Love Game - Season 2011 Read online

  “Fa male molto male,” Antonia moaned with a grin and – pretending to faint – she lifted her hand to her face and laid down on the bench.

  “Oh, no,” Martina exclaimed rushing for help. “Looks like someone needs a nurse.” She slid down on her knees and after carefully taking off Antonias’s shoes began to examine the Italian’s legs.

  “How is your thigh, cariña? Do you happen to have pains on your inner thigh?”

  The Italian nodded dramatically – because which tennis player didn’t have pains in their thighs after a grueling match? She leaned back and, reconsidering her evening plans, she relaxed under Martina’s skillful treatment. But only for a moment. Then she glanced up at the clock on the wall. Only fifteen minutes left until the press conference. Antonia grabbed the Argentine’s head and planted a big smooch on her lips.

  “I have to take a shower,” she sighed while taking off her top. She picked up two bath towels and walked towards the bathroom section. As she reached it, she stopped and looked back only to catch Martina staring at her butt. The Italian rolled her eyes then winked mischievously at her lover.

  “Mamma mia,” she said with a big grin while disappearing into the shower. With a joyful cheer the Argentine jumped up sprinting after her.

  “¡Una y otra vez, sé cómo resistirte!”

  ***

  “I’m afraid I don’t have any news,” Agnes said.

  She and Monica had ordered some beer and had settled down at a table, discussing the new relationship between Martina and Antonia. Since they had quit the stressful singles competition the two doubles partners had developed a reputation as understanding and discreet counselors and occasional matchmakers for the younger players.

  “What about the little fox?”

  “Oh, her, right,” Agnes pondered. “I haven’t thought about her for a while. There’s nothing, to be honest. I left some very deep foot prints in the snow but the fox isn’t following the spoor. At least I haven’t heard from her since we played in Luxembourg.”

  “What did you say to her?”

  “Nothing, really. Just gave her a hint, that we would welcome her with open arms.”

  Monica shrugged. “Maybe I was wrong about her.”

  “When have you ever been wrong about a girl?” Agnes laughed.

  “Once or twice in my life for sure.”

  “Well, if you were wrong, you were simply great at getting them drunk.”

  “That’s me.” Monica laughed. Looking at her friend, she was suddenly glad they had never tried to get it on. Sometimes it was good to just be friends. Then she laughed some more over this atypical, way out of character notion. She was getting old, she thought, and that was a good thing.

  Suddenly Agnes grabbed her arm nodding over to the entrance. Martina Rodriguez and Antonia Sapore had entered and peeked into the room.

  “Who needs a priest if Monica Jordan is the Mother Superior,” Agnes snickered. They waved Antonia and Martina over, ordered soft drinks for the kids and began to take their confessions.

  ***

  She had been spanked. Brutally.

  The worst thing about it was that she hadn’t even played badly. She just hadn’t played wisely enough. Mint opened her eyes and turned around in her hotel bed. Why hadn’t she opted for the serve out wide when she was up a break and 40-15? Why that weak body serve? Antonia Sapore had literally danced around the ball and had crushed it back into Mint’s backhand corner. She had been unable to reach it. And then her attempt of a drop shot at 40-30. Laughable. Sapore was too quick for bad drop shots. Mint should have known better, but she had been a little too cocky, tried to end the point in a spectacular way, not in a safe way. She should have gone cross-court.

  In hindsight this had been the beginning of the end. She had been holding up well so far, even though she had lost the first set 3-6. But she had not given in. She had even been able to break the Italian in the second set. But it’s not a break until you hold and she had not been able to hold.

  Mint turned onto her side and stared into the dark room. Why the body serve? She’d known it was a mistake as soon as she had seen the Italian stepping to her left. Her opponent had read her serve exceptionally well for the whole match, but had problems with the wide serve. Mint had hit three aces on that wide serve. Why hadn’t she used it when it mattered? In less than twenty minutes the match was over. Mint had not been able to win one more game.

