bold strokes books

e-Books

E-Books are not transferable. They cannot be sold, shared or

given away as it is an infringement on the copyright of this

work.

Lucky Loser

Visit us at www.boldstrokesbooks.com

By the Author

In Medias Res

Rum Spring

Lucky Loser

Lucky Loser

by

Yolanda Wallace

2011

Lucky Loser

© 2011 By yolanda Wallace. all Rights ReseRved.

isBn 13: 978-1-60282-611-3

This ElEcTronic Book is PuBlishEd By

Bold sTrokEs Books, inc.

P.o. Box 249

VallEy Falls, ny 12185

FirsT EdiTion: noVEmBEr 2011

This is a Work oF FicTion. namEs, characTErs, PlacEs, and

incidEnTs arE ThE ProducT oF ThE auThor’s imaGinaTion or

arE usEd FicTiTiously. any rEsEmBlancE To acTual PErsons,

liVinG or dEad, BusinEss EsTaBlishmEnTs, EVEnTs, or localEs

is EnTirEly coincidEnTal.

This Book, or ParTs ThErEoF, may noT BE rEProducEd in any

Form WiThouT PErmission.

cRedits

EdiTor: cindy crEsaP

ProducTion dEsiGn: susan ramundo

coVEr dEsiGn By shEri (GraPhicarTisT2020@hoTmail.com)

Acknowledgments

The first tennis match I ever saw was the 1981 US Open women’s

final between Martina Navratilova and Tracy Austin. I didn’t know

anything about the sport or its stars at the time, but I found myself

rooting for the player the rest of the crowd seemed to be rooting

against. Martina lost the hard-fought match in a third set tiebreaker,

but her tears afterward endeared her to the crowd and to me. On that

day, a lifelong tennis fan was born.

Lucky Loser was a labor of love for me, a chance to relive fond

tennis memories while inventing some of my own. I hope you enjoy

reading the book as much as I enjoyed writing it.

Thanks, as always, to my favorite doubles team—Radclyffe and the

Bold Strokes family. Ladies, you’re the best in the business. Dita,

thank you for not laughing too hard when I played DVDs of classic

tennis matches for research and invested myself in the outcomes as

if the matches were live instead of twenty-five years old. And thank

you most of all to the readers. You’re aces.

Dedication

To Dita. You’ve made ten years seem more like ten minutes.

Game, set, match.

Lucky Loser

Warm up

New York City

Sinjin Smythe bounced the ball once. Twice. Three times. She

needed a big serve and she needed it now.

“Come on, Viktoriya! You can do it!”

A fan’s cry of support for her opponent forced Sinjin to step

away from the service line. She scrubbed her sweat-soaked wristband

across her forehead then extended her hand to the ball boy. “Towel.”

As she dried her hands on the oversized red, white, and blue cloth,

she took a moment to gather herself.

“Come on. Focus,” she said under her breath. “This is the

reason you moved four thousand miles away from home. This is the

reason you left college after your junior year. To play and win Grand

Slam finals.”

Only she wasn’t winning.

She looked around cavernous Arthur Ashe Stadium, the

vast arena that was the largest stage in tennis. She had surprised

herself—and the tennis cognoscenti who felt grass was her best

surface—by making a spirited run to the final of the U.S. Open. The

lucrative New York-based event was the last of the tennis season’s

four majors. The stars were out, literally and figuratively, for the

prime-time final. And Sinjin, who had defeated four seeded players

on her way to the championship match, was on the verge of losing

in straight sets.

• 9 •

yoLanda WaLLace

She could already imagine the headlines. The British press,

ravenous for a champion of their own, had spent the past few years

making her seem like Wonder Woman. In a few minutes, they would

stop building her up and begin tearing her down. She had played

the best tennis of her life in her run to the final, giving her nation’s

long-suffering sports fans hope she could translate her collegiate

success to the professional ranks. Her stellar play had continued in

the championship match, but her opponent had played the big points

better. Too bad her hometown press wouldn’t see it that way. If she

went on to lose, the loss would be chalked up to a failure on her part,

not attributed to her opponent’s superior play.

Viktoriya Vasilyeva, the twenty-year-old Russian beauty with

the long blond hair and even longer line of drooling fans, had won

the first set 7-5 and was up 5-4 in the second. She was a point away

from fulfilling every tennis player’s dream. She was a point away

from winning her first Grand Slam title.

Sinjin tossed her towel to the ball boy and tried to avoid having

her dream turn into a nightmare. The sellout crowd of twenty-three

thousand, which had spent most of the nearly two-hour match either

on its feet or on the edge of its seat, held its collective breath.

Sinjin looked across the net at her foe. Viktoriya dried her

racquet hand on the hem of her stylish black tennis dress as she

prowled the baseline. Desire seeped out of every pore. Her will

to win was nearly as intimidating as her power-packed game.

But nothing—not even one of Viktoriya’s turbo-powered ground

strokes—was as intimidating as Sinjin’s serve. When her serve was

on, she could do anything. She could beat anyone. Anyone except

Viktoriya.

Sinjin’s flashy serve-and-volley game was built on aggression.

She overwhelmed her opponents with constant pressure. She

employed the same tactics now, hitting a powerful first serve and

following it to the net.

Up to the task, Viktoriya lashed a wickedly angled return.

Sinjin dove for the ball but came up empty. Just like she always

seemed to when she played Viktoriya. They had played each other

dozens of times over the years, first in the junior ranks and now in

• 10 •

Lucky Loser

the pros. Sinjin had yet to record a victory. Their latest encounter

was no different.

“Game, set, match, Vasilyeva,” the chair umpire said. “Vasil-

yeva wins two sets to love.”

Viktoriya’s stern game face vanished the instant the ball passed

out of Sinjin’s reach. She squealed in delight and tossed her racquet

high in the air as the crowd roared its approval.

On the other side of the net—and the other end of the spectrum—

Sinjin lay on her back and stared at the night sky. Chances to win

Grand Slam singles titles—to etch your name in the annals of sports

history—didn’t come along every day. Some players went their

entire careers without ever reaching a Grand Slam final. She had

made it in her first year. But she had blown her opportunity. Would

it be her only one?

Viktoriya leaped across the net and helped Sinjin to her feet.

“I’m sorry it had to be you,” she said, draping an arm across Sinjin’s

shoulder. Her once-impenetrable Russian accent was so slight it was

almost undetectable. Years of living in the States made her sound

like a native, not a visitor.

“It sucks to make it this far and lose, but at least I lost to a better

player. You deserved it. Congratulations.”

“Thanks, Sinjin. That means a lot coming from you.”

Sinjin plastered on a smile she forced to remain in place

throughout the seemingly endless trophy presentation. She didn’t

want her dissatisfaction with her loss to detract from Viktoriya’s

joy over her win. Viktoriya had finally lived up to the expectations

that had been heaped on her since she was seven. When her parents

had sold everything they owned to buy three tickets from Moscow

to Orlando, Florida, so she could train at an elite tennis academy.

She had finally made their sacrifice a success instead of a foolish

gamble. She had earned the right to enjoy the moment.

Sinjin remembered to thank all the sponsors during her runner-

up speech, and she tried to look happy when a string of bigwigs

presented Viktoriya with a check for a million dollars, the keys

to a new Lexus, and the silver trophy most players would give an

• 11 •

yoLanda WaLLace

eyetooth to hold aloft. Once she reached the locker room, Sinjin

afforded herself the luxury of a good cry.

Viktoriya, showered and changed and on her way to a press

conference, paused to offer a few words of consolation. “We used to

dream about this when we were kids,” she said, sitting next to her.

“Remember when we were at the academy and we would pretend our

practice sessions were the finals of Wimbledon or the U.S. Open?”

Sinjin nodded. “You always won those sessions, so I guess I

shouldn’t be surprised you won this one, too.”

The women’s tennis tour was as cutthroat as any big business,

but some players allowed themselves to cultivate friendships,

making a life largely spent on the road a little less lonely.

Sinjin and Viktoriya had known each other since they were

teenagers. Even though Viktoriya was two years younger, she had

more experience as a professional. She had joined the tour shortly

after her sixteenth birthday. Sinjin had completed three years of

college before turning pro. While Sinjin had worried about class

loads and keg parties, Viktoriya had fretted over ranking points and

endorsement opportunities. Sinjin was the late bloomer. Viktoriya

was the prodigy. Now she had gone from being a phenom to a

champion. Sinjin was still waiting for her chance to do the same.

Viktoriya rested her chin on Sinjin’s shoulder. “Let me buy

you dinner,” she said, twirling one of Sinjin’s dreadlocks around her

finger. “Would that make you feel better?”

“I thought it was my turn to pay.”

Grinning, Viktoriya fanned herself with her victor’s check. “I

think I can afford it better than you can.”

Sinjin dried her eyes. “In that case, let’s find the most expensive

restaurant in town.”

“How about my hotel? The room service is excellent, and I

wouldn’t have to share you with anyone.”

“Except for your parents and your agent and your coach and

your trainer and—”

“Not tonight. Tonight, the only person I want to celebrate with

is you.” Viktoriya trailed her fingertips across Sinjin’s forearm,

causing the fine hairs to stand on end. “I can almost feel your long,

• 12 •

Lucky Loser

chiseled legs wrapped around me. I can practically see you with your

head thrown back, your mouth open in a silent scream of ecstasy as

I lick your caramel-colored skin and thrust my fingers deep inside

your silken folds.”

Sinjin took a long look at Viktoriya. “I don’t remember this

being a part of our conversations at the academy.”

“That’s because it was part of my fantasies. Will you help me

turn my fantasies into reality?”

Sinjin considered the question for a split-second. “Where are

you staying?”

❖

Sinjin slipped the key card into the lock and waited for the light

to turn green. Then she opened the door and stepped into the room.

The lights were turned down low. Soft music gently played on

the stereo system.

Viktoriya had booked a suite at the Ritz-Carlton, though not in

her own name. “For privacy’s sake,” she had said, but Sinjin thought

the subterfuge might have more to do with the bottle of Dom

Pérignon that sat chilling in a sterling silver ice bucket. Viktoriya

might be the queen of the tennis world, but in the country of her

ascension to the throne, she was still too young to drink.

Pocketing the key card she had picked up from the front desk,

Sinjin looked around the suite. The expansive space included an

entry foyer, two living rooms, two bathrooms, a marble tub, seven

hundred thread count sheets, and a dining room that seated eight.

Sinjin whistled in appreciation of the luxe surroundings. The nightly

room rate was four times more than her monthly rent.

Treating herself to a bottle of mineral water from the minibar,

she waited for Viktoriya. And waited. And waited.

Two hours later, after the ice had melted and Sinjin’s ardor

had cooled, Viktoriya finally arrived. In her trench coat and black

sunglasses, she looked like a Cold War-era spy.

“I’m sorry I’m late. The press wouldn’t let me leave.” She

placed two oversized shopping bags in the nearest chair and kicked

• 13 •

yoLanda WaLLace

off her designer shoes. A diamond-encrusted tennis bracelet circled

her wrist.

Sinjin eyed the shopping bags. “I didn’t know the press

conducted interviews at Niemen Marcus.”

“You know how it is.” Viktoriya opened the champagne and

poured two glasses. She extended one toward Sinjin. “I’m so glad

you stayed.”

Sinjin drained the proffered glass then looked pointedly at her

watch. “And now I have to go.”

“Why? I just got here.”

“That’s nice, but I have a match to play tomorrow. If everything

goes well, you won’t be the only one leaving New York with a Grand

Slam title under her belt.”

Viktoriya rolled her eyes and took a sip of champagne. “No one

cares about doubles. No one except for tennis fanatics and players

who aren’t good enough to make an impact in singles.”

Sinjin’s temper flared. For the doubles final, she would be

partnered with Laure Fortescue, the French player who was the only

other out lesbian on tour. Their finals opponents were an unseeded

team who had upset the Williams sisters in the semifinals. Long

shots when the tournament began, Sinjin and Laure entered the final

as the favorites.

They had nicknamed themselves the Rainbow Brigade, though

one tour official, hyperaware of the assumptions casual fans made

about female athletes, had asked them not to publicize the fact. Or

to, as he put it, “broadcast” their lesbianism. Instead of retreating

into the closet, Sinjin and Laure had smashed its doors down, opting

to play with colorful gay pride bracelets on their wrists.

They had been playing together for only a few months, but

Sinjin wondered how long it would be before their commitment to

singles would end their doubles partnership. Hadn’t the same thing

happened to the teams of Evert-Navratilova and Graf-Sabatini?

“I care,” she said. “So does my partner. I might not be top ten

material just yet, but the last time I looked, Laure was in the top five.”

“Not for long. When the rankings come out on Monday, I’m

going to be number five and she’s going to drop to six. By this time

• 14 •

Lucky Loser

next year, I’m going to be number one. Everyone’s going to be

looking up at me, including Laure. But right now, I’d rather look up

at you.” Viktoriya wrapped her arm around Sinjin’s waist and licked

the side of her neck. “Mmm. If your skin is this good, I can’t wait to

see what the rest of you tastes like.”

Sinjin disengaged Viktoriya’s arm and gently pushed her away.

“It might be just doubles, but it still looks good on a résumé. So if

you will excuse me—”

Viktoriya blocked Sinjin’s escape route. “I’m sorry if what I

said came out the wrong way. There’s good money to be made in

doubles. And a title is a title, whether it’s won on your own or with

a partner. But you didn’t come over here to talk about tennis, did

you?”Viktoriya unbuttoned her trench coat and let it fall to the floor.

The sight of her toned, six-foot-two body in lacy black lingerie

silenced Sinjin’s protests.

Viktoriya smiled triumphantly. “I didn’t think so.”

Sinjin picked Viktoriya up and carried her to the bed. After

Sinjin laid her down, Viktoriya spread her legs as if she were daring

Sinjin to claim her prize.

Sinjin kissed Viktoriya’s full lips and moved lower. Past the

perfect breasts. Over the flat stomach. Her mouth grazed Viktoriya’s

mound and closed around her warm, wet center. She painted the

hood of Viktoriya’s clit with long, slow strokes then flicked her

tongue at the bundle of nerves at the tip.

Viktoriya groaned deep in her throat and buried her hands in

Sinjin’s hair. Her hips matched Sinjin’s rhythm as Sinjin licked

and sucked her clit. She squeezed her eyes shut. “Fuck,” she said

through gritted teeth as her head thrashed against the pillow. The

muscles in her well-defined thighs and calves flexed and released.

