by Avery Wilde
I gripped my sports bag, filled with all my newly strung rackets, and looked down, not wanting to look him in the eye. I wondered how many I would break that match.
“Damon?”
“Yeah, I know, dude.”
Derek crossed his arms over his chest. He wasn’t giving up. That was blatantly clear.
“So? Care to tell me why you felt the need to abandon a car in the middle of Paris? It was plastered all over the lunchtime news. The last reports even mentioned that there was some woman. That she forced you into a car and kidnapped you?”
I laughed and wondered, could you really be kidnapped if you didn’t care what happened to you? Even so, it had been a pleasant—but different—experience for the most part. Except for the coffee.
“I got into a fender-bender. We went to take care of her car. End of story. I texted Jim about it all,” I said, trying to play it off as no big deal. No reason to make him worry even more.
“You texted him to come pick the damn thing up, not where you were,” Derek countered, arching a brow. “So who is she? What’s her name? A groupie? Please don’t tell me it’s another one claiming that she’s pregnant?”
I shook my head. “Nah, nothing like that. I told you I had a little accident. I’d never met her before. It was nothing.”
Not that Derek would do much with it, but I didn’t want to be the one to leak Ginny’s name to anyone. She might have thought this life was a golden one, but in reality, it could be extremely harsh under all those bright lights and cameras. People following you around, wanting money, signatures, and everything in between—and they were the sane ones, for the most part. The nutters were obviously worse.
There was no privacy at all. There was no going to the store without some elaborate disguise that never worked. Traveling was a nightmare, too. I knew I was very fortunate to be able to visit places I had before seen only on TV and the internet, but it still took a toll when I was hounded by a never-ending stream of media, fans, and people just gawking at me. There was no place to call home. I hadn’t been to any of my apartments in over a year, either. I didn’t see any reason to let him know her name and drag her into it all.
“Surely she has a name, though?”
“That stays with me. Don’t want to do that to her.”
“Huh,” Derek muttered with surprise and gave me a knowing smile. “Well, that’s interesting.”
I pushed at him, forcing him to step aside as I made my way to the waiting area. Enough talk about my personal life and the lack thereof. I was ready to play.
I stepped into the small room and stood before the frosted glass doors and groaned inwardly as I saw my rival, François Dubois, sitting in the corner, his glaring neon pink shorts making my head hurt. He never could do understated. François and I met regularly on the court, and although I could agree that he was a decent player, I knew I was better than he was. François was getting on in years; he was on his way out while I was just getting started.
“Ah, Damon,” he said, his thick French accent coming through loud and clear. “Didn’t think you would be here. Car trouble?”
“François,” I said evenly, setting my equipment bag down and grabbing a bottle of water from the table. “Nothing I couldn’t handle. Though your fellow countrymen don’t have a clue on how to drive.”
He chuckled, his long hair escaping from his loose ponytail. “Or could it be that Americans simply need wider roads to fit their egos?”
I ignored him and started to stretch my arms to keep warm.
“Though to be rescued by such a beautiful woman must’ve cheered you up, mais non?” he continued, a smug smile on his face. “She seemed to, what do you say, kidnap you, no?”
“No,” I said darkly. “She didn’t.”
François laughed. “If you say so, my friend. At least you got to score once today. ’Cause you won’t be so lucky with me.”
I shot him a dark look, knowing he was trying to play games, to get under my skin. François was known for his off-court verbal sparring in order to intimidate his opponents. Undermining and twisting what they said, spreading nasty rumors, too. Psychological warfare at its best. But not today. I wouldn’t let him get to me today.
“If only you played as well as you ran your mouth, François. Maybe you would win a few more matches if you put in more of an effort, eh?” I said innocently, stretching my arms some more.
It was François’s turn to give me a look, his eyes narrowing. He muttered something in French that I couldn’t quite catch. “I shall be the one who comes out victorious today, my friend, not you.”
“We will see about that,” I replied, turning my back to him. I made a show of putting my ear buds in, the sound of my favorite rock band filling my ears and drowning out all other noise in the process.
I should’ve been concentrating on my game plan, going over François’ weaknesses and how to exploit them, but my thoughts kept drifting back to Ginny, a woman who clearly thought I was sabotaging myself. My career was practically circling the drain in her eyes. She had been persistent, that was for sure, and a welcome distraction, even for a few hours. She had wanted me to talk to her, like she was some kind of therapist or something, and for a moment, I had thought about doing just that. The heaviness in my chest was not going to be relieved by alcohol alone, but it was my burden to carry for right now. Even to someone who seemed genuine, such as my American kidnapper, I wasn’t ready to spill the beans. I wasn’t ready for everyone to know every part of my personal life and its agonies. It was my business. They already knew everything else about me. Couldn’t I keep just a few things to myself?
A couple of stewards in light khaki pants and forest green tops stepped up to the double glass doors before us. They waited for a signal that came a few moments later, then opened them up. I grabbed my bag and walked out of the room, toward the opening that would lead to the circular, bull-like ring that was court number one. It had always been good to me when I had previously played there. Though for those matches, I’d been sober.
