—a public commodity, like Princess Diana."

  "That won't be a problem for me, because I'll have you. I bet that if Di had you she'd be a 'Cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs' happy princess too. Anyway, I've always been able to handle guys who hit on me."