Flexed and released.

Sinjin brushed her fingertips along Viktoriya’s sensitive

inner thighs. Viktoriya groaned again. Sinjin loved the moment of

submission, the moment of pure acquiescence when a woman she

was with let everything else go and completely gave herself over

to pleasure and sensation. Her once-perfect hair mussed, her skin

• 15 •

yoLanda WaLLace

mottled, her breath coming in short, ragged bursts, Viktoriya had

reached that moment. When Sinjin reached up and gently squeezed

her nipples, Viktoriya nearly launched herself off the bed.

“Now. Take me now.”

The hoarse whisper drove Sinjin wild.

She slipped two fingers inside Viktoriya’s smooth walls. With

her left hand, she reached down and tended to her own need. When

Viktoriya’s cries of release began, so did hers. Viktoriya’s muscles

spasmed around her fingers, drawing them deeper inside. Her own

clit twitched and pulsed against her hand. She heaved a satisfied

sigh and rolled off.

“Now,” Viktoriya said, “wasn’t that worth waiting for?”

❖

Laure Fortescue fiddled with her racquets. She straightened the

strings, checked the tension, and rewrapped the grips. She didn’t

know what was strung tighter, the racquets or her. She checked her

watch for the umpteenth time. Sinjin was late. Very late. They were

due on court in ten minutes. If Sinjin didn’t show up soon, they

would be defaulted. Laure would rather play and get beaten love and

love than lose without even taking the court.

A few minutes later, Sinjin ran into the locker room spouting

apologies—and excuses.

“I know you’re probably pissed, but hear me out. First, I

overslept. Then I had a hard time hailing a cab. When I finally got

one to stop, we ran into the world’s worst traffic jam. After sitting

at a standstill for ten minutes, I tossed the driver twenty bucks, got

out of the car, and hoofed it. I won’t need the ten-minute warm-up

because I just ran three miles.”

Sinjin finally took a breath. Then she flashed the smile that had

melted women’s hearts all over the globe.

“How was your day?” she asked, quickly changing out of her

street clothes into her tennis attire.

“Better than yours.”

• 16 •

Lucky Loser

Laure stowed her racquets in the bulky, oversized bag that also

contained an extra set of clothes, an mp3 player, assorted protein-

laden snacks, and the battered silver loving cup she carried for luck.

The tiny trophy was the first she had ever won. She had earned it

at a junior tournament in Paris when, as a twelve-year-old, she had

beaten a string of more heralded players three and four years her

senior. The trophy was a tangible reminder that although she might

be overlooked because of her relatively small size, her all-court

game wouldn’t let her be forgotten.

“I called you after the final last night, but you didn’t pick up,”

she said as Sinjin leaned over to tie her shoes. “What happened to

you?”“Viktoriya Vasilyeva.”

Laure frowned. “Is she the one who gave you those boulders

in your ears?”

Sinjin touched one of the diamond studs weighing down her

lobes. “She bought them for herself, but she decided they looked

better on me.” She zipped her warm-up jacket. “You’re not jealous,

are you?”

“Hardly.” Laure pulled a racquet out of her bag and pantomimed

a few ground strokes. “I’m a firm believer that one should never

take relationship advice from someone who isn’t in a relationship.

So feel free to take what I say next with a grain of salt. Do what

makes you happy, Sin, but be careful. Viktoriya’s more trouble than

she’s worth.”

“What do you mean?”

Laure swung at another invisible ball. “You’ll see.” She looked

up when the opposing team approached. Emme Wechselberger kept

walking, but Abby McGuinness lingered to talk.

“I’m glad you could make it, Sin. Laure and I were starting to

think you couldn’t be arsed to show up.” Abby’s lilting Irish accent

and broad smile took the bite out of her words. “Okay, maybe that

was a bit of wishful thinking on my part. No matter who comes out

on top today, you and I will give the home folks a reason to lay the

tea and crumpets aside, eh? After the match, what do you say we get

together and tip a pint to our success?”

• 17 •

yoLanda WaLLace

Sinjin slung her racquet bag over her shoulder. “Loser buys the

first round.”

“Then I guess the first round’s going to be on you.” Abby turned

to Laure. “You’re welcome to join us if you like.”

“Thanks for the invitation, but I don’t like to crash private

parties.”

“You should. It might turn that perpetual frown of yours upside

down.”

“See?” Sinjin said after Abby left. “I’m not the only one who’s

noticed you’ve become a nun.”

Laure felt her cheeks redden. “I haven’t been out of the dating

game that long,” she said as they made the long walk from the locker

room to the tunnel that led to stadium court.

“Why are you out of the dating game in the first place when

there are so many women who would love to hear you whisper

sweet nothings to them in that sexy accent of yours?”

“I’m looking for Miss Right not Miss Right Now.”

Applause greeted Abby and Emme as they exited the tunnel

and walked on court. Laure waited to be introduced.

“You’re not going to find her either if you’re too busy playing

and practicing to search,” Sinjin said.

“Says the woman who’s too busy running from traffic jams to

warm up for her match.”

“Are you going to hold that against me for the rest of our lives?”

Laure playfully snapped the rainbow-colored rubber bracelet

on Sinjin’s wrist. “Only if we lose.”

They walked out of the tunnel together, waving in unison to the

surprisingly large crowd.

Ninety minutes later, Laure prepared to serve for the match.

She and Sinjin had gotten off to a sluggish start, losing the first three

games before they fought back to win the first set in a tiebreaker.

The second set was more routine. Up 7-6, 5-2, they held double

championship point.

“Forgive me yet?” Sinjin asked as they huddled at the baseline.

In the stands, a large group of fans in colorful tie-dyed shirts

began a rhythmic chant. “Let’s go, Rainbow!”

• 18 •

Lucky Loser

Laure tried not to smile. “Ask me after we win the next point.”

She loved playing doubles. Singles garnered more attention and

drew larger crowds, but the camaraderie of doubles was unmatched

and the fans were much more vocal. Sinjin, though her behavior

could be maddening at times, was the best doubles partner she had

ever had. If Sinjin played every singles match the way she had when

she’d decimated her in the semifinals, everyone on tour would be in

trouble.

Sinjin covered her mouth to keep Abby and Emme from reading

her lips as she and Laure discussed strategy. “Where are you going

with this next serve, out wide or down the middle?”

Laure raised a ball to her lips. “Out wide.”

“Are you sure? The last time you served wide to Abby, she

punished us with one of her killer forehands.”

“I know.”

“Then why play with fire?”

Laure’s competitive pride kicked in. “Because I dare her to hit

two in a row.”

“Whatever you say, partner. I’ll let you know if I’m going to

poach or stay home.”

Sinjin slapped Laure’s palm, then skipped to the net. Laure

waited for her signal. After Abby and Emme assumed their return

positions, Sinjin held one hand behind her back. Her fingers were

crossed, indicating that if the return was in reach, she intended to

enter Laure’s half of the court to play it. If Abby’s reply went down

the line instead of crosscourt, Laure would have to hustle to cover

the shot.

Laure hit her first serve at less than full strength to make sure

she got the ball in play. The ball landed short and bounced toward

the stands. The rubber soles of Abby’s tennis shoes squeaked as she

stretched to return the acutely angled shot. Sinjin sprinted to her

right at the same time Laure sprinted to her left.

Abby barely got her racquet on the ball. Her return popped high

into the air.

“Yours!” Laure called out as the ball drifted over the net.

• 19 •

yoLanda WaLLace

Sinjin circled under the ball, setting up for an overhead. Then

she squared her feet and let the ball bounce. She took aim at the

wide gap between Abby and Emme, who watched helplessly as the

incoming smash split their defenses.

Laure began to celebrate even before the ball landed. Running

toward Sinjin, she raised her hand to give her a high five.

“Forgive me now?” Sinjin asked.

She swept Laure into her arms and kissed her. Laure froze,

uncertain how to respond. She hated public displays of affection,

but Sinjin’s excitement was infectious. She laughed as Sinjin spun

her in a delirious circle.

“I’m sorry I got carried away,” Sinjin said after she lowered

Laure to the ground, “but that’s the happiest I’ve ever been. On

court or off.”

“I know what you mean.” Laure’s adrenaline was still pumping

even after the trophy presentation. “Maybe I will join you and Abby

tonight,” she said as they headed to the locker room. “As long as I

can have wine instead of beer.”

Sinjin pulled her ringing cell phone out of her racquet bag and

broke into a grin. “I’m going to have to give both of you a rain

check, I’m afraid.” She turned the phone so Laure could read the

display.

Nicely done. Now get back over here ASAP. I want to see whose

is bigger. And I’m not talking about trophies. V.

Laure cradled her latest trophy in the crook of her arm. “Have

fun.”Sinjin flashed that lady-killer smile again. “Don’t I always?”

• 20 •

Lucky Loser

pre-QuaLifying

London

Three Years Later

Sinjin stared out the bedroom window. The sky was bright

blue. Not a cloud to be seen. She would have preferred one of the

dreary mid-summer days England was known for. Overcast skies

and constant, pissing rain would better suit her foul mood.

She had been off the tour for months. So long she had begun to

wonder if she’d ever make it back.

She thought back on her career. She had made the U.S. Open

final when she was twenty-two years old. A few months after that,

she was firmly ensconced in the top twenty. The next year she had

reached the top fifteen. Everything was as it was supposed to be.

Then, just as she set her sights on the top ten, everything began to

fall apart. She developed tendonitis in her knees, which slowed her

approaches to the net and made her an easy target to pass. The losses

began to mount. Her ranking, once as high as eleven, plummeted to

the triple digits.

She tried everything. Rest. Ice. Even cutting back on doubles

to save herself for singles. Nothing worked. The losses continued to

pile up. Especially to Viktoriya. She seemed to draw Viktoriya in the

first round of every tournament she qualified for, ensuring both an

early exit and a substandard payday. Even though she could make

Viktoriya scream like a banshee in bed, she couldn’t win a match

• 21 •

yoLanda WaLLace

against her to save her life. And that was before she underwent the

procedure she hoped would save her career. How would she fare

now? I’ll probably be lucky to win a game.

As Viktoriya had predicted, she had soared to number one.

Sinjin’s ranking began with a one, too, but two more digits followed

it. Relegated to the minor leagues, she fought for scraps while

Viktoriya raked in millions. Sinjin’s professional life was in disarray.

Her personal life was, too. Her sister was in the other room, but she

had never felt so alone. Where were the fans when she needed them?

Where were the groupies now that she was on the verge of being a

has-been instead of a sure thing? Who would she be if she couldn’t

be a tennis player?

She was scared. She would play again. Of that, she was sure.

But would she be the same player she once was? Could she climb

the mountain again or were her best days behind her?

She looked down at her damaged knees.

“Get well, will you? We’ve got work to do.”

Stephanie stuck her head in the room. “Laure’s on the phone. Is

it safe for her to come over or are you in one of your moods?”

Sinjin tossed the latest get-well card into the growing pile. “I

don’t have moods.”

“I’m sure you think your shite doesn’t stink either, dear sister,

but let me assure you you’re wrong on both counts.”

“Tell her to come over. I could use a friendly face.”

Stephanie blew her a kiss. “Thanks, sis. I love you, too.”

Sinjin smiled to herself after Stephanie closed the door. Even

though she gave Steph a hard time, she couldn’t live without her.

Maybe one day I’ll meet someone who feels the same way

about me.

❖

Laure held a bouquet of geraniums in one hand and a bottle

of red wine in the other. “I didn’t know whether to bring wine or

flowers so I brought both.”

• 22 •

Lucky Loser

Stephanie Smythe ushered Laure inside her apartment. The

tastefully decorated flat in London’s trendy Soho district was a

stone’s throw from the upscale clothing store where the budding

fashionista worked as a window dresser.

Stephanie reached for the flowers. “Cute and courtly. Tell me

again why you’re still single.”

“You sound like your sister.”

“Is she playing matchmaker again?”

“More like assistant coach. We Skype each other a couple

times a week. I’d rather talk about something other than tennis, but

she always ends up trying to give me advice about where I should

direct my serve on an important point or how many times I should

approach the net during a match. If she keeps it up, she’s going to

give my real coach a run for his money.”

“She misses the game.”

“I miss her, too. We all do.”

“Fingers crossed, she’ll be back on court soon. Then she can

stop giving me gray hair and give you career advice in person. If you

ask me, I think she should audition for a different role in your life.”

“Such as?”

“Girlfriend.”

Laure shook her head as she examined a framed photo of

Sinjin, Stephanie, and their mother. In the picture, the trio shared

a bench and matching smiles. Sinjin looked adorable. She still did.

But Laure had no interest in becoming the latest entry in her long

list of one-night stands. “She and I make better friends than lovers.”

“How would you know unless you tried?”

Laure touched a worn spot on a corner of the wooden frame.

“What happened here?”

“Sin rubs the picture for luck before each match at Wimbledon.

I keep telling her if she ever wins the tournament, she’s going to

have to buy me a new frame.”

Stephanie strode to the kitchen. Laure followed, wondering how

Stephanie made walking in six-inch heels look so easy. She could

barely manage flats. “How’s the patient?” she asked as Stephanie

filled a vase with water.

• 23 •

yoLanda WaLLace

“Grouchy.” Stephanie arranged the flowers in the vase then

ran her fingers through her wavy brown hair. Unlike Sinjin’s hair,

which stretched halfway down her back in layers of brown ropes,

Stephanie’s naturally curly hair had been straightened and cropped

into a short, asymmetrical bob. “Maybe you can put a smile on her

face because I certainly can’t.”

“Where is she?”

“In there.” Stephanie jerked her head toward what Laure

assumed was the bedroom. “I hope you brought a flak jacket. You

might need it.”

“Thanks for the warning.” Laure tiptoed to the room Stephanie

had indicated and rapped on the door. “Are you decent?”

The thick oak door muffled Sinjin’s reply. “Unfortunately, yes.”

“I come in peace.” Laure opened the door wide enough for her

arm to fit through the crack. She held out the bottle of wine. “I also

come bearing gifts.”

“Then get your arse in here.”

Laure entered the room. Scores of get-well cards littered the

bed where Sinjin lay crablike on her back. Laure had never seen

her looking so vulnerable. Sinjin’s muscular six-foot-one frame

normally looked vibrant. Now she looked frail. Her hazel eyes

lacked their usual luster. Her latte-colored skin was sallow.

Sinjin the Invincible looked defeated. She looked scared. She

looked—for lack of a better word—human.