  “Fuck,” she whispered to herself. “Fuck my life.”

  ***

  “This match has taken some amazing twists and turns. With both players starting a little bit hesitantly, you could even say, a bit timidly, we didn’t dare to hope for such an exciting thriller.”

  “Absolutely true. This has turned into a incredible fight and it’s just impossible to say who will keep their nerve and wrestle the other down.”

  “Never in my life have I seen such a tight, hard-contested tiebreak!”

  “It’s 9-9 in this late night tiebreaker and we have been witnessing some spectacular shot making so far. Sapore just ripped that forehand to run a game on Rodriguez leveling the score at 8-8, but the Argentine was ready to bend over backwards to get into another winning position. But then she seemed to lose a bit of her concentration.”

  “Yes, she really struggled to keep the ball in play. It was more make believe.”

  “And she failed to finish off the point in the end.”

  “Now, that’s just not fair,” Martina blurted out. “I was totally drunk!” To demonstrate her point she slammed her fist on the table shaking Agnes’s and Monica’s empty beer bottles. “How por el amor de dios, am I supposed to remember how I did? I was probably súper-fantástico.” The Argentine stared in disbelief at Monica and Agnes who continued to babble into their beer bottles pretending they were microphones.

  “I’m sorry, amore, but I successfully challenged your shot. It was poor and you lost the point.” Antonia gave her lover a little pat on the back.

  “I do remember she was still in my bed when I woke up,” Martina said, but had to admit that the point went to the Italian.

  About an hour ago, prodded by the already tipsy Monica and Agnes, the young couple had started to list the affairs they had engaged in since they started on the tour. Being two years older the Argentine had the advantage in the beginning and took the first set easily with 6-3. But Antonia had fought back in a phenomenal effort. She had been quite busy in the last three years and she wouldn’t let go of the second set.

  “And now, we witness a little discussion during the changeover,” Agnes agitatedly continued. “Rodriguez doesn’t seem to be taking the lost match point lightly.”

  “That’s right, Agnes. There you can see the hot-blooded South American coming through.”

  “She is picking up the water bottle. I’m afraid we will witness a code violation.”

  ”Will she take the bottle and throw it at her opponent? She is aiming!”

  A splash hit the two commentators instead.

  After the ugly incident a point penalty for Martina handed Antonia a set point. She converted it with a cunning, lingering drop shot to force a decider. This night was only just beginning.

  Melbourne, Australia

  Walking down the red carpet of her sponsor’s pre-tournament party, Sasha Mrachova felt very much aware of herself. As much as she loved to be admired she had begun to cherish the moments away from the limelight, on her own with a good book in hand. These moments had become rare and since she had arrived in Australia she couldn’t recall a single evening she had had to herself. Tonight, she would have felt more like reading or watching a movie but she was paid too much money by her sponsor to bail out.

  A photographer with curly red locks smiled at her and gestured for her to turn her face to the camera. She liked the spotlight and she knew how to move for the photographers to achieve the desired effect and get onto the covers of magazines. Over the years Sasha had little by little turned into a model in great demand, to t
he point that her fans were questioning her commitment to tennis. She had promised herself to prove them wrong.

  By her side and holding her hand tightly was Czech soccer star Jaroslav Bradka, a midfielder of Manchester City. Jaro was nice, extremely good-looking and provided her some company during his off-season in the winter. He also stopped the inconvenient questions about her private life that had begun to lay siege to her in the last few years. For a long time the absence of boyfriends had been explained by her being occupied with her tennis career, but her management worried that it would eventually interfere with sponsoring deals. The relationship with Jaro was set up quickly. In October they had announced that they were dating, around Christmas they had dealt a few pictures to the yellow press. Jaro had agreed to show up for at least five tournaments per year while she would attend just as many of his football club’s matches.

  As soon as she and Jaro entered the buffet room, he was hi-jacked by Carina Gnocchi, the young German, who had the same clothing sponsor as Sasha.

