Game of Love (4 page)

This is the prize.
Moments like these kept her sane.

“What did you write on the ball?” Bedric asked.

“
You are the magic.
”

Because life was so vicious, and often unfair, Gemma wanted girls to believe in themselves—if they did that, no matter the obstacles, they could make it.

After all, hadn’t she? She could have lost everything at sixteen when she had fallen for the wrong guy. And again, just a few months ago, when the person she thought she could love had nearly killed her a day before her seminal match in Australia.

Yet after all that, she was still standing, fighting because a Grand Slam had been her dream–and her late father’s. The reason why she had worked day and night and sacrificed so much since she was five. When her father was on life support, did he hear her when she promised she would win one? Did he believe her? She trained around the clock after he passed, driven to win in Australia. She should have listened to her instinct to distance herself from Johnny during those critical days. Instead, she had caved to her weak heart.

The guard jumped back in and the car lurched forward. Like an organic outgrowth, the paparazzi followed. Some ran, some jumped on bikes and mopeds, others jogged alongside. A scene she recalled all too well.

Minutes from the venue, she leaned her head back and started meditating.
One point at a time
.
I can defeat anyone if I take it one point at a time.
With that chant in her head, she drifted.

“Wake up, we are here,” Bedric said, nudging Gemma.

She came to just as the door opened.

“
Bonjour
,” Wesley said in an inexcusable accent. Her manager, an American transplanted to London, seemed to have acquired a new tan. His exaggerated smile pushed his long nose out further.

“An in-person visit by His Greatness?”

“Shush, you,” he said, and kissed her cheek. “How are you feeling?”

“Ready.”

“Everyone’s talking about how well you’ve been playing. They all want to talk to you, to understand what’s different this time around.” His smile was rehearsed, yet reassuring. “No one’s even mentioning Australia.”

Fine Caribbean sand on an open wound would have been significantly more pleasant.

“Gemma,” Bedric said, his ears and the tip of his nose crimson, “focus on this match. And only this match.”

“Right, of course.” Wesley glanced at his watch. “Good, we have plenty of time. Come with me.” He took her by her arm and hustled her through the gathering faces and cameras.

“Wesley, I already told you no interviews. Not today.”

“This is not an interview. There’s someone who wants to meet you.”

“Wesley, really. Can’t this wait?”

“Believe me, you want to meet him.”

Gemma’s movement was pure machinery, driven by forced momentum.

“Why aren’t you carrying the Ferragamo purse?” he whispered.

“Bloody hell, Wesley, we don’t use purses on the court.”

“The sponsors want your fans to see you using their products. I’ll have Tish remind you.”

“Yes, you do that.”

A heavy-set man brightened as they approached.

“Gemma, I’d like you to meet Mr. John Seevers. He’s the–”

But she no longer listened. Another sponsor or similar. A Vice President of this, that, or the other. Another person who wanted something. She knew the name of this game. She smiled, shook hands, exchanged pleasantries, and signed a couple of tennis balls for him.
Another day, another minute of my life stolen
.

The locker room facilities at Roland Garros were reminiscent of an exclusive spa. Considerably different from the days when she’d changed in a car or public restroom. The lighting was warm, the wood-inlaid locker doors built by craftsmen, and the aroma of oils and designer shampoos accented the air. Now, in the latter rounds of the tournament, the locker room was mostly empty, desolate, providing Gemma with the quiet she needed.

She turned her attention to the senior trainer, meticulously preparing Gemma’s feet–or what was left of them. She padded the callouses, wrapped her jammed toe, then applied tape until her feet felt as indestructible as rhino skin. No blinged-out, pink nails here.
What would Glamour or Cosmo think?

As soon as the trainer finished, she cleaned up her supplies and walked away without a word. Gemma appreciated professionals who understood when to stay and when to leave.

Gemma slipped on her lucky socks, then opened her bag. She removed all five racquets and squeezed their handles.
We’re in this together
, she told each one. She carefully returned them to the bag then drank the first of three water bottles fortified with electrolytes. She ate one banana and kept the second one for later during the match.