Laure tried to keep her expression neutral to hide her shock.

She could tell by the look on Sinjin’s face she had failed miserably.

“I’m sorry,” she said, bending to kiss Sinjin’s cheeks, “but it’s hard

seeing you like this.”

“Trust me. It’s even harder being like this.”

Laure pulled up a chair. “How are you?”

“Homesick.”

“But you are home.”

“Sometimes this doesn’t feel like home. I haven’t lived in

England full-time since I was fifteen. I miss Miami.”

“And your apartment with the two hundred seventy-degree

view of the Atlantic Ocean? I can’t blame you.”

• 24 •

Lucky Loser

Sinjin looked wistful. “I want to sit on my balcony and soak up

the sun with my feet on the railing and a beer in my hand.”

“Sounds lovely. Would you like some company?”

“I thought you were more of a wine connoisseur than a beer fan.”

“Living on a vineyard tends to do that to you, but I’m nothing

if not flexible.”

“So I’ve heard,” Sinjin said with a rakish grin.

“You must not have heard that from Mireille. According to her,

I’m a cold fish. I suppose that’s why she was better at deflecting

passes on the field than off.”

“Don’t listen to her. All those headers have made her loopy.”

Laure had recently ended a two-year relationship with one of

the strikers on France’s women’s national soccer team. Mireille had

made her incredibly happy—when her infidelity wasn’t making her

miserable.

“Are you okay?” Sinjin asked.

“I’m getting there.”

Sinjin held out her hand. Laure gave it a brief squeeze. She

couldn’t talk about Mireille for long without crying. When they

were together, Mireille had made her feel like the only woman in

the world. She had been devastated to discover she wasn’t the only

one, just one of many.

“So it’s back to the nunnery for me,” she said. “This time for

good. There’s room for one more if you care to join me.”

“Only if you change some of the rules first. The one requiring

celibacy really bites. I’m not crazy about the costumes either.”

“I’ll put in a word with the Mother Superior and get back to

you.”Sinjin looked at the bottle of wine in Laure’s hand. “Is that one

of yours?”

Laure handed her the bottle. “Beaujolais nouveau. It’s quite

good, if I say so myself. In fact, I’m considering putting my racquets

away and switching to winemaking.”

“Laure Fortescue, professional vintner. I can see it.” Sinjin

placed the bottle on the nightstand next to the bed. “Shouldn’t you

be preparing for the French?”

• 25 •

yoLanda WaLLace

Laure grimaced at the mention of the tournament that had

caused her nothing but heartache over the years. The tournament

she wanted to win more than any other. Not only would a win at

the French Open give her the career Grand Slam, it would shut her

critics up for good. The ones who called her a choker and questioned

her nerves. Chokers, she liked to argue, didn’t have three Grand

Slam titles. Chokers didn’t make it to number one in the world.

If she were to earn a French Open crown, three things would

have to happen: she would have to play well, she would need to get

a good draw, and she would have to have some help. Clay was her

worst surface. She thought she might be able to knock off one of the

top players on a given day, but not the two or three she would need

to defeat in order to win the event. She hadn’t given up hope, but she

wasn’t holding her breath either.

“I played Stuttgart and Rome and won a grand total of three

matches. I’m tempted to ask the tournament organizers in Madrid to

use one of their special exemptions and give me a wild card into the

event even though I missed the entry deadline, but what’s the point?

I’ve played great going into Paris and lost early; I’ve played lousy

beforehand and made the semifinals. Whatever happens happens.

I’ve come to terms with it. The clay court season and I have a love-

hate relationship. It loves to punish me and I hate to see that part

of the calendar roll around. Maybe I should take a page from your

book and wait for Wimbledon.”

“Talk about jumping out of the frying pan into the fire.”

Clay was the most forgiving surface to play on, but the long

matches tested players’ endurance. The French Open was played on

slow red clay topped with a layer of crushed brick. After the two-

week event ended, weary warriors had less than a month to prepare

for their next test. And the next test was a stern one.

Wimbledon was a different animal from any other tournament.

The event’s physical challenge was daunting enough. The only

major played on a living surface, Wimbledon’s grass courts changed

from year to year and even—depending on the weather—from day

to day. By tournament’s end, bad bounces wreaked havoc on rallies

and bare patches made footing treacherous. At Wimbledon, where

• 26 •

Lucky Loser

one court was nicknamed the Graveyard of Champions, the old

saying that it was better to be lucky than good never applied more.

Despite those obstacles, at Wimbledon, the tennis itself was

the easy part. Waiting out the rain delays, dealing with the backlog

of matches caused by the dodgy weather, and being hounded by

Fleet Street’s numerous tabloid journalists was the hard part.

Waiting hours—and sometimes days—to complete a match was

tough enough. Throw in inflammatory headlines in the newspapers,

inane questions in the press conferences, and unscrupulous reporters

lurking in the shadows trying to manufacture controversy for the

sake of a story, and it was tantamount to mental torture.

“Are you going to be able to play Wimbledon this year?” Laure

asked.“I’m going to use the qualifying tournament at Roehampton

to see if I’m well enough to compete. If I qualify for Wimbledon,

I’ll play. But I’m not going to take a wild card. I don’t want any

handouts. Injury or no injury, I want to earn my spot.”

If Sinjin wasn’t accepting any of the spots set aside for

promising young players and older ones attempting comebacks, that

meant the Rainbow Brigade wouldn’t be reuniting any time soon.

Sinjin had cut back on her doubles the past couple of years to protect

her balky knees. Laure rarely played doubles at all so she could

concentrate on singles. Her singles ranking was in the top ten, but

her doubles ranking was so low she and Sinjin wouldn’t be able to

enter the Wimbledon doubles tournament without qualifying. Laure

couldn’t afford to waste energy playing the quallies. Not when she

had only one more shot at winning the Ladies’ Plate.

“Your ranking isn’t high enough to earn you direct entry into

the singles? You’ve won two tournaments this year.”

“Those were on the challenger circuit, where I had the distinct

pleasure of calling my own lines, stealing fruit from the hospitality

suite, and boarding with any generous family who would take me in

because I couldn’t afford a hotel room.”

“What happened to your endorsement contracts?”

“I still have deals for racquets and strings, but my clothing

company dumped me in April because I couldn’t get my ranking

• 27 •

yoLanda WaLLace

back into the top fifty. A ‘cost-cutting measure,’ they called it. I was

barely able to walk earlier this year, let alone win tennis matches.

As for training, forget it. All I could do when I wasn’t playing

was manage the pain. After a while, even that wasn’t enough. The

tendonitis in my knees started getting worse, not better. I wanted to

wait until the off-season to do something about it, but the way my

body felt, there was no way I would have been able to make it to the

off-season in one piece. Then I heard about PRP.”

Laure grimaced again. PRP therapy was effective. Its recipients

swore by it, but it sounded positively barbaric. During the procedure,

doctors drew vials of patients’ blood, separated it, and injected

platelet-rich plasma directly into the affected tendons. Even if the

treatment worked wonders as advertised, the thought of someone

sticking needles into her knees gave Laure the creeps.

“For a while, I thought my career was over,” Sinjin said. “It

still might be, but at least I’ve given myself a chance. If the therapy

works, I might be able to play for five more years. If not, you could

see me in the broadcast booth in a couple of months.”

Laure remembered all the late-night Skype sessions. “Or in the

coaching ranks.”

“No way,” Sinjin said with a wink. “Tennis players are too hard

to deal with. Haven’t you heard? They’re all divas and drama queens.”

“Speak for yourself. I’ve never caused my coaches any

sleepless nights.”

“I would tell you to pull the other leg, but neither one is feeling

too good right now.”

“Are you taking anything for the pain?”

Sinjin moved around on the bed as if she were trying to find a

more comfortable position. “There’s a list of acceptable painkillers I

could take, but I don’t want to risk failing a drug test. You know how

the rumor mill is. Even if the screw-up was the doctor’s fault and I

had a valid medical reason for taking what he gave me, I’d never be

able to clear my name.”

When Sinjin changed positions again, Laure fluffed the pillows

under her knees. “How bad is the pain?” she asked, taking note of

the fine sheen of sweat on Sinjin’s forehead.

• 28 •

Lucky Loser

“On a scale of one to ten, it’s about an eleven. My doctors

warned me that the sites of the injections would be sore for up to

a couple of weeks. They also said the ‘discomfort’ I felt prior to

the procedure would worsen after it due to the increased fluid and

pressure in the area. They conveniently forgot to mention the pain

wouldn’t be just a little bit worse but exponentially so. Some days

I feel like an animal caught in a trap, tempted to chew my legs off

in order to make the ache go away. But if it gets me back in the top

twenty, I’m willing to bite the bullet.”

Laure sifted through the get well cards on the bed. Some were

from players. Most were from fans. All were from the many women

who had shared Sinjin’s bed over the years. Laure reached for another

card. The illustration on the front of the card depicted Snoopy and

Woodstock wearing headbands and tennis whites, vintage wooden

racquets in their hands. The handwritten message inside the card

read, If you wanted to avoid losing to me yet again, my love, there

are easier things you could have done—Viktoriya. Laure held up the

card. “Has she come to see you?”

Sinjin snorted. “Why would she?”

“You’ve been friends for ten years. You were lovers for—”

“We weren’t lovers. Sex was a game for her. A way to get under

my skin off the court so she could control me on it. I’m taking a page

from your book. As long as I live, I will never sleep with another

player.”

“I’ll believe that when I see it.” Laure tossed the card back on

the pile.

As a rule, she didn’t date players, their coaches, or their

trainers. The tour was too small and life was too short. She preferred

to limit the drama to her matches and keep it as far away from her

personal life as possible. Two ultra-competitive people in the same

household didn’t work. Mireille had helped her learn that lesson

firsthand. Everything was a contest. Even sex felt like a race. Who

could make who come faster. Who could hold out longer. She was

ready to live life at her own pace. She was done with competing.

“Did you know Viktoriya hired David away from me?” Sinjin

asked.

• 29 •

yoLanda WaLLace

“Your coach? Viktoriya’s number one in the world. Why would

she change coaches?”

“Because it gave her a chance to screw with my head like she

always does. When David called to tell me he was jumping ship, he

said she told him I wasn’t going to be using his services anytime

soon and she didn’t want his skills to go to waste.”

“Are you looking for a new coach? I know Roger Federer

played without one for a while, but he was a special case. His wife’s

a former player so he could talk strategy with her and he had enough

people around him to put someone else in charge of making hotel

reservations and booking departure times for his private jet. Who’s

going to do that for you?”

“The last time I looked, I was using public transportation, not

private planes.”

“You know what I mean. Who’s going to handle the day-to-day

stuff while you’re grinding it out on the practice court?”

“I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it. The first thing I have to

do is find out if I can play. If I can’t, the point is moot. If I can, I’m

thinking of reaching out to Andrew Grey. He discovered me when I

was a kid. He knows my game better than anyone. Even though he’s

retired now, I might be able to talk him into some kind of temporary

arrangement until I can figure some things out.” Sinjin picked up

Viktoriya’s card and flung it across the room. “Talk about rubbing

salt in the wound.” She ducked her head to meet Laure’s downcast

eyes. “I think this is the part where you’re supposed to say, ‘I told

you so.’”

Laure squeezed her hand. “I’ll wait until you’re back on your

feet. At the moment, it’s just too easy.”

Sinjin pulled away. “It’s just a matter of time, you know. As

soon as I’m healthy again, the groupies will come flocking back.

And I’ll welcome them with open arms.” She smiled as if the

statement were something to be proud of.

“Were you really thinking about quitting?”

“Not by choice. I fought tooth and nail to become a professional.

I wasn’t about to throw it away at the first sign of adversity. Out of

the millions of people who play tennis, there are only one hundred

• 30 •

Lucky Loser

who play it better than I do. For a while, that number was even

smaller. With a bit of luck and a lot of hard work, it can be again.

Tennis has been a part of my life for as long as I can remember. It’s

something I’ve done day in, day out for twenty years. It’s all I’ve

known since I was five years old. I’m a tennis player. That’s all I’ve

ever wanted to be. That’s all I know how to do. I won’t give up my

identity without a fight.”

Laure could feel Sinjin’s fire. How long had it been since she’d

felt the same spirit burning inside her? “I wish I had your passion.”

“You do.”

“I did once. It’s gone now.”

Sinjin sat up straighter. “Don’t tell me you’re thinking about

retiring.”

“I’m no longer thinking. I’ve already made the decision. This is

my last year on tour. You may have thought I was joking when I said

I should trade tennis for winemaking, but I was serious.”

“But you’re still in the top ten. You’re number seven in the

world. Why would you retire now?”

Sinjin sounded incredulous that Laure would walk away from

the game when she was still so close to the top, but she had reached

the end of her string.

“I’m twenty-seven years old. Twenty-seven used to be the

prime of a tennis player’s life. Now it’s the time to start thinking

about life after your playing days are over. There’s only one way

for me to go from here and that’s down. The game’s getting faster.

The players are getting bigger. I’m never going to be any taller than

five-eight. It’s harder for me to generate power than it is for you

Amazons.”

“Have you told anyone?”

“Just you and my parents. I don’t plan on saying anything to

anyone else until after I’ve played my last match. It’s going to be

so hard knowing every time I walk into an arena could be the last

time I play there. I don’t want the extra pressure of everyone else

knowing it, too.”

Sinjin seemed more upset by the prospect of Laure’s retirement

than she did. She wasn’t surprised. Sinjin was the most competitive

• 31 •

yoLanda WaLLace

person she had ever met. She hated to lose at anything, whether on

or off the court.

“Why now?” Sinjin asked.

“I’ve won three Grand Slam singles titles, I’ve been ranked

number one, and I’ve made more money than I could ever hope to

spend. What’s left for me to do?”

“Win the French Open?”

“Like that’s ever going to happen.”

Each May meant agony for Laure as she struggled to win

matches at the only Grand Slam event she had never claimed. Her

career-best finish at her country’s national championship was a

semifinal when she was nineteen. She had lost to eventual champion

Justine Henin, the diminutive player who won the title four times in

a five-year span. Laure hadn’t been past the third round since that

memorable run, succumbing time and time again to the pressure of

playing in front of her hometown crowd.

She had finished the previous year as the fifth-ranked woman,

but her ranking had recently dropped two spots as she wavered

between being satisfied with her career and hungering for more. Her

breaks from the tour were becoming longer and more frequent as

she began to devote more of her time to the property she owned in

Saint Tropez. When she wasn’t maintaining her vineyard, she was

using its bounty to add more bottles to her extensive wine collection.