  “Why didn’t you sign with Arsenal? My dad says, it’s the best team ever!”

  Jaroslav smiled politely at the young German.

  “Oh please, their defense sucks,” he answered. “And the city isn’t what it used to be. No, I’ll stick to Manchester.”

  As a German with Italian roots Carina was a soccer expert and engaged in a heated discussion with Jaro. How could anyone be so interested in football, Sasha thought. Or was she actually hitting on her boyfriend? She noticed that Carina put her hand on Jaro’s arm but the Czech tennis player couldn’t have cared less. If the new No. 1 really flirted with her fiancé her effort would be completely in vain, Sasha mused. Soon British newcomer Gemma Heffington joined the football discussion, pushing Carina’s arm away. That got the German going. Her speech on the formidability of a 2-3-5 formation was increasing the cringe factor with every second and Sasha looked down at her glass, realizing that it was empty. No need to endure this embarrassing performance any longer, she decided. Leaning on Jaro’s arm, Sasha whispered in his ear to excuse herself and noticed to her delight that both girls frowned. How easy it was for Sasha to claim her territory with a simple gesture. Besides, her manager had told her to show more public displays of affection. She was in a happy relationship with Jaro after all.

  Making her way through the crowd she picked up another cocktail from a waiter and stepped outside onto the brightly lit patio. What was so special about football players anyway? She couldn’t understand the fascination at all. With a sigh she sat down onto the rattan couch. Looking around she concluded that this was much more to her liking – low-riding with a nice view, which consisted of high-heeled, tanned, long legs of fellow tennis girls.

  ***

  “You want to come over?” Cecilia asked into the darkness.

  “Why don’t you come over?”

  “I have to walk around the bed while you could just get out of yours and slip into mine. Your way is shorter.”

  “That’s silly,” Mint mumbled into her cushion. She sounded sleepy. “Silly Chili!”

  Cecilia giggled. Chili was her nickname.

  “I know. But I’m too knackered to get up.”

  Mint moaned, irritated, but Chili could hear her pushing the blanket aside and stepping out of the bed. The young Spanish player turned around in her bed when Mint lay down next to her.

  “Great. The sheets are cold,” Mint complained.

  Cecilia smiled, knowing that her friend was unable to see it. Mint Rickenbacher wasn’t very amicable. She often came across as very rude and selfish, but Chili knew that her best friend just didn’t like to admit that she enjoyed some closeness, even tenderness, at times. Even though Mint could have easily afforded to stay in the official players’ hotel located by the Yarra River, the American had opted to share a room in a cheap hotel with Chili – much to the dislike of Mint’s parents.

  Cecilia lifted her blanket a bit and threw it over her shivering friend.

  “So, what’s your plan for tomorrow?” Chili asked.

  “You mean, besides beating Little Miss Sunshine?”

  Chili nodded. They both had to play their qualifying finals tomorrow. If they won them they would be in the main draw of a Grand Slam.

  “She’s not little,” she mused over Mint’s opponent’s height, causing Mint to groan again. “I’m little.”

  “You know what I mean. She’s unbearable.”

  “I think she is cute.”

  Mint sat up in the bed. “Seriously? She’s a pain in the ass! I’m going to whip her with my groundies tomorrow.” She let herself fall down onto the sheets again. “You can’t be serious.”

  Chili snorted over that much passion. “Jealous much?” She pinched Mint through the blanket.

  “No way,” came the answer. “I mean, seriously?”

  Mint really wanted to know.

  “No,” Cecilia answered. “She is too tall for me anyway.” With a swift movement the Spaniard reached out under the blanket and embraced Mint’s wiry body.

  “And she is a pain in the ass,” Mint insisted, talking to the ceiling.

  “Yes,” Chili answered, moving closer and planting a kiss on Mint’s cheek. She continued doing it until Mint turned towards her and began kissing her back.

