Lucky Loser

by Yolanda Wallace

  Last night it had come to a head. Last night Laure was probably trying to be helpful, but she had reminded Sinjin too much of Viktoriya. Trying to control her in ways both subtle and overt. She had felt herself falling into a familiar trap. One Viktoriya had set time and time again. Her gut told her Laure wouldn’t resort to such tricks, but her head said the opposite. She had listened to her head—and she had been second-guessing herself ever since.

  Every time she began to doubt her decision, she remembered her slide down the rankings and the underhanded comments from Viktoriya that had precipitated it. She couldn’t let herself get that close to another player again. Not now. Not ever.

  Despite her efforts to push Laure away, all she wanted to do when she saw her approach the practice court was pull her closer.

  Laure greeted Andrew with a warm hug, but her greeting for Sinjin was decidedly frostier. “Good morning,” Laure said, studiously avoiding meeting her eye. “I’ll take that end.” She took off her warm-up jacket and jogged to the far side of the court.

  “New practice partner?” Andrew asked after Laure was out of earshot.

  “Something like that.”

  Andrew extinguished his cigarette on the sole of his shoe as he watched Laure skip along the baseline to warm up her legs. Gabrielle led her through her paces. Nicolas observed them from a few feet away.

  “I would be remiss if I didn’t take the opportunity to remind you this is no time for distractions,” Andrew said. “Front page photos of you snogging Laure Fortescue qualify as distractions, don’t you think?”

  “A kiss on the cheek hardly qualifies as snogging. After last night, I don’t think I have to worry about a repeat performance.”

  “Then what is she doing here?”

  Proving that I was right about her. She is better than I deserve.

  “She knows what it feels like to defeat Blake Freeman. I want to be able to say the same.”

  “Wouldn’t we all?”

  Players weren’t the only ones who felt pressure. Coaches did, too. Everything from their tactics to their training methods to their motivational strategies could be and often were called into question. The constant second-guessing had hastened Andrew’s exit from the sport ten years ago. He was back, but Sinjin didn’t know for how long. He had volunteered to help her for one tournament, no more. If she wanted him to help her finish the rest of the year, would he be up to the challenge? Up to it? Yes. Willing? That was another story. In the back of his mind, he was probably looking forward to his re-retirement. Life was so much easier without the eyes of the world upon you.

  “When Andy Murray lost in the final of the Aussie Open the year he seemed destined to claim his first Grand Slam title, I told myself I wouldn’t see another UK native win a major in this lifetime,” Andrew said. “Now you’re only three matches away from proving me wrong.”

  He rubbed his stubbled chin as they watched Blake warm up on a nearby court. Blake was a supreme athlete and superb tactician, about as complete a player as Sinjin had ever seen. Sure, Blake had weaknesses, but she was so fast on her feet and so strong off the ground most of her opponents were unable to expose her shortcomings. Laure was one of the rare few. And, despite the uncertainty that surrounded their personal relationship, she was willing to help Sinjin join her ranks.

  “You’re right,” Andrew said. “A good coach is one who isn’t afraid to solicit outside opinions upon occasion. For you to be successful, my voice doesn’t have to be the only one in your ear. Let’s hear what she has to say.”

  Sinjin and Andrew joined Laure and Nicolas at the net. Together, they laid out the strategy Sinjin hoped would propel her to the biggest win of her career.

  *

  On paper, Laure had the easiest of the four quarterfinal matches. But matches weren’t played on paper. Her opponent was one of the hardest hitters on the tour, and she had bashed her way through four quality players to reach the last eight. Laure couldn’t afford to take her lightly.

  She closed her eyes and began her mental preparations for the upcoming match. Employing the techniques her sports psychologist had taught her, she visualized the match from start to finish. From the first point to match point. Then she did it again. Each time, she saw herself coming out on top.

  “You’re getting sloppy.”