“When your avocation gives you more satisfaction than your

vocation, that’s a telltale sign it’s time to exit stage left.”

Sinjin fingered the stylized fleur de lis on the bottle of

Beaujolais. “In one way or another, we’re all chasing perfection.

Most of us never achieve it, especially in sports.” She sounded

uncharacteristically introspective. Then again, she’d had plenty

of time to think. “There are worse things you could do than spend

your life trying to make the perfect bottle of wine. If you need help

stomping grapes or taste testing the finished results, you know

where to find me.”

“I might take you up on that.”

Laure tried to imagine harvesting next year’s crops with Sinjin

at her side. The image was almost laughable. City girl Sinjin would

• 32 •

Lucky Loser

be bored silly on the vast pastoral estate Laure called home. In less

than a day, she’d turn tail and run back to South Beach. Play hard

and party harder was her motto for a reason.

“I can’t believe you’re retiring,” Sinjin said. “What are you

going to miss most?”

“Not the travel, that’s for sure. If I never see the inside of another

airport after this year, that’s fine with me. I’ll miss all the people I’ve

met. All the friends I’ve made, present company included. Friends

like you are what I’m going to have problems letting go of, not the

lifestyle.”

“We’ll still see each other, won’t we?”

“All the time,” Laure said with more conviction than she felt.

She had never met anyone who loved tennis as much as Sinjin did.

For Laure, practicing and playing were work. For Sinjin, they were

more like play. Laure hated the constant travel, but Sinjin seemed

addicted to it. If her body held up, she probably wouldn’t stop

playing until someone pried the racquet from her cold, dead hands.

When Laure put her own racquets down at the end of the year, she

had no idea when or if she might pick them up again.

“I hope you’re hungry. Stephanie’s making her world famous

paella tonight.”

“World famous, huh? Sounds like I picked the perfect day to

visit.”Sinjin reached for the bottle of wine. “Beaujolais goes with

seafood, doesn’t it?”

“Beaujolais goes with everything.”

Sinjin swung her legs to the side of the bed. Laure helped her

to her feet. In obvious pain, Sinjin took a cautious step forward and

wrapped her arms around her neck. “I’ve missed you.”

“Same here.” Laure returned Sinjin’s hug. “Hurry back, okay?

The tour isn’t the same without you.”

“Come January, I’ll be saying the same to you.” Sinjin leaned

on Laure for support as they slowly made their way to the dining

room.“You won’t even know I’m gone.”

• 33 •

yoLanda WaLLace

“Bullshit. I’m going to be lost without you. The highlight of

my career is winning the U.S. Open doubles title with you. You’re

my claim to fame.”

“Do I get a medal for that?”

“More like my eternal gratitude.”

“If that’s the best you can do.”

“Bitch.” Laughing, Sinjin took a playful swat at Laure’s

shoulder.

“That’s a sound I haven’t heard in far too long,” Stephanie said.

“Laure, I may have to keep you around.”

Laure’s eyes flicked from Stephanie to Sinjin and back again.

“There’s nowhere else I’d rather be.”

• 34 •

Lucky Loser

QuaLifying

Sinjin resumed training three weeks after the procedure. Her

first practice session was both exhausting and frustrating.

She shanked so many balls she felt like a weekend hacker instead of

a seasoned pro. But there was good news: the pain she had felt for

the past eleven months was gone. Had she found salvation in time to

take advantage of it or had she missed her opportunity?

“Dig, dig, dig!”

Grunting with exertion, her body bathed in sweat, Sinjin fought

against the resistance band that was holding her back. The workout

was sheer torture. God, how she had missed it.

The day before, Laure had won the French Open. Watching the

tearful scene on television, Sinjin had sent her a congratulatory text

message. Laure’s response? Now it’s your turn.

To take her turn, to claim her sport’s Holy Grail and win

Wimbledon in front of her countrymen, Sinjin would have to start

from the bottom and work her way up. Was she up to the task?

Her trainer, clutching the ends of the giant elastic band wrapped

around Sinjin’s waist, hung on for dear life as Sinjin dragged her

around the practice court.

“Ten more steps!” Kendall Worthington called out. “Make

them count! That’s it. Five, four, three, two, last one. Time!” When

Kendall let go of the resistance band, she and Sinjin tumbled

laughing to the ground.

• 35 •

yoLanda WaLLace

Sinjin remained where she landed, her muscles and lungs

burning too much to move. Kendall recovered first, then reached

down and pulled Sinjin to her feet.

They had briefly been teammates at the University of Miami.

Kendall had decided to put her sports fitness degree to work after

graduation instead of turning pro. Now she was one of the youngest

certified trainers on the circuit.

“Great workout, mate. Let’s get you stretched out, then we can

hit the showers.”

Sinjin took note of Kendall’s use of the word we. Not too long

ago, she would have leaped at the chance to spend some quality time

exploring Kendall’s firm body. Now all she cared about was getting

her career back on track.

She lay on her back, a position that dredged up bad memories

of the week she had spent practically immobile while she waited for

the PRP therapy to take effect. As Kendall did her best to push her

left knee past her ear, Sinjin’s hamstrings screamed in protest. Sinjin

flinched involuntarily.

“Am I hurting you?” Kendall lowered Sinjin’s left leg and

reached for her right.

“You were never known for your gentle touch.”

Kendall positioned her shoulder behind Sinjin’s right knee

and leaned forward. “I haven’t heard you complain about my touch

before, gentle or otherwise.” Her voice was low and husky, her eyes

heavy-lidded with desire, her mouth almost close enough to kiss.

Sinjin stared into Kendall’s glittering green eyes and felt…

nothing. Her libido, normally as dependable as the sun rising in the

east and setting in the west, seemed to have gone dormant. Women

still caught her eye, but none of them captured her interest. Not for

more than a few hours at a time, anyway. Who needed happily ever

after? All she wanted was a warm bed, the occasional warm body,

and a spot in the top ten. Nothing else mattered.

As Kendall continued to stretch her stiff muscles, Sinjin closed

her eyes and allowed her mind to wander. She drifted back to the

scores of sleepless nights she had spent wondering if she would ever

• 36 •

Lucky Loser

set foot on a tennis court again. Those dark days had taught her who

her true mates were. Or should she say mate?

Out of all her so-called friends on tour, Laure had been the

only one who had come to visit her when she was laid up. The rest

had sent cards, e-mails, or text messages, but they hadn’t graced her

with their presence. Their efforts at offering support had felt like

lip service; Laure’s had felt sincere. Had she held up her end of the

friendship? She hoped so. Laure deserved the best. Critics might

question Laure’s heart on court, but there was no questioning her

heart off it. Laure was the most caring, most compassionate person

she had ever met. She was also drop-dead gorgeous. And the French

accent didn’t hurt. Women threw themselves at Laure all the time,

but until Mireille came along, it had been years since Sinjin had

seen her accept any of their passes. Now Mireille was gone and

Laure was back on the shelf.

Sinjin felt a flicker of desire when she imagined staring into

Laure’s dark brown eyes. Running her hands through Laure’s short

brown hair. Tracing her finger across Laure’s downturned mouth.

Teasing her full lips to curve into a smile. She imagined the arms

wrapped around her thighs, the hands stroking her skin and kneading

her muscles, were Laure’s. She flinched when she remembered they

weren’t.

Her eyes flew open. Fuck. Where had that come from?

“Okay, okay. I get the hint.” Kendall gently lowered Sinjin’s

legs to the ground, then pulled her to her feet.

Sinjin brushed grass off the back of her workout clothes while

she tried to come to terms with her fantasy—and the very real effect

it had had on her. Wherever the images had originated, she needed

to banish them right away. She and Laure were friends, nothing

more. Nothing and no one could get in the way of her goals. Not

even Laure.

“Fancy a drink?” Kendall asked.

“I can’t. I promised Stephanie I’d make dinner tonight.”

“Since when do you cook?”

“Okay, maybe I promised I’d pick up chicken curry on my way

home.”

• 37 •

yoLanda WaLLace

“That sounds more like you. Get a good night’s sleep. I’ll see

you tomorrow, yeah?”

“I can’t wait.”

Sinjin headed to the showers. When she came out, she found a

familiar face waiting for her in the locker room.

“Laure. What the hell are you doing here? Unless the rules

have changed, top ten players don’t have to play qualifying rounds.”

“When you told me you were working out again, I had to see

it for myself.”

She eyed Laure’s racquet bag. “Did you bring it?”

“Bring what?”

Sinjin pursed her lips. “Don’t kid a kidder. You know what I’m

talking about. Come on. Out with it.”

Laure reached inside the bag and pulled out the trophy she had

been awarded after winning the French Open, a smaller version of

the one she had shown to her cheering countrymen after yesterday’s

final.Sinjin examined the sturdy silver trophy before returning it.

“I can’t believe you finally did it. I’m so happy for you.” She gave

Laure a congratulatory hug, then held her at arm’s length. She had

never seen Laure look so satisfied. So at peace. “Winning becomes

you.” She let go and took a seat on the bench. Laure sat next to her.

“Shouldn’t you be posing for a photo shoot at the Eiffel Tower?”

“I’d rather help you.”

“What do you mean?”

“I heard you were looking for a practice partner. I came to

volunteer my services.”

“Why would you do that?”

“You need to qualify and I need some practice on grass if either

of us is to have a shot at winning Wimbledon. You scratch my back

and I’ll scratch yours.”

“You’d do that for me?”

“What are friends for?”

Sinjin remained skeptical. “Not every friend would make that

kind of offer.”

• 38 •

Lucky Loser

Most players, herself included, were self-absorbed. Everything

revolved around them. Their bodies. Their training. Their games.

Their schedules. There was no room for anyone or anything else.

Laure offered a Gallic shrug. “I guess I’m one of a kind.”

“You are that.”

Sinjin wished Viktoriya had followed Laure’s lead. If she had,

they might not be an item, but at least they’d be on speaking terms.

“Tell me all about it. Tell me how it felt to hold that trophy over

your head.”

Laure opened her mouth to respond but immediately closed it

again. She shook her head. “There are no words.”

Sinjin wanted to feel a similar sense of achievement. She

wanted to be struck dumb by her own accomplishment.

“I brought something else.” Laure reached into her bag again.

“How did you get through the airport with so much hardware?”

“The security guard and I got to know each other really well.

The wedding’s next week.” Laure held out her Wimbledon trophy.

“This is the one you want to hold.”

Sinjin longed to wrap her fingers around the Ladies’ Plate, the

gold and silver dish awarded to the women’s singles champion.

She wanted to feel the ridges and bumps of its intricate design. See

her name engraved next to those of past winners. The object of her

desire was inches away, but she shrank from its presence.

“I can’t hold it unless I win it.”

“You fondled my French Open trophy. Why can’t you molest

this one?”

Sinjin took a deep breath to control the sudden flood of

emotions.

“You know how aspiring singers pretend their toothbrushes are

microphones? When I first started playing tennis, I used to pretend

one of my mum’s platters was the Ladies’ Plate. I’d walk around

the house holding it over my head like I was circling Centre Court

showing it off to the crowd. One day—I think I was about eight

or nine—Mum found a keychain shaped like the Ladies’ Plate in a

gift shop. It was so small it fit in the palm of her hand, but she had

the clerk wrap it in a huge box. When she brought it home, I ripped

• 39 •

yoLanda WaLLace

off the wrapping paper and dug through the packaging inside. The

keychain was taped to the bottom of the box. When I finally found

it, Mum said, ‘This might not be the actual Ladies’ Plate, but one

day, you’ll get to hold the real thing.’ I want to hold the real thing. I

want that more than anything. If you can help me do that…”

Her voice trailed off. Laure wiped away her tears. “Let’s get

to work.”

When she had first joined the tour, Sinjin had been too much

of a know-it-all to accept anyone’s offer of help, let alone request it.

She gladly acquiesced now.

“When do we start?”

❖

Sinjin walked behind a roller hopper, gathering the dozens of

tennis balls scattered around the court. The machine, which could

pick up and store up to a hundred balls, bore an uncanny resemblance

to a manual lawn mower.

“If tennis doesn’t work out for me,” she said, “I could always

find work as a landscape artist.”

“I have several hundred acres that need trimming,” Laure said.

“How much would you charge?”

“I’ve got to warn you. I don’t come cheap.” Sinjin rolled the

hopper to the service line and set it up. She spread the handles,

flipped the hopper upside down, and opened the lid. She took out a

handful of balls and shoved them in the pockets of her tennis shorts.

“Would you like me to show you how to earn some free points on

your serve?”

“What’s wrong with my serve?” Laure asked defensively.

“Nothing. Your percentage is always high and your placement’s

so good I could probably drop a grain of rice in the service box and

you’d be able to hit it.”

“But?”

“But you rarely break triple digits on the speed gun. If you add

five, ten more miles per hour to your serve, you could make life a

whole lot easier for yourself.”

• 40 •

Lucky Loser

“Thanks, but I doubt you’d be able to turn me into an ace

machine overnight.”

“Just trust me, okay? The secret to a fast serve is in the service

motion itself. Whether you use John McEnroe’s pendulum swing or

the abbreviated motion Andre Agassi used for a while, the power

comes when you snap your wrist after making contact with the ball.”

Sinjin took two balls out of her pocket.

“In this drill, I want you to stand behind the service line and—”

“The service line? Don’t you mean the baseline? If I serve from

here, I’ll hit it a mile long.”

“Not if you snap it down. Let me show you.”

She tossed a ball in the air and raised her racquet. She hit the

ball just as it reached its apex. Even at half speed, the ball rocketed

across the net. Instead of flying long, it landed in the opposite service

box. Laure instantly changed from doubting to believing.

“Wow. Show me again.”

Sinjin demonstrated the technique a few more times then tossed

Laure a ball. “Your turn.”

Laure took her position behind the service line. Sinjin talked

her through the drill. Laure followed her instructions—and hit the

ball straight into the ground.

“Too much snap?” she asked, turning crimson with em-

barrassment.

Sinjin tried not to laugh. “Here. Let me show you.” Sinjin

dropped her racquet and stepped forward. She curled her arm around

Laure’s waist and pulled her closer. She placed her hand on Laure’s

racquet hand and guided her through the motion.

“Toss the ball up, go after it, then snap it down.”

Sinjin felt like Laure’s body was an extension of her own.

Together, they moved as one. The ball landed just long.