  ***

  His whole life had changed in a couple of days. From sporadic freelance writer and photographer Tom Richardson had made it to a full-time writer, photographer and video producer.

  As though by chance he had been at the right place at the right time and now he was working for the WTA, producing entertaining little tidbits for its website. Last week he had mainly done interviews and two photo shoots with some of the lower ranked girls at the Sydney tournament, as his new boss Candice Crantz was testing the waters before she let him loose on the star players. That was fine with him. Everything was fine at the moment. He had only arrived in Melbourne yesterday and his first assignment for today seemed easy enough.

  He had met Elise Renard at the reception desk and soon enough had found a quiet place to do a little fun interview with the young German. The twenty year old had been a quarterfinalist only a year ago but now was fighting her way back into the upper ranks. She had done alright in Brisbane, reaching the second round before falling to a more experienced player. Today however was not a good day for the German. She had lost her qualifying match against American newcomer Mint Rickenbacher and was out of the Australian Open before it had even started. Accordingly, her mood was a little dampened, even though she seemed quite endearing.

  “What do you like most about playing in Australia?” Tom asked her.

  “The weather,” Elise answered, adding that the people were also very nice. Hearing her mellow-voiced answers Tom soon settled into autopilot. This would be another half hour of boringness, he suspected, plus another hour of editing the boringness. Why not add a little spice, he wondered. He didn’t have to use it if it didn’t work out. He hesitated for a second but then gave it a go.

  “Are you looking forward to dancing with a particular player tonight at the player’s party?” It caught her off-guard. She laughed nervously then grabbed the water bottle. Her reaction set Tom’s antennae buzzing. Apparently he had hit the mark – there was someone she wanted to dance with.

  “Some of the players are really in demand,” Tom tried to get her talking, but she was still holding on to the bottle gulping little sips. “Who’s your favorite?”

  She grimaced in embarrassment. “I’ll keep it to myself.”

  Dear Lord, Tom couldn’t help thinking. So German! How much more fun would that question have been with any of the British girls?

  “Yeah, you’re right,” he managed to say. “I would do that, too. Most girls would name Ted Curry as a favorite though. At least that’s what I have heard.” Tom smiled at Elise.

  “I guess,” she muttered, shrugging her shoulders. She looked like she had never heard of Ted Curry. This girl was too uptight, Tom figured. Why would anyone
at her age become so nervous in response to his harmless questions? Wasn’t she traveling with her father all the time? Yes, that must be it. Well, it was actually something they could talk about – her French father, who was also her coach. In the morning he had checked the WTA website to gather some information about the players he was supposed to interview. He was still learning who was who in the women’s tennis world and he was surprised to learn that Elise Renard was listed as German, but had soon found out that her name came from her father, a famous French coach with a German wife.

  Tom gave the young woman a friendly wink.

  “Well, back to tennis then,” he suggested.

  “Yes, thank you.” She relaxed again and put the bottle down. They talked for another twenty minutes about tennis, music and her comeback from injury.

  After she politely thanked him and said good-bye, Tom watched the young girl leave the lobby. He was a bit puzzled by the German and thinking about editing her generic answers he let out a little moan. But then he got up. Why worry? This was Australia and what a difference two weeks can make, he thought. He put on his sunglasses and pulling his hand through his red curls he took a step out into the morning light. He had a new job, a new life and – he smiled as brightly as the Australian sun – since Perth he wasn’t single anymore.

  ***

  The lobby was bustling but there was no sign of Natsumi Takashima. Amanda and Monica looked around, then headed to the lounge and settled down on the huge couch to wait for their Japanese friend, with whom they had decided to share a quick lunch before they would spend the afternoon getting ready for tonight’s players’ party. The couch was surrounded by gigantic tub plants that made the room look like a jungle.

  “Where is she? She is only on time when she has to play a match. It’s not very Japanese to be late, is it?” Amanda was muttering while looking up at the leaves of an exotic plant.