Game of Love (26 page)

“Not just good, fan-freakin’-tastic. Never mind me. I’ve been watching your games. Did you know there’s a channel just for tennis? It’s called the Tennis Channel. Did you know about this? Because you’re on it all the time.”

“Welcome to the modern ages, love.”

“You’re kicking some major ass out there.”

“I’ve done well, but tomorrow’s match will be tougher.”

“Can’t wait. I love watching you fight like that. The grunts, the screams–”

“You enjoy that do you? Grunting and screaming.”

“Ahh–wait–I mean the… you know, the fighting spirit, and–”

“Oh, shut it. You can’t even clean up properly.”

“How’s everything else? How are you holding up?”

She closed her eyes, convinced he would ask about Johnny. “I don’t have a donkey’s care about anything else. I have a tournament in my hands. All the other shit is created solely for the entertainment of daft monkeys. Those cur dogs can entertain themselves with their own filth like the git pigs they are.”

“That was the cleanest cuss out I’ve ever heard. You Brits are so civilized. I sometimes think you wish you could curse like a drunken sailor with the exception that you probably don’t get drunk, nor much of a sailor given your seasickness issue.”

“You’ll need to visit my hometown someday and hear how my mates curse. Your cute little ears would turn red.”

“You think my ears are cute?”

“In a not-large-like-an-elephant’s sort of way. Sure.”

“I see. English is obviously not my strongest language. That sounded like a veiled insult. It must be a Brit thing.”

“Must be.” Silence. “Andre, thank you for being there. It means a lot. Your silly jokes, even those that aren’t funny, help.”

“There it is again. It’s almost a compliment. Amazing how when a Brit puts you down it sounds so pretty and benign.”

“It’s the civilized English versus what you call American.”

They both laughed, and when the laughter ended a comfortable silence hovered. Gemma laid on her bed, her stuffed dog in hand, the phone gently resting on her ear.

“You sounded a bit tired when you answered the phone, Andre. Are you well?”

“Headache. I have too many things on my mind, and my brain is fighting back.”

Too many things on his mind? Like maybe Johnny?

“I’ll be fine.”

She didn’t hear a lot of resolve in his tone. “You need a vacation.”

He laughed dramatically. “Yeah, one of these days. Don’t worry about me. Keep your focus on the game. Speaking of the game, I’ve noticed an interesting pattern with your style of play.”

“Oh?”

“You are an aggressive player. You strike with a killer’s instinct, always going for winning shots. Down the line, or one ace after another.”

“I’m proud of you Andre. You’ve learned a lot. And they say TV has no redeeming value.”

“Here’s what’s interesting to me. You go for perfection. Highlight type of footage. Do you have to go for the winning shot?”

“Is there another option?”

“Make your opponent make a mistake. Unforced errors seem to be a critical indicator. You are far more powerful and considerably more fit than the opponents you play. You can probably grind them, exhaust them, frustrate them into making mistakes.”

“Interesting.”

“Anyway, what the hell do I know, right? Just something I thought I’d share with you. Go. You need to get rest. And remember I’m watching the games live. Smile once in a while, so I know you’re not a machine.”

“I do too smile.”

“I mean smile externally, so the rest of us can share your joy.”

“Okay, fine. And you get off your ‘too many things on my mind’ story. It’s unbecoming for a handsome man to sound so drained.”

“You think I’m handsome?”

“Cheers,” she said, and ended the call. “I think you’re very handsome, you silly man,” she spoke to her dead phone. “And thank you for not asking about Johnny.”

Game day. For once, with Andre’s voice still warm in her ears, she was not nervous.

“Miss Lennon, it’s time,” the tournament coordinator said.

She drained her water bottle, then tossed it into the waste bin. The crew in the locker room jumped into activity around her. She moved through them and observed how they moved, fidgeted, got something, got nothing. Time seemed to slow. Her stride was both long and purposeful.

When she stepped onto the court, the roar lifted her hair. When the cheers finally subsided, she noticed a television camera directly on her. She peered into the lens and delivered her best smile and winked. The crowd erupted, but she had only one thought on her mind as she took her side. Were that smile and wink good enough for Andre?

Today she felt rested, mind, body, and heart. But before the match started, she saw a familiar face sitting next to Wesley and Tish: Johnny Flauto.

Fueled by anger, Gemma fought mercilessly in the first set. She hit harder than she had to, she yelled with more aggression than was typical for her, and she went after every ball like it was her last.

She won the first set 6-1.

With a 4-1 lead in the second set, the tournament championship was in hand.