“Getting better,” Laure said.

“One more time.”

Sinjin’s hand slid across Laure’s flat stomach as she reached

for another ball. She molded her body to Laure’s. As they moved

through the drill again, her dormant libido flared to life. She squeezed

• 41 •

yoLanda WaLLace

Laure’s hip, holding her tight against her. Her other hand caressed

Laure’s forearm before closing around her wrist. She buried her nose

in Laure’s hair, which was dripping with perspiration but smelled

faintly of the mango-scented shampoo she favored.

“Toss the ball up.”

Her nipples hardened as they pressed against Laure’s back.

“Go after it.”

Laure raised the racquet. Sinjin felt herself grow wet.

“Snap it down.”

She wanted to lay Laure down and quickly undress her. Make

love to her here on the lush grass court regardless of who was

watching.

“We did it.”

Laure’s excited shout snapped Sinjin out of her reverie. She

took a step back to give herself the distance she needed to clear her

head. Laure wasn’t one of her random hook-ups. How could she

forget that, even for an instant?

“Let’s see if you can do it on your own.”

On her third attempt, Laure was able to complete the drill

unassisted. She went through half the bucket of balls, missing her

aim only twice. “I want to try it from the baseline. Grab the speed

gun.”Sinjin pointed the handheld machine in Laure’s direction.

“Don’t overdo it or you’ll strain your wrist.”

Laure went through her normal service motion. When her

racquet made contact with the ball, she employed the technique

Sinjin taught her. Sinjin turned the speed gun around to see the

display.

“What does it say?”

Grinning, Sinjin showed her the readout.

“One twenty? That’s five miles per hour over my personal

best.”“I told you.”

Laure gave her a high five. “Forget landscaping. Stick to tennis.

You’re better at it.”

• 42 •

Lucky Loser

Sinjin felt it again. The pulsing, electric current of attraction.

Laure was the unlikely source. A familiar itch began to form. One

she knew from experience wouldn’t be ignored for long.

❖

In Paris, Laure hadn’t felt her game start to click until she

reached the quarterfinals. After each training session with Sinjin, her

confidence grew even higher. She knew she was playing well. She

had won the French Open, after all. Was she playing well enough to

win Wimbledon, too? She thought she was. Unless Sinjin played at

the same level at Wimbledon as she did in practice.

The ball was flying off Sinjin’s racquet. Her serve had never

been bigger. Her ground strokes had never been harder. The time off

had done her good. Could her still-healing body endure the stress

she was subjecting it to? She was pushing herself so hard she could

derail her comeback before it began.

After they split practice sets, Kendall led them through

footwork drills. She stretched a rope ladder on the ground to test

their lateral movement.

They concentrated on a different discipline in each training

session, varying the order of the drills so they wouldn’t get stale.

Movement, footwork, ground strokes, serve, volleys. The five

things they would need to do well at Wimbledon. Laure’s coach

Nicolas Almaric, yelling instructions from the sidelines, repeated

the words so often they became a mantra. Add some incense and a

gong and they could have been a Buddhist chant.

Laure’s hip flexors screamed as she quickly placed her feet

in the spaces between each of the speed ladder’s rungs. Once she

finished, she waited for Sinjin to take her turn. Sinjin’s face was a

mask of concentration as she tried to fit her oversized feet in the tiny

grids without falling on her face.

“I’ve got an idea,” Laure said, running through the drill again.

“Should I be worried, afraid, or both?”

“Neither. Why don’t we take tomorrow off? We could spend

some time exploring something other than this patch of green we’ve

• 43 •

yoLanda WaLLace

been running around on for the past week. There’s an exhibit at the

National Gallery I’ve been dying to see. What do you say?”

“Would it be good for my tennis?”

“Your tennis? Probably not. Your personal edification? Defin-

itely.” She tried to counter the skeptical expression on Sinjin’s face.

“Tennis is a big part of my life, but I don’t let it consume me. I have

other interests. If I wake up and feel like I’d rather spend the day

doing something other than chasing after a fuzzy yellow ball, I do. I

know coming back is important to you, but you need to find a balance.”

Sinjin groaned when Kendall told them to run the movement

drill backward. “No offense, Laure, but I’d rather have my eyes

pecked out by a flock of disease-ridden pigeons than spend a

beautiful summer afternoon trapped inside a museum.”

“Oh, how could I possibly take offense at that?”

Sinjin unleashed a throaty laugh, then tripped on the last rung.

Laure caught her as she fell but couldn’t hold her up. She grunted

when she hit the ground. She grunted even louder when Sinjin

landed on top of her.

Sinjin rolled over and brushed Laure’s hair out of her eyes.

“Are you okay? Did I hurt you?”

Laure wrapped her arms around her middle. “Just a few broken

ribs. Maybe a fractured vertebra or two. Wait. I forgot about the

ruptured spleen.” She let out a melodramatic howl of pain.

Sinjin’s eyes filled with concern that slowly evolved into mirth.

“Damn. You almost had me.”

“Almost doesn’t count.”

Kendall and Nicolas leaned over them to make sure they were

unhurt. “Okay,” Nicolas said, clapping his hands. “That’s enough

for today. Let’s quit while we’re ahead.”

Kendall rolled up the ladder and tossed it over her shoulder.

“Same time tomorrow, ladies.”

“Thanks for the warning.” Sinjin lay on her side. She plucked

a blade of grass and slowly trailed it across Laure’s cheek. “Have I

told you how much I appreciate you being here?”

“Several hundred times, yes.”

“You should come out with us tonight.”

• 44 •

Lucky Loser

“Us?”

“Abby’s in town for qualifying. I owe her and Kendall rain

checks for drinks. I figured I’d kill two birds with one stone. And

perhaps scratch an itch or two in the process.”

Laure brushed Sinjin’s hand away and abruptly sat up to hide

her irritation.

She and Sinjin had been working side-by-side for days.

Sweating. Straining. Trying to improve their bodies and lift their

games. She felt closer to her than she ever had before. Closer to her

than she’d ever felt with anyone. Were her feelings of friendship

slowly being replaced by something much deeper?

When had it happened? Was it the day she’d arrived when

Sinjin had told her that incredibly sweet story about her mother

buying her a keychain shaped like the Ladies’ Plate? Or was it

even earlier than that? When she’d seen Sinjin so vulnerable after

the procedure on her knees? Was it after her breakup with Mireille

when Sinjin’s endless stream of bad jokes had helped ease the pain?

Or was it three years ago when, after the U.S. Open doubles final,

Sinjin had given her a kiss to which none she had received before or

since could compare?

“I’ll tell Mother Superior you won’t be needing that room after

all.” “Definitely not. My dry spell’s over. Or it will be in a couple

of hours. Right on time, too. For a while there, my sex drive was

practically nonexistent. Since we started working out, though, I’ve

been back in tune. You should come with us tonight. Wouldn’t you

rather spend your free time in a bar filled with hot women than in a

musty museum?”

Laure tossed Sinjin’s earlier question back at her. “Would it be

good for my tennis?”

Sinjin smiled. “Your tennis? No. Your sex life? Definitely.”

“No offense, Sinjin, but I’d rather have my fingernails ripped

out one by one than sleep with someone I just met.”

Sinjin’s smile faded. “Oh, how could I possibly take offense

to that?” She pushed herself to her feet. “We’ve had this argument

before, you know.”

• 45 •

yoLanda WaLLace

“Not argument. Discussion.”

“Argument. Discussion. Whatever you want to call it.” Sinjin

drank deeply from a bottle of water. “I like quantity. You prefer

quality. I’m not going to change and neither are you.”

“I’m not asking you to change. I’m just trying to understand the

one thing about you that’s always puzzled me.” Laure poured water

over her head to cool off. “What is it about the thrill of the hunt that

excites you so much? Why can’t you find what you’re looking for in

one woman instead of several?”

“Because Miss Right expects me to take out the trash and tell

her if her arse looks fat in her favorite pair of jeans. Miss Right Now

doesn’t expect anything from me except a couple of laughs and a

few multiple orgasms. Which relationship sounds more appealing,

the one that requires heavy lifting or the one that offers the path of

least resistance?”

“The one formed with someone who knows me inside and

out. Who cares about me for who I am and loves me despite my

faults.”

“When you put it that way, I look like a proper arsehole,”

Sinjin said with a grin. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to drown my

sorrows in a pint of Newcastle and find a nice, soft shoulder to lean

on while I cry.”

Laure watched her go. “Good luck on both counts.”

❖

Sinjin slowly slid a fingertip between Abby’s shoulder blades.

Her tongue circled a pale pink nipple. Abby shuddered in her arms.

“Whatever you do,” Abby said, riding her fingers, “please

don’t stop.”

“I don’t intend to.”

When Abby came, her keening cries were like music to Sinjin’s

ears. A song she hadn’t heard in far too long. But something was

off. The music was flat. The melody wasn’t as she remembered it.

Instead of a symphony, she was treated to Muzak.

• 46 •

Lucky Loser

She reached for her clothes. Sex with Abby had been fun but

unfulfilling. It had taken the edge off, but it hadn’t satisfied. She

couldn’t get away fast enough.

Abby sat up. The sheet slid down her alabaster skin. “Where

are you going?”

“There’s someplace I have to be.”

“Now? I was gearing up for round two.”

Sinjin gave her a peck on the lips. “Rain check.”

“This was your bloody rain check.”

“I need another one.”

Abby held Sinjin’s face in her hands and gave her a lingering

kiss. “Are you sure you can’t stay?”

Sinjin covered Abby’s exposed breasts. “I’m sure.”

She made a quick pit stop, then took the train to Notting Hill,

the west London neighborhood that would serve as Laure’s base of

operations for the next three weeks.

When Laure opened the door, she was wearing a pair of

running shorts and a T-shirt that featured a parody of Edvard

Munch’s Scream. The famous figure from Munch’s painting had

been replaced by Homer Simpson. “Did you scratch your itch?”

Laure asked, closing the door behind her.

“Yes. Thank you for asking.”

“That didn’t take long.”

Laure took a seat on the couch. Sinjin joined her.

“It doesn’t take long if you know what you’re doing.”

“Then I must be doing something wrong.” Laure flashed her

wry sense of humor. “No, that’s impossible. I’m French. No matter

what the Italians say, we invented romance.”

“Not so fast. I’ve had sex with plenty of French girls who had

no idea what they were doing.”

“You should try making love with a French woman instead.”

“I could take that several ways, you know.”

“Why don’t you settle for one?”

Sinjin was in her comfort zone. She could flirt with a beautiful

woman with her eyes closed. But this wasn’t just any beautiful

woman. This was Laure. Someone who knew her better than anyone

• 47 •

yoLanda WaLLace

else. Someone who saw past her jokey exterior to the bundle of

insecurities that lay beneath. Someone who got her in every sense

of the word.

She flashed back to the conversation they’d had in Roehampton.

When Laure had listed the qualities she sought in Miss Right, she

had said she was looking for someone who knew her inside and out.

Who loved her for who she was, despite her faults.

Am I looking for the same thing?

Why had it taken her so long to think of Laure as anything

other than a friend when she obviously had the potential to be so

much more?

Maybe I’ve been looking in the wrong places.

“Do you have a woman in mind for me?”

“I’m horrible at matchmaking. I’ll let you make up your own

mind.”

Sinjin smiled at the give and take. She couldn’t tell which was

more exciting, the fact that Laure was flirting with her or the fact

that she was doing it so subtly. She reached for the bottle of wine

she had picked up on her way from Abby’s hotel. “I bought this, but

I’m not sure if it’s any good. Can you help me out?”

Laure grabbed the bottle and turned it around to see the label.

She rolled her eyes when she realized the bottle was one of hers. She

tapped her finger against the fleur de lis on the label. “This vintner

has a pretty good reputation.” She found a corkscrew in the kitchen

and inserted it into the bottle.

“A reputation doesn’t mean anything,” Sinjin said as Laure

expertly removed the cork. “It’s just something to be lived up or

down to. I’m not as bad as mine. I’d love to know if you’re as good

as yours.”

“There’s only one way to find out.” Laure poured two glasses

and offered Sinjin one. “Try me and see.”

“We’re not still talking about wine, are we?”

Laure raised her glass to her lips. “Were we ever?”

❖

• 48 •

Lucky Loser

Movement, footwork, ground strokes, serve, volleys.

Sinjin repeated the words to herself as she sat in her chair after

the ten-minute warm-up. It had come down to this. She was about to

play Austrian journeywoman Emme Wechselberger in the final round

of qualifying. If she won the match, she would achieve her goal: to

make it into the main draw at Wimbledon. She didn’t care if she

would have to play the top seed, the defending champion, or another

qualifier in the first round. She just wanted to get there. She couldn’t

win the tournament if she wasn’t in the field. And she couldn’t make

it into the field without her friends and family cheering her on.

She located Stephanie, Kendall, and Laure in the stands. Her

sister, her trainer, and her best friend. Three women she’d be lost

without. Stephanie, who had guided and cared for her for years.

Kendall, who pushed her to her limits and past them. Laure, whose

role in her life was once well-defined but had recently gone blurry

around the edges.

Laure cupped her hands around her mouth. “Let’s go, Sin!”

Sinjin tapped her racquet against the court for luck the way she

always did before a big match. She didn’t think she’d need luck. In

fact, she felt absurdly confident. She was paired against a player to

whom she had never lost.

Emme was a consistent but pedestrian baseliner. Lacking a big

weapon she could use to hurt her opponents, she had never risen

higher than ninety-seven in the world. Her current ranking was

nearly twice that number. She and Abby McGuinness had reached

the U.S. Open doubles final, but she hadn’t come close to repeating

the accomplishment in the three years since. She had reached the

final round of singles qualifying at Roehampton via walkover in the

first round when her opponent had not been able to take the court

because of an ankle injury sustained in practice. She had outlasted

her second-round opponent, winning a compelling but error-filled

match in three long sets. At thirty-six years old and nearing the

end of her career, she was given little chance of upsetting Sinjin.

Most expected her to be nothing more than the answer to the trivia

question, “Who did Sinjin Smythe defeat in order to reach her ninth

Wimbledon?”

• 49 •

yoLanda WaLLace

Someone forgot to tell Emme.

She came out firing. Sinjin rushed the net at every available

opportunity only to be met with stinging passing shots aimed at her

feet. She made some amazing half-volleys to stay in the set, but

facing break point at 5-4 down, she pushed a forehand volley wide

to lose the set 6-4.