The roar of the crowd, the sound of the ball pinging off the hard clay court then sizzling across the net and past my opponent at an incredible speed were the sounds I lived for. Sounds that would drive me to show every single one of the unbelievers out there that I was well on my way to becoming the top-ranked player in the world.
Rolling my shoulders, I put on my game face. It was time to run this court… but not before I checked the stands as I made my way out. Instinctively I turned, my head swiveling round, my eyes landing on the faces of strangers as I tried to pick her out. Maybe she hadn’t come after all.
7
Ginny
Holy crap. It was all so much better than I had expected.
OK, so my seats could’ve been better. It wasn’t that they were in the nosebleed section, by any means. I had paid an arm and a leg to be as close to the action as possible; my seat was only a few rows from the court itself in the southwest stand, but my view of the court wasn’t the greatest, and I wanted to scream. A man who sat two rows in front of me had some homemade hat with two French flags attached to it. And not the small, cute, hand-held flags. No, these were practically full-size tri-colors that you could get away with mounting on a ship or a building! Needless to say, with the fabric swaying gently from side to side, he was blocking my view. I had no idea how he got it into the stadium, really, and I hoped the person in the next row would say something so I didn’t have to make a scene.
But I was there. Really sitting at Roland Garros. I, Ginny Doran, from Florida, was about to watch the French Open live and in person. I still couldn’t believe it. After all my dreaming, planning, and saving, I was in a place I thought I never would be, and it was everything I could have hoped for. The stadium looked bigger in person than it did on TV, and it was one of the smaller ones, too. Circular like an old-fashioned amphitheater, and yet it still felt like I was close enough to the action.
The atmosphere was electric. Everyone was buzz
ing with anticipation, and I couldn’t help but smile. In fact, after this morning’s once-in-a-lifetime experience of meeting Damon Holden combined with everything I was feeling by being in the stadium, it wasn’t surprising that my cheeks physically ached from all the grinning I’d been doing.
I was so glad I’d decided to try again, even after the accident. After Damon Holden walked out of my apartment, I’d immediately got my ass in gear and headed to the stadium, hoping that perhaps he would turn up and prove me wrong. Unscathed this time—I’d taken an Uber instead—I’d got into my seat just as the linesmen and women came onto court.
Damon strode out onto the court like he owned the place. I peered around the flapping flags, trying to see a sliver of him as he made his way to his seat. My heart did a funny flop as I took in his gorgeous frame. He dumped his bags, and I couldn’t help but feel a little proud that perhaps I had something to do with him changing his mind and turning up. He looked so confident as he warmed up, his impressive warm-up serves instilling some faith in me that he could still pull this match off, even with the hangover that perhaps only I knew he had.
He was playing against François Dubois, an excellent player who could now be considered as being in his twilight years. But he was still dangerous as ever. Underestimate François at your own peril. Before Damon had splashed into the tennis world, François had been the poster child for the sport. I couldn’t imagine he had taken the change very well, and that seemed to show each time the pair met up for a match.
Soon the crowd settled down, and the chair umpire called time. Thankfully the man up front took off his ridiculous hat after a tap from a woman behind him. Now my view was unobstructed, and I couldn’t wait for the match to begin.
François was looking very good. I didn’t want to admit it, but he was. Damon was struggling. I could see the rivers of sweat dripping off him, frustration evident on his tanned face. And though his eyes were hidden by shades, I knew he must be staring down each ball François slammed his way. Daring it to defy him.
At the end of the first set Damon started to fall apart. His cries of anger echoed around the stunned stadium. He threw down his racket, the force of which bent the frame, and I winced. No doubt that would cost him a fine, and I could see the umpire’s lips move as he gave Damon a warning, his hand covering the mic. Damon retrieved another racket from his bag, but that didn’t seem to improve or soothe his temperament one bit. He was all over the place; his concentration was shot, and he was coming apart at the seams. This was not how I wanted this to go. Then one of his serves hit the net, a double fault, which was so unlike him, and the string of profanity that followed would cause the broadcasting services no end of trouble. They would have to censor it out later and be poised to cut the feed to the microphones on court, since I was sure this would be live on TV somewhere around the world.
I watched as Damon set up yet another serve, the smattering of French all around me making me wish I understood one iota of what they were saying. I could honestly say, however, that the boos were starting to become universal—from all sides—and Damon had received a great deal of them.
Damon hit the ball with his racket, frustration building, his muscles tensing. He was so out of the zone that my heart went out to him. The ball landed outside the gleaming white lines—a fault, and Damon held his racket up to his head, looking as if he wanted to smash his face into it. He flung off his shades in anger.
“Concentrate,” I whispered, wishing he could hear me. He wasn’t that far behind in terms of games. Only one set down, but the last thing he could afford to do was drop another one. I watched as he lowered the racket and turned in my direction, pacing back and forth on the baseline. His jaw was set stubbornly as he looked out into the crowd.
I don’t know what came over me, my legs acted upon their own cognizance, and I stood.
My face rose over the rows in front of me, and Damon, who saw the flash of movement, looked my way.