  Laure opened her eyes to find Viktoriya standing in front of her. Viktoriya’s tuxedo-inspired tennis dress was fashionable enough to go straight from the court to a night on the town.

  “Excuse me?”

  Viktoriya tossed a day-old tabloid into Laure’s lap. Laure glanced at the newspaper but quickly turned away. The series of photographs on the front page depicted her and Sinjin crying on the bench in Hampstead Heath. The headline above the photo read, “Lovers’ Tiff.” The moment she and Sinjin had shared on Sunday had been incredibly beautiful. Nothing could cheapen the experience. Not what transpired between them last night or Viktoriya’s antics now.

  “Aren’t you the one who said ‘headlines should be used to describe what I do on the court, not who I do off of it’?”

  “I’m not ‘doing’ Sinjin,” Laure said through clenched teeth. “Not that it’s any of your business.”

  She stood and tried to brush past, but Viktoriya stood her ground. “If Mirjana doesn’t beat you today, I will. As for Sinjin, leave her to me. Think how painful it would be for her to get all the way to the finals and lose. You’re too soft to knock her off. I won’t have that problem. See you in the semifinals.”

  Laure resisted the urge to chase after Viktoriya and wipe the cruel smile off her beautiful face. She clenched and unclenched her fists as she tried to regain control of her emotions. Some players drew fuel from their anger, their fury inspiring them to play better. She always played worse, her level of play declining as her blood pressure rose.

  If she didn’t get centered—and soon—her tournament could be over.

  *

  Sinjin did some of her best thinking in the shower, one of the few places she could completely clear her head and focus on what was most important. She thought she could probably solve most of the world’s problems if she remained in her makeshift sensory deprivation chamber long enough. At the moment, the task at hand was solving the puzzle that was Blake Freeman.

  She let the warm spray wash over her as she attempted to absorb the information Laure had imparted during their practice session that morning. Laure had been full of advice but none of the expected variety. Sinjin had expected her to share technical tips like where she should place her serve or if she should aim for Blake’s forehand or backhand side on an important point. Instead, Laure’s advice had been purely psychological.

  “Blake’s presence is so intimidating she wins half her matches simply by walking out of the locker room. You have to show her from the beginning—even before the coin toss—that you feel like you belong on the same court with her. Then you have to draw a line in the sand. Pick a part of the court and make it yours. For me, it’s the baseline. For you, it should be the net. The net is yours. It belongs to you. Don’t let Blake take it away from you. Defend it to the death if you have to. Not literally, but you get the idea.”

  Laure’s closing comment had been well thought out, its Zen-like minimalism so soothing it immediately erased Sinjin’s fears about the match. “At this level, it’s all about execution. Blake knows what you’re going to do and you know what she’s going to do. Whoever does it better will win. It’s as simple as that.”

  And it was that simple. Blake was going to play her game and Sinjin was going to play hers. Whoever did it better would book a spot in the final four.

  She turned off the water and reached for a towel. After drying off, she returned to the locker room. The cavernous room was empty and eerily quiet. With most of the unseeded players knocked out of the event, she had the room to herself. Mirjana Petkovic was the only other unseeded player left in the women’s draw, and with Laure up a set and 5-1, Mirjana’s tournament was rapidly co
ming to an end.

  On Centre Court, Serena Williams was fighting her heart out, but she was still hampered by a foot injury that had kept her out of the game for months. Exploiting Serena’s limited mobility, Viktoriya won the first set 6-2 and had forged ahead 4-0 in the second. Serena was tenacious enough to come back, but Viktoriya was such a good front-runner Sinjin didn’t expect her to let up until the match was over. If then. Her number one ranking was on the line. She needed to win to keep pace with Blake. To stay ahead of her.

  When they were teenagers, becoming number one was all Viktoriya talked about. She had made it to the top of the mountain, but she was on the verge of falling off her perch. Unless Sinjin beat Blake in the next round. Then Viktoriya would be safe. And she would have Sinjin to thank. Sinjin intended to do her part. She longed to see Viktoriya taken down a notch, but part of her wanted to do the job herself. In a couple of days, the pleasure could be Laure’s. If Laure and Viktoriya squared off on Thursday, who would she root for? Would she be driven by loyalty or her unquenched thirst for revenge?