The crowd gasped, then lapsed into stunned silence. Furious

with herself, Sinjin stalked to the sidelines and sat in her chair. She

had underestimated her opponent, an error even more critical than

the unforced one she had made on the previous point.

In the stands, Laure, Kendall, and Stephanie looked anxious.

“I’m okay,” Sinjin mouthed, trying to allay their fears.

She bounced back to win the second set 6-1, a breadstick in

tennis parlance. She lost just two points in her first four service

games in the third set but couldn’t manufacture a break. With the

score knotted at four-all, she won the first two points on Emme’s

serve. If she took the next two, she could serve out the match and

secure the last spot in the Wimbledon field.

The contest was the last singles match of the day. Some of the

players who had competed in and won earlier matches had stuck

around to show their support. Some were seated in the stands;

most stood in the entrance of the tunnel that led to the locker room.

Rejuvenated by the results of the PRP procedure—and Laure’s win

in Paris—Sinjin had put off thoughts of retirement, but her friends

on tour seemed to sense her window of opportunity was closing.

They shouted encouragement as she prepared to receive serve.

At 0-30, Emme surprised her by pumping in a big serve and

following it to the net. She volleyed the high return into the open

court to close the gap to 15-30. She earned the next point with a

beautiful topspin lob that barely cleared Sinjin’s outstretched racquet

and dropped in the corner.

Sinjin was still two points from the game, but 30-all felt a lot

different than 0-30. On the next point, she sliced a backhand down

the middle of the court and followed it to the net. She hit what

seemed like a perfect approach shot, but Emme managed to steer

her passing shot down the line for a winner.

• 50 •

Lucky Loser

“Come on!” the usually stoic Emme yelled, pumping herself

up. Sinjin tried to remain calm, but overanxious, she smothered a

forehand and deposited it in the middle of the net. Instead of serving

for the match, she would be serving to stay in it.

As she sat in her chair during the changeover, she bounced her

legs to keep them loose. She didn’t feel nervous. Her adrenaline

was pumping too hard for that. She tried not to dwell on the missed

opportunities in the previous game. There would be plenty of time

for reflection later. She needed to focus on the task at hand: getting

to five-all.

On the first point, she uncorked her biggest serve of the day, a

122-mph screamer down the middle, for her fourteenth ace. Emme

responded on the next point, however. Utilizing the tactics that had

worked so well in the first set, she blasted a return at Sinjin’s feet.

Sinjin couldn’t dig out the half-volley and lost the point to level the

score at 15-all.

Sinjin bounced on the balls of her feet to remind herself to stay

on her toes. Three points from losing, she couldn’t afford to get

caught flat-footed. She threw in an off-speed serve hoping to catch

Emme by surprise, but Emme jumped all over it to take a 15-30 lead.

Just bring the heat, dammit! If she can take it, shake her hand

and go home.

She hit a hard, flat serve that crowded in close to Emme’s body.

Emme tried to move out of the way. Unable to extend her arms

to generate power, she choked up on her racquet and muscled a

backhand return. The ball hit the top of the net, dribbled over to

Sinjin’s side, and rolled to a stop for double match point.

Sometimes it was better to be lucky than good.

Emme held up one hand in mock apology and walked to the

other side of the court to receive serve.

Shaking her head in disbelief, Sinjin tried to maintain her

concentration. She needed to win the next four points to stay in the

match. Her fifteenth ace brought the score to 30-40 and the crowd

to its feet.

“One more!” someone shouted. “One more!”

• 51 •

yoLanda WaLLace

Sinjin loved and hated playing in England. When things were

going well, she fed off the energy of the fans. When things got

tough, though, the fans’ apprehension seeped into her. “Believe in

yourself,” she whispered, trying to hold her uncertainty at bay.

Serving to the ad court, she second-guessed herself. Instead of

going with her kick serve to Emme’s backhand, she went for the big

one down the middle. Emme jumped on the forehand return and,

anticipating a weak response, followed her shot to the net.

Knowing Emme’s net play was the weakest part of her game,

Sinjin didn’t aim for the lines. She went right at her, expecting

Emme to miss the volley. She planted her feet and hit a forehand as

hard as she could.

Emme stuck her racquet out, then, apparently sensing the ball

wasn’t hit with enough topspin to keep it in the court, she tried to jerk

the racquet out of the way. She didn’t move quite fast enough. The

ball ticked off her frame and landed six inches beyond the baseline.

The linesperson called the ball out, but because Emme had

touched the ball while it was in flight, Sinjin should have been

awarded the point.

Sinjin pumped her fists and turned to head to the baseline to

serve at deuce when the chair umpire said, “Game, set, match, Miss

Wechselberger.”

Everything happened at once.

Emme thrust her arms in the air and ran to the net for the post-

match handshake. The knowledgeable crowd, aware that the point

should have been awarded to Sinjin, loudly voiced its disapproval.

“No!” Sinjin ran to the umpire’s chair, pointing to her ear and

to Emme’s racquet. “The ball hit her frame. Didn’t you hear that?”

When the chair umpire shook his head, Sinjin turned to Emme for

confirmation. “Didn’t you get a piece of that shot?”

Emme shrugged and pleaded ignorance. “I didn’t feel anything.”

Sinjin gaped at her in open-mouthed shock. Tennis, like golf,

was a gentleman’s game. One in which players were supposed to

call infractions on themselves if they knew they had broken a rule.

By not owning up to what had just happened, Emme had violated

one of the unwritten rules of the sport.

• 52 •

Lucky Loser

The crowd booed lustily as Emme quickly packed her bags and

retreated to the locker room.

Unwilling to leave the court, Sinjin sat in her chair and buried

her face in a towel. When she looked up, her eyes were wet.

Stephanie was crying, too, but Sinjin noticed Laure was trying to

put on a brave face.

“I’m proud of you.” Laure rose with the rest of the crowd to

give Sinjin a standing ovation.

Walking with her head down, Sinjin acknowledged the cheers

as she headed disconsolately to the locker room. A cordon of

players greeted her as she entered the tunnel. Each offered words of

encouragement or a pat on the back.

“Tough luck.”

“Bad break.”

“Good fight out there.”

Overwhelmed, Sinjin nodded her thanks but kept trudging

along. Emme, already showered and dressed, was waiting for her in

the locker room.

“I’m sorry, but I had to do it. You’re young. You’ll have many

more chances to make Wimbledon, but this was my last one.”

Sinjin cast a wary glance at Anke Schroeder, the only other

person in the room. The eighteen-year-old junior phenom from

Munich was being touted as the next Steffi Graf. One of the day’s

winners, the pony-tailed blonde would be making her Wimbledon

debut in a few days. Though single-minded on court, Anke was still

wide-eyed off it. Sinjin didn’t want to lose her temper in front of

someone who was still so impressionable.

“You know what?” Sinjin fought to keep her voice level. “I’m

not mad at you for what you did. I’m mad at myself for putting

myself in the position in the first place. You did what you felt you

had to do. If you can live with it, so can I. Just don’t ask me to

respect you in the morning.”

Emme trudged out of the room and Sinjin headed to the

showers, where she finally let her emotions hold sway. When she

returned to the locker room, Anke was still sitting in the same spot.

“Did you forget your way home?”

• 53 •

yoLanda WaLLace

“I’ve been thinking.” Anke’s expression was dour.

“Was it painful for you?” Sinjin asked, trying to get Anke to

lighten up.

Anke was a stern taskmaster, which caused her to expect more

from her game than it was ready to give. She wouldn’t get the results

she wanted until she learned to relax. Those pesky comparisons to

Steffi Graf didn’t help. But the comparisons weren’t going to go

away any time soon. Germany’s rabid sports fans were eager to find

the next Steffi. The next Boris Becker. But Sinjin knew players like

those two all-time greats came along only once in a lifetime. Anke

would have to “settle” for being herself. If she could convince her

compatriots to do the same thing, she would sleep a lot better at

night.“It doesn’t feel right that I should qualify for Wimbledon and

you don’t. You deserve it as much as I do.”

Sinjin sat next to Anke on the long pine bench that divided the

room in half. “How many matches did I win this week?”

“Two.”

“How many did you win?”

“Three.”

“Then who deserves to qualify?”

“But you got cheated.”

“Out of one point, not the whole match.”

“You were my idol growing up.” Anke’s comment made Sinjin

feel honored and ancient at the same time. “I want to see you win

Wimbledon one day.”

“So do I.” Sinjin had learned some important lessons from the

loss—what not to do during a pressure situation and how to keep

her head when everything seemed to be going against her. She had

also learned her body could hold up during a long match. She hadn’t

thought about her knees even once during the heated contest. She

longed to be able to put what she had learned to use. “It’s not too

late. As the highest seed to lose today, I can still get in if someone

pulls out.”

Speculation was running rampant that a strained wrist might

keep two-time defending champion Blake Freeman from playing at

• 54 •

Lucky Loser

Wimbledon. She was expected to play a couple exhibition matches

to test the wrist, then announce her decision on the Friday before the

tournament started. Injured or not, Sinjin couldn’t imagine Blake

pulling out of the event. No woman had won three consecutive

Wimbledon singles titles since Steffi Graf in the early ‘90s. With

her eye on the history books, Blake would probably play even if her

wrist was in a cast.

“I’ll see you next week,” Sinjin assured Anke. But as she

gathered her belongings, she didn’t plan on waiting by the phone.

Laure, Stephanie, and Kendall were waiting for her outside the

locker room. She had expected to be greeted by a sea of long faces,

but Laure was positively beaming.

“You got in.”

Sinjin was stunned. “Did Blake pull out?”

“No, but Catarina Sundstrom did.” Laure scrolled through the

Web page displayed on her BlackBerry. “She ate some bad pizza

after the French Open final and came down with food poisoning.”

Catarina had lost the final to Laure in three epic sets, winning

the first set 6-3 before falling 8-6 in the third.

“Serves her right,” Stephanie said. “Who goes to a gastronomic

capital like Paris and orders pizza?”

Sinjin sagged with relief. All the hard work she thought had

gone to waste still had a chance to pay dividends. “I’m starving.

What’s for dinner?”

“Definitely not pizza, that’s for sure.”

Stephanie and Kendall begged off dinner—Stephanie had to put

the finishing touches on the design for her latest window installation

and Kendall wanted to hit the bars—so Sinjin and Laure headed to

the house Laure had rented in Notting Hill.

“Now that you’ve made the tournament, what are your goals?”

Laure asked over steaming plates of takeout Pad Thai.

“Win at least one round. If I do that, I want to make it to the

third round, which is something I’ve never done. If I do that, my

goal would be to make it to the second week. If I could sneak into

the quarterfinals somehow, it would earn me membership in the Last

Eight Club.” Membership in the exclusive society was limited solely

• 55 •

yoLanda WaLLace

to players who had reached the quarterfinals or better at Wimbledon.

“That would be something to write home about.”

Laure snared some green papaya salad with her chopsticks.

“My goals are a little different. I brought an evening gown with me

because I’m planning on attending the Champions Ball. If you play

your cards right, you could come with me. Either as my date or the

champion.”

The black-tie affair was held on Wimbledon’s final day. The

guests of honor were the players who had won the singles, doubles,

and mixed doubles crowns. It used to be required for the singles

winners to share a dance until, much to the players’ delight, the

quaint tradition was discontinued. Now they posed with their hard-

earned trophies instead.

“I thought you were retiring. I thought your passion was gone.”

“Believe me, it’s back. You helped put it there.”

“Me? What did I do?”

“You fought your heart out to get back on court. Then you

fought even harder to stay there. If that isn’t inspiring, I don’t know

what is.”

“Does this mean you’re not still planning to retire at the end of

the year?”

“No. I’m still walking away after the year-end championships,

but I want to go out in style. It’s been almost ten years since a woman

won the French Open and Wimbledon in the same year. I’d love to

accomplish the feat.”

If Sinjin won, the victory would be even more historic. No

British woman had won Wimbledon in over thirty years. The

drought for British men was twice as long.

Sinjin was aware of the seemingly insurmountable odds she

faced. A couple unseeded men—all-time greats Boris Becker and

Goran Ivanisevic—had aced their way to the Wimbledon title, but

no woman seeded lower than thirteen had ever performed the same

feat. And the woman who had pulled off that miracle was Venus

Williams when she had found her game at the right time and raced

to her fourth title. To join their ranks, Sinjin would have to play like

she had her first year on tour, when her best years were ahead of her

• 56 •

Lucky Loser

and not behind her. She would have to play better than she ever had

and do it not once but seven times. With fresh legs and rusty ground

strokes.

As she rode the train back to Soho, she issued herself a

challenge.

You didn’t turn pro to make the second week of Wimbledon. You

turned pro to win the whole damn thing. So go out there and prove

to yourself and everyone else that you can do it. No matter who’s

standing in your way.

• 57 •

• 58 •

Lucky Loser

first round

Laure stared at the draw sheet. Most players didn’t want to look

too far ahead—you couldn’t play everyone in the field, and

you could psych yourself out if you spent too much time plotting out

potential matchups—but she wanted to see where the top players fell

so she could know which ones she would have to worry about. Though

the tennis gods had cut Laure a break, they hadn’t granted Sinjin any

favors. There were a couple of potential matchups in the second week

that could give Laure cause for concern, but the first week’s matches

should prove no more strenuous than a practice session. Sinjin’s road

to the final, however, was littered with land mines.

Although she had inherited Catarina Sundstrom’s spot, Sinjin

hadn’t been given her draw, which would have matched her against

another qualifier in the first round. Instead, she would face the eighth

seed—former French Open champion Rosana de los Santos. Rosana

was better on clay than on grass, but she had consistent results on

every surface and had made at least the quarterfinals of ten straight

tournaments. Beating her would take a monumental effort, but if

Sinjin was up to the challenge, a chance for revenge lurked in the

second round. If Emme won her opening-round match and Sinjin

upset Rosana, they would square off once the women’s field was

winnowed to sixty-four.

Besides Rosana and Emme, Sinjin faced a potential quarterfinal

clash with second seed Blake Freeman and a semifinal against

Blake’s third-seeded sister Chandler. Talk about your rough draws.

• 59 •

yoLanda WaLLace

Between them, the Freeman sisters had appeared in nine of the

last ten Wimbledon finals, taking the trophy back to the sprawling

Manhattan apartment they shared on seven occasions. Blake had

won the title four times to Chandler’s three. Chandler was eager to

catch up to and pass her big sister. She was widely considered to be

the better player, but her acting aspirations often drew her attention

away from her tennis.