Our eyes connected.
His widened in surprise, and I gave him a nod, hoping that he could see it written on my face that he could do this. He was better than this. “You got this,” I mouthed, unsure if he could understand what I was saying or not. I believed in him, even if he didn’t believe in himself.
He gave me a nod, or maybe he just needed to lower his head, I wasn’t sure, but I was going with the nod anyway. He turned back to face the net and his opponent, waiting to receive François’s serve. I sat back down, ignoring the stares and mutters around me. I clasped my hands together tightly as the battle started again.
Suddenly and without warning, the tide started to turn. I watched with bated breath as Damon returned François’ serve with ease, winning the point. Then he did it again and again and was on the brink of winning the game. The confidence François once had slipped from his face, annoyance replacing it.
The crowd’s favorite player was starting to rock the court, even though François was technically at a home game. But the crowd was back in it, cheering for Damon, encouraging him every step of the way. For each and every point, they shouted and clapped. Damon was back in control. He’d won back a set. Only two more to go. Best of five.
My breath left me as he turned to look at me again and again, searching for me in the crowd. For each one of his serves over the last hour, ever since our eyes first connected, he would glance up at me then nod. I should’ve grown used to it—it had happened too many times to count—but I couldn’t. Each time he locked his gaze upon me, a wave of shivers would play up and down my arms. I struggled to breathe, and my heart pounded in my chest. It also didn’t help that each time he did it, I could feel other pairs of eyes upon me, too. People sitting next to me or farther down the row would turn their heads towards me, curious who Damon was looking at. Questions about who I was perhaps ran through their minds.
It was match point, and it was hard to believe the turn of events. It seemed only moments ago that Damon was down two sets and was ready to just give up. But he’d fought his way back. I crossed my fingers as Damon set up his last serve. If he won this point, it would be his best comeback that I had ever seen him play. He was playing with focus, with determination. It was almost as if the other sets had been played by a stunt double and not by him at all.
I watched as the yellow ball went into the air and Damon’s racket connected with it, firing it over the net and toward François, who was waiting for the return. Damon ran up and connected with the ball once more. The rally was fast—blink and you would miss it. Back and forth with grunting from both sides. The crowd was deadly silent as the hits grew more intense, both men running with all they had far behind the baseline. Neither one of them wanted to give up. But François was too slow to reach the passing shot Damon had put by him. There was a moment of silence before the crowd erupted, getting to their feet and cheering. Damon had done it; he had won.
I threw my hands up in the air and screamed loudly, unable to believe the match I’d just witnessed and the great comeback that had followed. Damon held up his racket and saluted the crowd, as was his customary celebration, taking some time to catch his breath as François waited to shake his hand at the net. François was visibly pissed off, but he was a good sport about it.
I felt my cheeks burn with excitement as I took in the sight, so glad that this morning had happened to the both of us. Not only had I met my absolute favorite tennis player, he had just pulled off the biggest win of his career to date.
Damon jogged over to the net and quickly clasped the offered hand, and then instead of going to shake the chair umpire’s hand, he turned and headed towards the stand I was in, a huge grin on his face. I felt the flip-flop of my stomach as he searched the roaring crowd, shielding his eyes with his hand before he spotted me. I nodded at him and gave him a thumbs-up, surprised that he was seeking me out. Did he think I had something to do with his win? All I had done was give him encouragement. He had wielded the racket and staged the comeback, not me.
Before I k
new it, Damon climbed over the barrier to the stands, weaved his way through the photographers camped at its base and headed up the stairs. He received congratulatory pats on the back on his way up as he got closer and closer to my row.
I bit my lip, my face burning in surprise as he stopped at my row, and people moved aside to let him by. When he reached me, I looked everywhere but at him, not sure what this was all about. What on earth was he doing? Was he about to call me out in front of a live audience, on camera, point me out as his kidnapper so the police could arrest me? What else would he want with me?
When his hands gripped my upper arms, I looked at him, seeing the warmth in his eyes.
“W-what?” I asked, my voice shaking.
He shook his head and leaned in, his lips brushing mine. I felt the floor of the stadium fall from under my feet. My knees buckled as my brain tried to process what was going on.
Damon Holden was kissing me. Damon Holden was kissing me! And he was holding me up, too; his body was pressed against mine, and a strong, sweaty arm was wrapped around my waist. His lips touched mine again, and I closed my eyes, enjoying the daydream while it lasted. I allowed him to nibble at my shaking lips, to seek out my tongue with his. I kept my eyes clamped shut. It had to be a dream. There was no way it was happening.
When he pulled away, the roaring noise from the crowd came back in full force, and the cheers of approval caused me to duck my head and blush. No, this was far from a dream.
“Ginny.”
I looked up. “Um hey, good match.”
He chuckled and released my arms. “Only because you were here. I have you to thank.”
“You’re insane. And your charms aren’t going to work on me, you know,” I forced out as the crowd started to press around us. Cameras were flashing and people trying to hear our conversation.
He looked at me, an interesting expression on his face. “Really? That kiss says otherwise.”