She noticed Paulina, her opponent, stretching and talking to her reflection in the mirror. The loneliest sport in the world. No one to pass to, no one to speak to during the match. Athletes learned very quickly that they started alone and by the end, even if they won, they stood alone.

A few minutes later, the French Open match official entered. “We are ready,” he said.

Gemma rose, hoisting her bags over her shoulder and exchanged a greeting with Paulina. They were friendly off-court, but war would soon be waged on the court, and the psychological match had begun. No awards were given for congeniality in tennis. From this point, it was win or go home.

Gemma knew everything about Paulina. She had studied hundreds of hours of footage. She knew what to expect from her serves, her returns, and her volleys. Gemma would exploit Paulina’s single-handed backhand and sub-par second serve. No longer would she leave anything to chance or luck–or talent. Today she would be in control of her destiny.

They followed the official through the long corridor toward center court. The faces of past champions adorned the walls on either side. Would she be on these walls one day?

Gemma slowed, giving Paulina the lead by a few paces.

When Paulina’s name was announced, she walked onto the court to a cheering crowd. Then Gemma’s name was announced, and the cheers transformed into thunderous roars. Paulina flinched. Gemma could practically read the woman’s mind. In that moment, both the home field and mental advantage transferred to Gemma. The first, albeit unrecorded, point of the day was hers.

Gemma stepped out, and the noise doubled, then tripled. The loose red clay on the field rattled. She had her share of critics, but she also inspired legions of fans. Fans who had remained loyal through all her failures. Fans who were her last remaining source of fuel.

She turned slightly to take in the complete view of center court, absorbing the waves of support. All successful athletes were coached to shut out the crowd. But she couldn’t–wouldn’t. What she couldn’t get from her failed relationships she would get from the game. She searched their faces and smiles, longing for their energy. Unlike anywhere else, inside the stadium she felt loved.

Gemma’s jaw muscles tightened, her throat went dry, her ears rang, and her eyes stung. Streaming through her veins was what she thought of as combustible adrenaline.

Game time.

“Time,” the umpire called. Gemma had won the coin toss earlier and elected to serve, always preferring to draw first blood.

“Gemma, marry me!”
a fan from the upper decks yelled.

“I’m quite busy right now,” she yelled back.

The crowd exploded in laughter. Within moments, a persistent chatter draped center court. Not enough for the umpire to call for silence, but enough to be palpable. She scanned the anxious crowd. The French enjoyed long, competitive matches. Gemma preferred quick, decisive ones. Particularly on warm days like this.

She took a deep breath.

Done.

All sounds vanished. From now until the end of the point, she would hear nothing but her heartbeat and the sound of ball on string or clay.

She asked for and received three balls. With all three in her hand, she studied them as she rotated the spheres in her palm, trying to identify one that didn’t belong. She dropped one, tucked another under her skirt, and squeezed the third.

At the baseline, she bounced the ball five times then glanced at Paulina. She stood exactly where Gemma expected her to stand: deep corner. A predictable move.

Focus. Toss. Hammer.

Gemma zeroed in on her feet, the grip, and the ball, nestled in the open throat of the racquet. Muscle memory took over, a movement refined in the course of thousands of hours of repetition. Her body executed the dance: where her knees bent, her arms rose, and the ball flew high above, exactly where she needed it. Her eyes bore in on the spinning ball as she leapt and the hammer slid behind her back, like an axe ready for the kill. And in one instant, the ball stopped–the world on pause–inviting Gemma to make contact.

She grunted, the hammer erupted, and the ball exploded down the line.

Ace.

The crowd roared.

Paulina had guessed poorly.

No, Gemma would not lose this match.

“Be the change you wish to see in the world.”
~Mahatma Gandhi

ndre stepped off the elevator into the lobby. A large crowd had gathered outside the Pullman. He approached Roger. “What’s going on out there?”