  “If you don’t beat Blake, none of it will matter. So get your head out of your arse and take her down.”

  *

  After her match, Laure snarled in disgust as she tossed her wet towel in the receptacle outside the shower stall. She had won easily to advance to the semifinals, which meant she was now free to focus on what she wanted to put out of her mind: Sinjin. Was pursuing a relationship with her worth the heartache she encountered on the way?

  She wrapped a dry towel around her body and headed to the locker room. Blake Freeman had been assigned the cubicle next to hers. Her sister Chandler had the one on the other side. As they did before most matches—except when they were playing each other—the sisters sat side-by-side comparing notes on each other’s next opponents.

  Laure squeezed between them to get to her locker. “Excuse me,” she said, apologizing for interrupting the impromptu coaching session.

  The sisters ceased their whispered conversation. After Laure pulled her sports bra over her head, she turned to find two sets of aquamarine eyes staring at her.

  Chandler broke the silence.

  “Are you going to tell her or am I going to have to do it?”

  “Tell who what?”

  Chandler pursed her lips. “Come on, Laure. Don’t play dumb. You know what I’m talking about. Are you going to tell Sinjin what Viktoriya said?”

  Laure continued getting dressed. “If Viktoriya has messages she wants to deliver, she can deliver them herself.”

  “Sinjin deserves to know, don’t you think?”

  “Know what? That Viktoriya’s willing to do and say anything to hold on to her ranking? I think she’s fully aware of that fact, thanks.”

  Chandler tossed her racquet bag over her shoulder. “Suit yourself.” She bumped knuckles with her sister. “See you on the other side.”

  Chandler headed to Court One. Blake, the older and more introspective one, stayed behind. “Are you okay?” she asked, resting a consoling hand on Laure’s arm.

  Laure nodded, but touched by Blake’s obvious concern for her, couldn’t speak.

  “I know it’s not in your nature, Laure, but sometimes you have to fight for what you want. To get back at Viktoriya, you have to beat her at her own game. Not the one between the lines. The one between the ears.” Blake tapped her temples.

  “Thanks, Blake. I would say, ‘Good luck,’ but—”

  Blake chuckled. “Yeah, I know.”

  After Blake left, Laure sat in front of her locker and tried to pull herself together. She was always on edge during a major but not like this. Never like this. She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Both felt appropriate somehow. How funny was it that she thought she and Sinjin could lay their respective baggage aside and start fresh with each other? And how sad that they couldn’t.

  *

  Sinjin headed to the holding area to wait to be called to the court. The room, filled with glass display cases and wood-paneled accents, was worthy of a museum exhibit. She examined the photos of current and former champions while she slowly stretched her arms, legs, and back.

  “I see you decided to go with the shorts today.”

  Sinjin turned to face Blake Freeman. “I wanted to be able to keep up with you.” She hoped the sartorial change of pace would result in a change of luck. She had never played her best tennis against Blake. Not even close. She couldn’t allow that trend to continue. Such a desultory effort wasn’t worthy of Centre Court, the site of some of the greatest matches that had ever been played.

  Blake cocked her head, a quizzical look on her face. She and Sinjin had been competing against each other for years, but Blake narrowed her eyes as if she were encountering Sinjin for the first time. In a way, she was. She had never faced this Sinjin before.

  This is it. This is when she normally gets me. When she sizes me up and I come up short.

  Sinjin coolly returned Blake’s gaze. “How’s the wrist?” she asked casually. Though heavily taped, Blake’s injured right wrist hadn’t hampered her play. Her booming serve had lost none of its sting. Her game had been so impressive some of the players she had beaten wondered aloud if she were actually hurt.