A would-be movie star, she had missed most of the run-up to

the clay court season in order to take part in a publicity tour for her

latest film. The London release of the movie was timed to coincide

with the start of Wimbledon. When most players would be anxiously

anticipating their first matches, Chandler would be walking the red

carpet.

Blake’s interests were as wide-ranging as her sister’s, but

at twenty-seven, she had rededicated herself to tennis in order

to capitalize on the remaining three years she intended to play.

If Viktoriya lost before the final and Blake went on to win the

tournament, Blake would reclaim the number one ranking she

hadn’t held in five years.

The bottom half of the draw, where Laure resided, wasn’t nearly

as loaded as the top half, but the player who made her way out of

it wouldn’t have it easy. Viktoriya Vasilyeva, Serena Williams, and

Maria Sharapova all loomed as potential roadblocks. Most experts

were picking Viktoriya to make the final. She had been gifted a

cupcake draw, and the week before, she had shaken off a mid-season

slump to win the warm-up tournament in Birmingham. If she held

her nerve—and her serve—Queen Viktoriya could prolong her reign.

Not if Laure had anything to say about it. She wanted to be

the one who advanced out of the bottom section, putting an end to

Viktoriya’s hot streak and her era of domination on the way. Nothing

short of winning the tournament would give her greater pleasure.

She opened two bottles of red wine so they could breathe. She

had invited a few friends over for a small pre-tournament dinner

party so she could salvage a bit of sanity before the madness began.

Nicolas arrived first. She immediately put him to work lighting the

lanterns that lined the patio.

• 60 •

Lucky Loser

She headed to the kitchen to check on the ratatouille, a hearty

vegetable stew that contained eggplant, zucchini, green peppers,

onions, garlic, and tomatoes. She had been cooking for less than

thirty minutes, but the way the flavors had blended, the results tasted

like she had been slaving over the stove for hours.

“Perfect.”

She lowered the flame on the burner and raised the volume on

the TV when the talking heads on the Wimbledon preview show

playing in the background piped up.

“What do you think of Sinjin Smythe’s chances at this year’s

tournament?” one asked.

“We’d be better served pinning our hopes for a women’s

champion on young Clair Wilkinson,” his partner replied. “She won

the Wimbledon junior championship two years ago at the ripe old

age of fourteen and has shown tremendous promise in her first full

year as a pro. Her ranking is high enough that she made it into the

main draw this year without benefit of a wild card. The same cannot

be said for Sinjin Smythe, who barely made the tournament this

year and is in danger of becoming a footnote. She is a lucky loser

who lost in the last round of qualifying and got in the main draw

only because another player was taken ill. She has the game to make

a run, but I question her nerves. They’ve betrayed her in the past

and I don’t see why this year should be any different. Plus, she’s

working without a full-time coach, which never helps. She’s hired

Andrew Grey on a part-time basis, but he’s been out of the game so

long I fear it might have passed him by. It would make a good story

if Sinjin were to do well here, but I just don’t see it happening. I’d

bet my house she won’t even make it out of the first round, let alone

advance to the second week.”

Laure aimed the remote control at the television and turned it

off. “I’ll take that bet.”

❖

Sinjin checked her watch and groaned in frustration. She picked

up her mobile. Her call went directly to voice mail. “Steph, it’s me.

• 61 •

yoLanda WaLLace

You were supposed to be here fifteen minutes ago. There are four

hungry people waiting for you, so if you know what’s good for you,

you’ll get your arse home and—”

“Oi, watch the language! I thought I taught you better than

that.” Two bulky boxes balanced precariously in her arms, Stephanie

kicked the front door closed with the side of one Manolo Blahnik-

clad foot.

Sinjin rushed to relieve Stephanie of her burden. “Where shall

I put these?”

Stephanie pointed to the coffee table. “There’s fine.”

Sinjin fingered the packing tape on one of the boxes. “What’s

all this?”

“Open it and find out.”

Sinjin ripped the tape off one of the boxes and cautiously

opened the flaps. She pulled out a set of tennis whites that, despite

the high-tech fibers they were made of, looked like they belonged in

an archival photo from the 1920s. Anyone wearing the outfit would

look right at home with a flapper on one arm and a wooden racquet

draped across the other.

The cream cardigan was monogrammed with her initials—

SIS—on the left breast. The white button-down shirt and white

pants sported a designer label that she had never seen before.

“Are these for me?”

Stephanie pursed her MAC-covered lips. “Who else would

they be for? Just because you lost your clothing contract doesn’t

mean you have to go on court looking like shite, so I decided to

dress you myself.”

Sinjin slipped her arms through one of the sweaters. Stephanie

narrowed her eyes as she checked the fit.

“I only commissioned four outfits. Not because I don’t think

you can win more than four matches but because I didn’t have time

to pull together an order larger than that. There are two pairs of

pants and two pairs of shorts. If it’s hot, you can go with the shorts.

If it’s cooler or if it rains, you can go with the pants so you can

keep your legs warm. The material’s pretty forgiving in both so

you should be able to get down for the low volleys without feeling

• 62 •

Lucky Loser

restricted in any way. You know how they say it’s better to look

good than to feel good? Well, you’re going to look great and play

even better.”

Sinjin laid a hand on Stephanie’s arm. “You feel it, too?”

“With every fiber of my being. This fortnight’s going to be

special. I’m just glad I can be a part of it.”

Sinjin gave her a hug and rushed to the bedroom to try on the

clothes. She examined her reflection in the full-length mirror. Her new

gear fit her perfectly. The sweater clung to her broad shoulders and

hugged her waist. The pants were loose enough to allow freedom of

movement but form-fitting enough to avoid being a hindrance when

she played. The cream and white materials perfectly complemented

her light brown skin.

In the living room, she turned in a slow circle then paused for

inspection. “How do I look?”

Stephanie beamed with pride. “Like a future Wimbledon

champion.”

❖

Laure dipped a wooden spoon into the bubbling stew. She blew

on the sample and held it out to Sinjin. “Taste this and tell me if it

needs anything.”

Sinjin sampled the offering. “What it needs is to be put in a

bowl and served immediately.”

Laure smiled and turned off the burner. Sinjin handed her six

heavy earthenware bowls. Laure carefully ladled some of the stew

into each bowl and laid a thick piece of toasted French bread on top.

“Are you ready for this?”

“You bet.” Sinjin’s stomach growled in obvious anticipation.

“Not this,” Laure said, indicating the food. “That.” She jerked

her chin toward the newspaper on the counter. The sports section

featured wall-to-wall Wimbledon coverage and the tournament

hadn’t even begun.

“I’ll never be ready for that, but I am ready to play. I wish I

were playing tomorrow so I could burn off some of my nervous

• 63 •

yoLanda WaLLace

energy, but I’m not on the schedule until Tuesday.” Sinjin helped

Laure place the bowls on a serving tray. “What about you?”

“I’m playing tomorrow. First match on Court One.”

Because they were on opposite sides of the draw, their

timetables would be reversed. When Laure was scheduled to play,

Sinjin would have the day off and vice versa. For the first week at

least. If they kept winning, their schedules would begin to coincide

on the second Monday of the event when all the remaining players

in both the men’s and women’s fields would take the court.

“Viktoriya is scheduled for Centre Court. Novak Djokovic

opens play because he’s the defending champion, but Viktoriya will

be the first woman who gets to play on Centre Court this year. I’ve

played Wimbledon ten times, either as a junior or a pro, but I’ve

never played a match on Centre. What’s it like?”

Sinjin’s voice was reverential, fitting for a discussion of the

court often referred to as the cathedral of tennis.

“The sight lines are amazing. You never lose the ball in the

lights or the background. The acoustics are incredible. You can hear

the ball coming off your opponent’s strings so you could close your

eyes and still be able to tell if she has hit the ball flat or with topspin.

The fans are always fair. They applaud a good shot, even if it’s at the

expense of one of their own.”

“So if I played you, you’re saying the crowd would be fifty-

fifty?”Laure grinned. “Maybe sixty-forty. But if you win, I’ll buy you

a bottle of champagne.”

“And if you win, I’ll buy you a crate of English strawberries.”

“Sounds like a delicious combination.”

“Too bad we can’t share the title. Then we could have both.”

“I wish we could. I don’t want to see either of us lose. Unless

it’s to each other. That’s the only reasonably acceptable outcome.”

Sinjin didn’t look convinced. “You know how this works. Only

one of us can win. Whoever wants it more will walk away with the

title.”“Which would you rather have, a trophy in your hands or me

in your bed?”

• 64 •

Lucky Loser

“Why can’t I have both?”

“I want this title as much as you do. I know how it feels to hold

that trophy. I’ve only heard how good it feels to hold you.”

Sinjin put her hands on Laure’s waist and pulled her closer.

“We can change that at any time, you know.”

When Sinjin bent to kiss her, Laure placed a finger on her lips.

“Let’s see where this is going before we go there. Let’s take it slow.”

“We’ve known each other forever. We’ve been friends for

years. If we move any slower, we’ll be moving backward.”

“Sinjin, I just got out of one relationship. Even though I’m

attracted to you, I don’t want to jump feet-first into another one. I

want to make sure I’m more than an itch you want to scratch. I don’t

want to be someone you sleep with and walk away from. I don’t

want to have sex with you. I want to make love with you.”

“You’re right,” Sinjin said after a long pause. “I have been

doing it wrong.”

❖

Sinjin trailed Rosana de los Santos onto Court Fourteen. As

was her wont, Rosana claimed the seat to the chair umpire’s right.

Sinjin dropped her racquet bag next to the chair on the far side and

pulled out the racquet she intended to use at the beginning of the

match. She banged the strings against the heel of her hand to check

the tension. Satisfied that the string job had not degraded overnight,

she pantomimed a few practice swings and headed to the net to wait

for the coin toss.

She had hoped the match would be scheduled for one of the

main show courts, namely hallowed Centre Court or Court One.

Instead, it was placed on Court Fourteen, the eighth largest court

on the grounds, located directly beneath ESPN’s broadcast studio.

Sinjin could see the back of the lead anchor’s well-coiffed head as

he and his fellow commentators prepared to go on-air.

She searched the stands until she located her supporters.

Stephanie was already gnawing on her fingernails, but Nicolas and

Laure flashed her thumbs up signs. The day before, Laure had won

• 65 •

yoLanda WaLLace

her first round match in straight sets. Her opponent had been a wild

card entrant playing only her second tour-level match. Overmatched

and overwhelmed, the youngster had gone down in forty-five

minutes. Sinjin would consider herself lucky if one of her sets lasted

that long. The way Rosana played, they could be on court a while.

She took one last look around, then directed her focus where it

belonged: on the match.

Rosana won the toss and elected to receive. Most players chose

to serve first so they could jump out to an early lead before their

opponents could calm their nerves. Rosanna preferred the opposite

approach. She liked to go for a quick break of serve before her foe

could find her rhythm. Pounding her ground strokes from the very

first point, she’d take the first set before the player on the other side

of the net knew what hit her.

The weather was warm—nearly eighty degrees. Despite the

balmy temperatures, Sinjin had elected to wear the pants Stephanie

had designed for her instead of the shorts. But she didn’t want her

fashion statement to be the only thing written about the next day.

She intended to make a statement with her game as well.

She shed the cardigan and took a quick sip of water. The crowd,

apprehensive yet hopeful, applauded both players as they headed to

their respective baselines.

Sinjin accepted three balls from the ball boy and closely

examined each one. She discarded the one with the most fuzz,

keeping the two she thought would move through the air faster. She

slipped one ball into her pocket and bounced the other one off her

racquet face while Rosana waited for late-arriving spectators to take

their seats.

“Seats quickly, please,” the chair umpire said. “The players are

ready.”

The stragglers grabbed the nearest seats.

“Gracias,” Rosana said sarcastically, showing uncharacteristic

edginess.

Ask any player and she would say the most difficult matches to

win were the first one and the last one. In the first round, you were

nervous because you didn’t have a measuring stick to judge where

• 66 •

Lucky Loser

your game was. Sure, you might have been playing well in practice,

but practice didn’t count. How would you fare when the pressure

was on? When losing meant going home, not scheduling another

practice session. As the old saying went, you couldn’t win a Grand

Slam tournament in the first week; you could only lose one.

Sinjin had fallen prey to the pressure of a Grand Slam

tournament before, letting the strain of it overwhelm her as she

failed to fulfill the potential her coaches had spotted in her when she

was a kid. When the match began, though, she put the past behind

her. She played like she had nothing to lose and everything to gain.

She went for her shots, hitting out on everything and carving her

slice shots so finely the crowd gasped each time the ball grazed the

net on its way over.

Rosana was the one who seemed to be succumbing to nerves.

Normally placid on court, she barked at everyone in sight, herself

included.

“Hit the ball, Rosana!” she screamed in Spanish after her

tentative approach shot landed short and Sinjin’s backhand flew past

her for a winner.

The crowd erupted. Not because of Rosana’s outburst but

because Sinjin had reached set point. She had a chance to take the

first set and start the second serving first—a huge psychological

advantage.

Sinjin assumed her return stance and tried to determine

where Rosana was going to direct her serve. Boris Becker used to

unconsciously stick his tongue in the same direction he intended

to place his delivery. Other players’ tells were more subtle—a grip

change here, a slight shift in stance there. The best servers were

the best masters of disguise. The best returners were the best body

language experts.

With her left hand, Rosana bounced the ball twice. Her right

hand gripped her racquet as if it were a frying pan. After she

adjusted her grip, she extended her index finger. The last time she

did that, she hit a serve out wide to Sinjin’s forehand. Cheating in

that direction, Sinjin took a step to her left when Rosana tossed the

ball in the air.

• 67 •

yoLanda WaLLace

The serve was perfectly placed, but Sinjin was there for it.

Swinging freely, she cracked a forehand and followed it to the net.

Her eyes as wide as saucers, Rosana scrambled to get to the

return. Her dimpled shoes dug into the lush grass. She lunged for

the ball, her racquet an extension of her arm. She flicked her wrist,

intending to hit a defensive squash shot to keep herself in the point.

The ball passed just out of reach.

“Game, first set, Miss Smythe,” the chair umpire said.

“Yes!” Sinjin clenched her fists and sprinted to her chair, the

crowd’s cheers echoing in her ears.

