Game of Love (46 page)

She thought of her future. She was a standout tennis player–for now. But so were many others. So many had come and gone. So many more waited in the wings. She didn’t want to be one of those: one more athlete who made noise, won, and then disappeared. She was a speck amongst millions of others.

“You have so much to offer this world,”
Andre had said.

It was still hard to believe. She was about to play in her first championship match at Wimbledon. This had been her dream. This was what she had worked toward since she was five years old. This was for her father.

She had destroyed her happiness to get the title match, and she would not let that sacrifice go in vain.

Gemma stepped onto center court, waving and walking briskly. The thundering cheers draped the entire stadium. It seemed all of England had come out to support their favorite daughter. She marched with a sense of calm and ease, her chest light, her breathing smooth. She glanced at her adversary. With Sonia out, the smart money was on Mina Pavlova, who had already won Wimbledon once before. She had defeated Gemma each time they had met. Winning against Mina would be a phenomenal end to her championship run.

Gemma was certain she would win. Not because she believed she was necessarily better than Mina. No, she would win because that’s what she needed to do. It had to happen that way. She refused to sacrifice so much just to be the runner-up.

Gemma scanned through the crowd. Was he here, watching her, supporting her? She looked at Tish, who shook her head. She had asked Tish not to let him out of her sight if she saw him.

A pang shot through her.
Please, be here with me.

Gemma didn’t like to romanticize anything, but as the match progressed, she thought of herself and Mina as two warriors clashing on a battlefield of grass. The same grass where thousands before had lost their lives. Two souls put on this field to motivate and enchant the next generation of tennis players.

They fought against each other, against the field, and against exhaustion.

They battled for each point. They yelled, screamed, grunted, and growled. Gemma’s arsenal of different serves frustrated Mina, while Mina’s thundering returns kept Gemma honest. But Gemma was driven by knowledge; a certainty that she was destined to win. She could not lose.

The first set went to tiebreaker, but when Gemma tore a laser beam backhand down the line, Mina lost her footing. With that, Gemma won the first set.

Destiny was on her side.

The second set was a horse race as well. Each one holding serve. With the set tied at 6-6, they entered the tiebreaker phase. Back and forth the gladiators fought. The player who earned the two-point advantage would win the set. For Mina, it would mean a tie game and an opportunity to play a third set. For Gemma it meant the culmination of a dream: a championship.

The cheers were uncontrollable. The British crowd would not relent. They understood two more points meant their player would win Wimbledon. Try as she might, the umpire could not get the crowd to be silent. Everyone–the crowd, Gemma, and maybe even Mina–could feel the game was at an auspicious point.

They’d been going back and forth until Gemma broke Mina’s serve and tied it up at 13-13. Gemma would receive two possessions. If she just held her serves, she’d win.

Gemma had racked up twenty-two aces in the match. One right now would deflate Mina.
The utmost amount of presence, with the least amount of effort
.

She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and tossed the ball in the air. Catapulting upward, she ripped her racquet with all her remaining strength. The yellow bullet went down the middle, catching the outside line. A perfect ace.

The crowd erupted. 14-13.

Mina, like Sonia in the previous match, was left planted on the grass, unable to challenge the invisible ball. Her head dropped.

Gemma noticed the crowd, who pointed at the tachometer, their mouths open in shock. She was clocked at 132 miles-per-hour. Was that a new record? It didn’t matter.

She didn’t smile. The match was not over. One more point. That was all she needed.

Gemma served again. This time Mina returned the ball cross-court, forcing Gemma to sprint for it. Gemma reached the ball and sliced it back, taking pace off of it. But Mina attacked the net, ready for a quick put-away. She forehand-volleyed the ball to the other side of the court. A perfect angle, completely on the other side of Gemma.

One point was all Gemma needed. Every point sacred.
There is no tomorrow!

Gemma sprinted, but she knew she would be short. She stretched, and in the last instant leapt, flying toward the ball to get the two additional inches she needed.

Contact.

The ball lobbed high up, with just enough on it to make it past the net.

Just one point.

Gemma hit the ground and her racquet popped out of her hand, skidding on the grass. She glanced at Mina, who shuffled to the net, tracking the looping ball as it started its descent. Gemma got on one knee, grabbed the racquet, and pushed off. She attacked the net. Mina was at mid-court, racquet raised, prepared to spike the ball.

Just one.

Left, right, or center?
Gemma had to make a split-second guess. Mina’s foot shifted slightly.
Left!
She leapt again, stretching for the ball, racquet held tight.

One!

Mina’s spiked ball hit Gemma’s racquet dead center. The ball flew past Mina’s ear. The stadium held its collective breath. The ball hit the grass and rolled innocently.

For one second the thunder of the crowd deafened her. She watched the ball roll to a stop. Gemma jumped to her feet, whirled to the line judge who had his hands down, then spun to the umpire, then to Mina, who dropped her head and racquet.

In!

The ball was in!

Gemma lost control of her knees. She fell to the grass, then collapsed and covered her head. The crowd sounded like waves. Like the waves she heard when she climbed Point Dume, when she sat on the sand with Andre, watching the surfers, and when they gazed at the sparkling stars over Leo Carillo. But this time, he was not with her. She was alone, and she cried like she’d never cried before.

Eventually Gemma stood and waved to the cheering crowd. The roars were persistent and relentless. She ran to her box and hugged her mum, who was crying like a newborn. Next to her were a tear-drenched Xavi and Mari. Tish cried on Bedric’s shoulder, while he nodded in approval.

With love, magic is possible.

Once Andre was clear of the crowds, he leaned against the wall, threw his head back, and yelled as loud as he could. He removed his sunglasses and wiped tears. She had done it. She had defeated her own demons. She was a champion.

His newly acquired throwaway phone chimed: a text message reminding him his flight was in three hours. He dropped the phone in his pocket and left. It was time to get off the grid and see how the chess match would play out.

Gemma eventually regained her composure, but when she raised the golden plate, tears came again. The interviewer tried to ask her questions, but she was barely able to put words together. Finally, when she caught her breath, she spoke.

“Thank you for your undying support,” she said to the fans. The crowd erupted in applause and cheers. “Winning this tournament against the best in the world, in my country, is a storybook scenario.”

Mina, the proud warrior, smiled graciously.

Gemma noticed the Prime Minister. He wiped at his tears.

“To my fans who believed in me and supported me, thank you. My love for my family, fans, country, and this game is what has carried me to this point.” She pointed to the sky. “I did it, Dad!” The crowd erupted, chanting her name.

“This has been one crazy and stressful run to the championship for you,” the interviewer said.

“You think?”

The crowd roared.

“Yet you pulled through in dramatic fashion.”

“I pulled through because of one person, and I need to thank him. Andre, I won this for you–because of you. Thank you for your unwavering love.”

“
Gemma’s in LOVE!
”

The news agencies ran with those words.
“Where is Andre?”
was the follow-up question they wanted answered. It was a calculated move. Gemma had hoped by throwing it out there, he would hear about it. More importantly, she was making a statement: she no longer feared the truth.

Sunday evening was soon upon her. As a junior player and throughout her climb up the ladder, she had dreamt of the day she’d be the guest of honor at the famed Wimbledon champion’s party. Being there now, she was incomplete. She wanted to celebrate with Andre; find him and make things right again.

She found a quiet corner, said a prayer, and dialed his number.

An odd ring, then an unexpected message: “
The number you are trying to reach is no longer in service. Please check the number you have dialed and try again
.”