  Blake flinched at the non sequitur. Her probe for potential weaknesses had come up empty, but Sinjin’s seemed to have hit the bull’s-eye.

  “It’s as good as new.” Blake held up her arm and performed a close approximation of a royal wave.

  Despite Blake’s insistence that her wrist wasn’t a cause for concern, Sinjin noticed that when she bent to pick up her racquet bag, she made sure to use her left hand instead of her right. That was the moment Sinjin knew she was going to win. Her game plan was perfect. Her opponent was less than a hundred percent. How could she lose?

  *

  Laure watched from the players’ lounge as Blake and Sinjin went through the ten-minute warm-up. Only in tennis did players help their opponents practice shots that could later be used to defeat them.

  Sinjin missed nearly all of her practice serves, but Laure paid that no heed. Lots of players were awful in warm-ups but went on to play great once the match started. Laure chose to examine their body language instead. Which woman was brimming with confidence and which one was only faking it?

  Blake had made so many appearances on Centre Court she had come to refer to the place as her personal playground. Playing yet another match there was no big deal for her. Sinjin, as had been widely reported, had never set foot on the court. When she finally walked onto it for the first time, she had been as saucer-eyed as a Hummel figurine, her lips clearly forming the word “wow.”

  Despite her struggles during the warm-up, Sinjin seemed completely at ease when the match began. She improved on the form that had carried her to the quarterfinals while Blake’s wondrous game abandoned her.

  “They’re playing as if their rankings are reversed,” Gabrielle said. “Sinjin’s the one making all the shots. Blake’s the one making all the errors.”

  “Blake certainly picked the wrong time to come up small in a big match. I wonder if Sinjin will play as well the rest of the year as she has the past two weeks,” Laure replied.

  “If she wins the tournament, it won’t matter. She’ll be a millionaire a hundred times over and she’ll have more endorsements than you could shake a stick at. Even if she never won another match, she’d be set for life.”

  Laure rested her chin on the heel of her hand as she watched Sinjin aim another serve at Blake’s body. Safe but effective, the ploy had worked time and time again. Blake’s normally lethal return game had been nullified. Her ground game had been tamed, too. Sinjin didn’t give Blake anything to work with. Instead of going for the lines, she directed most of her shots down the middle of the court, taking away Blake’s ability to craft the acutely angled passing shots she was known for.

  Blake hit the occasional winner, but they were few and far between. Sinjin raced to an early lead and never looked back. In a little
over an hour, she found herself serving for the match at 6-3, 5-2.

  The Centre Court crowd, which had greeted each error from Blake’s racquet with stunned silence, began to buzz with anticipation.

  *

  Some players liked to draw crowds into the action on court in order to feed off their energy. Sinjin used to be one of those players. In her previous incarnation, she tried so hard to entertain the fans she forgot to give them what they wanted to see even more than trick shots or percussive serves: a win. In the Wimbledon quarterfinals for the first time, she played with blinders on, concentrating solely on her opponent. Except for the occasional glance to the Friends Box for reassurance, she kept her focus on the match.

  She stepped up to the service line a game away from victory. Four quick points later, she was through to a Grand Slam semifinal for the first time in three years. The crowd, though ecstatic over her win, gave Blake a respectful ovation.

  Despite her obvious disappointment, Blake was gracious in defeat. “You played like a champion out there today,” she said when she and Sinjin shook hands at the net. “Keep it up and you might become one.”

  “Thanks, B.”

  After shaking hands with the chair umpire, Sinjin raised her racquet over her head to salute the crowd. Their full-throated roar gave her goose bumps.

  Moments like this were why she had become a tennis player. This was why she had left home at fifteen. This was why she had spent so many hours on the practice court. This was why she trained so intensely. This was why she had kept going even when she wanted to stop. This was why she and Stephanie had sacrificed their present to bet on a better future. Her future had arrived.

  But she couldn’t dwell on what had just happened. She had to start thinking ahead. In the next round, she would face not one player but two.