Petra delivered a precise and flat cross-court return on Gemma’s first serve.

Leave it
, Gemma thought for an instant, but a burning drive told her to leave nothing out there. Gemma sprinted and stretched to slap the ball quickly off the rise. When her right foot hit the grass, something popped in her leg. Her knee buckled, and she collapsed to the grass. With both hands, she squeezed her right leg, writhing on the floor, vacillating between pain and fear.

A jolt of sharp pain shot through her inner thigh, up her spine to her neck and then back to her ankle. Like an electric shock, the shooting pain ping-ponged through her body. She whimpered, trying her best to subdue the agony.

A tendon? No! No! Don’t let it end like this.

Sweat broke out across her body, and warm numbness danced in her toes. Tears and perspiration were one and the same.

The stadium’s collective voice silenced. She shut her eyes and heard the commotion around her, but her entire focus was on not letting the pain and fear defeat her.
Not like this.
In that instant, voices converted to waves. One wave after another, breaking against the coast, against the jagged rocks. Then she pictured his smile.

She opened her eyes. The match medic spoke to her. With his help, she hobbled over to her seat. The medic taped her thigh as tight as possible without constricting blood flow.

“You need to have this examined. It is probably best to withdraw–”

“Thank you. I’m fine.”

After a brief hesitation, he nodded then walked away.

She squeezed the towel into her face. Was this it? The injury that would forever remove her chances of winning a Grand Slam?

She rose and limped to her baseline. The crowd applauded and cheered.
Gemma! Gemma! Gemma!

She had to somehow make it through the match. She recalled something Andre had told her.
The Graceful Dance of the Matador.
The utmost amount of presence with the least amount of effort. Control, focus, and ball placement. She had to treat each shot like it was the last shot she’d take.

She had to hold her serve twice to win the match. The utmost amount of focus on the perfect serve and the least amount of effort on the court. She had to plan ahead. Like chess, she had to consider all the options and possibilities, taking advantage of her ability to play with both left and right hands. One of her gifts she seldom exploited.

Gemma! Gemma! Gemma!

Then another thought.
Force them to make mistakes.
She would ride the wave, step around the bull. She was channeling Andre to get her through the match. His voice was in her head.

She scanned the fans, all on their feet, cheering for her. She felt… love. She soaked it all in, then studied Petra, awaiting Gemma’s serve.

Done.

The chatter in the stadium and in her head disappeared. She received three balls, chose the right one, then stepped up to the baseline.

Focus. Toss. Hammer.

She bounced the ball five times–always five–then tossed the ball high above. The next thing she heard was the sound of her racquet cutting through the air.

Every point was fought with the determination of a gladiator, neither willing to concede anything. Petra, like a shark, tasted the blood and fought harder than ever. Drop shots, slices, side to side, anything to force Gemma to move. But Gemma didn’t bite on those. She let them go. She had the lead. All she had to do was hold the serve twice to win the match.

Thirty excruciating minutes later, she had squeezed out one more game, but had conceded four games to Petra in the process. Leading the set at 5-4, she was winning the sixth game, 40-30. Set point. Match Point. Championship point. It was her serve.

She closed her eyes, the cheers reverberating throughout the stadium.

Done.

She thought of Andre and breathed deep. Her eyes still closed, she tossed the ball up, popped open her eyes, and bore in on the spinning ball. She yelled louder than she had ever yelled and tore her racquet through the wind. The ball left an explosion of yellow fur in the air before it went straight down the middle, caught the outside line, then curved away from Petra’s outstretched racquet.

Ace.

“Game, set, match, and championship,” declared the umpire.

The crowd erupted.

Gemma collapsed on the grass in tears, pumping her fists.

The standing ovation and cheers went on for what seemed like days. The raw emotion drowned out everything else. This was the best she had felt throughout a tournament. A bittersweet victory. She didn’t know the extent of her injury, but the pain was real. Could she pull this off at Wimbledon? She knew one thing for sure; Andre was with her. He had been her inspiration, her lucky charm.

The camera was on her. She stared straight at the camera lens and sent a message she hoped both Andre and Johnny would understand in no uncertain terms.

She pointed to the camera, kissed her fingertips, then blew the camera a kiss. She was talking to Andre, not Johnny fucking Flauto.

“The time your game is most vulnerable is when you’re ahead; never let up.”
~Rod Lever

he traditional champagne celebration followed the award ceremony. Gemma wanted to respect the club’s tradition, but all she thought of was getting home and calling Andre. While here, she would address a few open matters.