In the stands, Laure, Stephanie, and Kendall were celebrating

like the match was over, but Sinjin kept telling herself the job wasn’t

done. Winning the second set would be even harder than winning the

first. Rosana, not wanting to be the tournament’s first upset victim,

wasn’t going to go down without a fight. Known for her endurance,

a long match was just what she wanted. Fitness wouldn’t be an issue

for Sinjin—she had put in too many hours training with Laure and

Kendall to run out of gas during a match—but she wanted to keep

things as uncomplicated as possible. She didn’t want to give Rosana

time to find her A-game.

She gave herself a pep talk during the changeover.

Concentrate on holding your serve and take your chances on

hers when she gives them to you. The pressure’s on her, not you.

You’re not even supposed to be here.

She lost just five points in her first five service games in the

second set, but Rosana, playing the kind of attacking tennis that won

her the U.S. Open two years before, was just as strong. When Sinjin

held at love to go up six games to five, the set seemed destined to

end in a tiebreaker.

In a tiebreaker, the rules were simple—the winner was the

first player to accumulate seven points with at least a two-point

advantage. With the stakes this high, though, a tiebreaker would be

anything but simple. If Sinjin won, the match was over. If Rosana

won, they would play a third set with a spot in Wimbledon’s second

round on the line.

• 68 •

Lucky Loser

Sinjin’s career singles record was a tick above five hundred,

but her tiebreak record was an eye-opening seventy-five percent. “If

she could play nothing but tiebreakers, she’d be number one in the

world,” went the line on her in the locker room. “Otherwise, she’s

just another player.”

Rosana—and the crowd—was waiting for Sinjin to crack. For

her to realize how close she was to the biggest victory of her life and

tighten up.

❖

In the stands, Laure examined Sinjin’s face for signs of

weakness. She saw none. In fact, she had never seen Sinjin looking

so relaxed—on a tennis court, anyway. Her blood pressure, on the

other hand, was off the charts.

“How do you stand it?” she asked Stephanie after Rosana held

serve to force the tiebreaker. When she played, she had a say in

the outcome. As a spectator, she was helpless. She preferred being

in control. During her first round win, her nerves had disappeared

as soon as she played the first point. Nearly two sets into Sinjin’s

match, she was a basket case.

“I used to go through a pack of cigarettes each match until

Sinjin made me quit.” Stephanie popped a piece of nicotine gum in

her mouth and began chewing furiously. “When she was a teenager, I

could always console her by saying, There’s always next year, but…”

She didn’t finish her sentence. She didn’t have to. Laure knew

how much was at stake. If Sinjin’s knees gave out, there might not

be a next year.

❖

The tiebreaker was a reflection of the set—nip and tuck the

whole way. The score was tied at six points-all with one more point

to go on Sinjin’s serve when the players moved to the opposite sides

of the court for the traditional change of ends. Sinjin stopped at

her chair to towel off. She had just fought off set point. The next

• 69 •

yoLanda WaLLace

point was just as crucial. If she won it, she would have match point.

If Rosana took it, she would have set point on her own serve. If

Rosana sneaked out the set, the momentum would swing in her

direction and she would resume the role of favorite.

“Serve an ace!” someone yelled when Sinjin approached the

baseline. The well-intentioned fan was trying to break the tension

but ended up adding to it.

Sinjin mustered a smile, then hit her first serve two feet past

the service line. The crowd let out a collective groan. Was this the

moment Sinjin came back to Earth?

Rosana moved forward, crowding the baseline so she could hit

a forceful return.

Sinjin had two choices: go for a big second serve or take

something off it to make sure she got the ball in play. Going back

and forth with her decision, she didn’t make up her mind until she

tossed the ball in the air. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Rosana

slide to her left to cut off a serve to her backhand so she decided to

serve out wide instead.

Rosana’s shoulders slumped after the ball landed safely in the

corner of the service box and thumped against the wall at the back

of the court. She looked like a marionette whose strings had just

been cut.

Match point.

Leaning forward in their seats, Laure and Stephanie clutched

each other’s hands. They—and the crowd—were ready to explode.

Sinjin slapped her hand against her thigh to remind herself

to stay alert. She looked for another tell, but Rosana didn’t give

anything away.

Rosana’s first serve was flat and deep. Too deep. Cyclops, the

electronic machine that surveyed an area eighteen inches wide,

beeped to indicate the serve was a fault. It was Sinjin’s turn to crowd

the baseline. Instead of standing just beyond it like most players did

when they moved up, she stood just inside it, daring Rosana to hit a

deep second serve.

The knowledgeable crowd noted Sinjin’s bravery—or fool-

hardiness.

• 70 •

Lucky Loser

Unnerved by Sinjin’s audacious court positioning, Rosana

dumped her second serve into the net.

“Game, set, match, Miss Smythe,” the chair umpire said. “Miss

Smythe wins two sets to love, six-four, seven-six.”

The crowd erupted, but mindful of Rosana’s feelings, Sinjin

kept her celebration low-key. Winning on a double fault was

anticlimactic. Losing on one was devastating.

“Bad luck,” Sinjin said when she and Rosana shook hands at

the net.

“You were the better player.” Rosana gave Sinjin a pat on the

back. Even though she wanted to win as badly as anyone else, she

was known for being a gracious loser. If a player outperformed her

on a given day, she gave the player credit where credit was due.

“You deserved it. Good luck the rest of the way.”

“Thanks. I appreciate that.”

Sinjin impulsively blew a kiss to Laure and Stephanie before

raising her arms to acknowledge the cheering crowd.

“Isn’t this fun?” she asked as she, Laure, Stephanie, and

Kendall walked across the grounds. A cadre of uniformed security

guards surrounded them.

“If torture is your idea of fun.” Stephanie cast an anxious glance

at the large crowd following them.

“I meant the match.”

“So did I.”

“So I guess we’re going to Fog for dinner again?” Stephanie

asked.When she was on a winning streak, Sinjin liked to eat the

same meal each night. Last night, she and Stephanie dined at a

restaurant a few blocks from Stephanie’s apartment. The trendy

eatery specialized in modern takes on traditional British comfort

food. “Order something you could eat every day,” Stephanie had

teased her, “because you might be eating it for the next two weeks.”

Sinjin’s favorite comfort food was fish and chips. Settling for

a healthier alternative, she had ordered grilled salmon and twice-

baked potatoes.

“How do you know me so well?”

• 71 •

yoLanda WaLLace

“Lots of practice.”

Sinjin paused to sign autographs. Laure followed suit. Fans

thrust everything from today’s programs to hand-written posters to

body parts in their direction.

“Good luck,” someone said.

“We love you!” said another.

“Bring it home!”

The crowd surged forward. The uniformed security guards

linked arms and tried to hold them back.

Sinjin signed her name so many times her hand began to cramp.

Everyone wanted something from her. A souvenir. A handshake. A

win. Her countrymen had been disappointed so many times. If she

wanted to avoid adding to the long list of hard-fought but valiant

defeats, she needed to play for herself, not an entire nation.

“Thank you.”

She stepped away from the crowd and waited for Laure, who

signed every program and posed for every photograph as if she

could keep it up all day. Typical Laure.

Sinjin was slowly beginning to realize Laure wasn’t like most

players. She wasn’t obsessed with what was best for her. She worried

about what was best for the tour. She was willing to sign every

autograph, shake every sponsor’s hand, sit for every interview—

provided the questions didn’t get too personal. During a match, she

competed as hard as anyone. The instant the match ended, though,

so did her desire to be better than the person across the net. Then

she was the first to lend them a helping hand. Where would she be if

Laure hadn’t helped her? Not standing in the winner’s circle, that’s

for sure.

“Did Emme win?” she asked, already thinking about her next

match.

Kendall consulted her phone, which she was using to keep

track of the live scores on the other courts. “She’s up a set and two

breaks. She’s a game away.”

“Then I guess I’ll see her tomorrow.”

Instead of having the day off, the players in the top half of the

draw would be right back on court the next day. Sinjin was grateful

• 72 •

Lucky Loser

for the short turnaround. Instead of having too much time to reflect

on what she had already accomplished, she could focus on what lay

ahead.“Are you going to stick around for my press conference?”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Laure said. “Yesterday I was

asked more questions about you than my match and I’m sure you’re

going to be given the same treatment today. My presence would

make it worse. Give me a call afterward.”

“You got it.”

❖

Laure rolled a massage bar over her thighs to release the lactic

acid in her muscles. She turned on the TV to take her mind off

the chore. Sinjin appeared on the screen. Sitting behind a bank of

microphones, she faced the assembled press corps.

“Who are you wearing?” a reporter asked.

The question made Laure feel like Sinjin was walking the

red carpet instead of sitting in the press room in the Millennium

Building, but it afforded Sinjin the opportunity to give Stephanie’s

fledgling line some free publicity.

“B and B by Stephanie Smythe.”

The name, Laure knew, was a play on Stephanie’s nickname.

Stephanie, who had always been accident-prone, spent most of her

life covered in bruises. So much so her friends had taken to calling

her Black and Blue.

“She has some great looks planned for me,” Sinjin said. “I hope

I stick around long enough to show them all off.”

“Rosana said playing you today was a drag,” another journalist

began. “Do you think she meant that literally?”

The question was obviously meant to stir up controversy.

Laure hoped Sinjin didn’t take the bait. She remembered the time

she had played Wimbledon through a firestorm. It was the first year

she had burst onto the scene and she had upset the top seed in the

semifinals by flashing the aggressive game that would soon become

her trademark.

• 73 •

yoLanda WaLLace

“She puts so much pressure on you all the time,” the top seed,

since retired, had said. “The way she crowds the net and hits winners

from all over the court, it’s almost like playing a guy out there.”

The press had turned the comment on its head, making it seem

like the other players considered Laure too masculine to play the

women’s game. The unwanted attention had shaken her focus. She

had played the final as if in a daze. Serena Williams had bulldozed

her in just over an hour. But armed with a thicker skin and steadier

nerves, she had returned to the site of her collapse the next year and

stormed to the title.

“I didn’t give Rosana any opportunities to break my serve

today,” Sinjin said. “So for someone who returns as well as she

does, it couldn’t have been very much fun for her out there today.

That’s what I think she meant.”

“After failing to qualify for the event, this is a big win for you.

How does it feel?”

“Like I’m just getting started.”

“Laure Fortescue was in the stands for your matches during

qualifying and she was there again today. You were a conspicuous

presence in her Friends Box yesterday. Sources say you’ve been

quite close off the court as well. You’ve been seen leaving her rented

house on several occasions. Is there something you wish to share

regarding the status of your relationship?”

Laure had known the questions would turn personal. They

always did when Sinjin played at home, but she hadn’t expected it

to happen so quickly.

This is the “reward” she gets for one of the biggest wins of her

career?

Sinjin took a sip of water as she paused to formulate an answer

to the query. Laure leaned toward the TV. If Sinjin answered the

question the wrong way, they’d have reporters and photographers

camped out on both their doorsteps for days.

“Laure and I have been friends for years. Nothing has or ever

will change that.”

Good answer.

• 74 •

Lucky Loser

“How can you be friends when you both want the same thing?

Doesn’t a Wimbledon title trump friendship?”

That was one question Sinjin didn’t have an answer for.

❖

Sinjin was jubilant. She had faced the firing squad and come

out unscathed. Well, relatively. The last question had been a doozy.

Some arsehole had tried to equate her knee therapy with blood

doping, the illegal performance-enhancing practice that had ruined

cycling’s reputation worldwide. The other questions hadn’t been a

walk in the park either. If she had a penny for every time she had

used the word friendship in her responses, she would be able to buy

Windsor Castle. No matter. Her victory over Rosana had put her in

the mix. She was a contender now.

She wanted to celebrate. She couldn’t remember the last time

she had felt so good. Physically or mentally. How long had it been?

One year? Two? No matter what the actual number was, way too

much time had passed since the last time she felt like she was firing

on all cylinders.

She ran into Kendall on her way out of the locker room. Kendall

was one of her few remaining single friends. Most of the others were

comfortably ensconced in relationships. Kendall would probably

never allow herself to be tied down unless there were whips and

chains involved.

“Do you want to grab a drink?”

“I’d be happy to help you spend some of the prize money you

just won.”

Kendall flashed a lopsided grin that should have made Sinjin’s

stomach turn somersaults. In the past few days, the only smile that

had that effect was Laure’s. Was the change permanent?

She and Kendall rode the tube to Soho and walked into

London’s lone women-only bar. A round of applause greeted their

arrival. Sinjin had thought her presence would go unnoticed. She

basked in the unexpected attention.

“Anything you want is on the house,” the bartender said.

• 75 •

yoLanda WaLLace

“In that case,” Kendall said, “we’ll have two of everything.”

“Down, girl.” Sinjin amended Kendall’s order. “A bottle of

water and a Foster’s, please.”

“Anything you want,” the bartender said. “And I mean anything.”

Kendall leaned forward to get a better look at the bartender’s

butt as she bent to retrieve a can of beer from an ice-filled cooler.

Sinjin stayed put.

“You could have told me you and Laure were dating,” Kendall

said as they nursed their drinks.

“We aren’t.” Sinjin stared at the TV screen, where Clair

Wilkinson—recently touted as the future of British women’s

tennis—was going down in flames.

Apparently, reports of her rise and my demise were premature.

“Bullshit. Abby told me how you ran out on her because there

was ‘someplace you had to be.’ Then I saw that picture in the Daily

Mail of you standing on Laure’s doorstep with a bottle of wine under

your arm. We both know what that means.”

“That someone with a telephoto lens didn’t have anything

better to do that night?” She dragged her eyes away from the one-

sided match and looked at Kendall’s tanned, perpetually smiling

face. “As I said during my press conference, Laure and I have a

friendship, not a relationship.”

Kendall took a sip of her pale ale. “Nice try, but I refuse to

believe that was anything other than a line you trotted out to protect

your relationship from further scrutiny. If you want me to believe

you, there is a way for you to prove it to me.”

“How?” Sinjin raised a bottle of mineral water to her mouth

and took a long swallow.

“Come back to my flat with me and help me break in my new

bed. My mattress isn’t the only thing I have that’s rock hard.”

Sinjin spit water all over the bar. Kendall grabbed a pile of

napkins and helped her sop up the mess.

“Not the reaction I was expecting, but it proves I’m right. You

do have something brewing with Laure.”

Sinjin looked around to make sure no one in the steadily

growing crowd had overheard Kendall’s comment. “You can’t say

anything to anyone. Do you hear me?”

• 76 •

Lucky Loser

“Mum’s the word. I swear.” Kendall lowered her voice to a

whisper. “Have you done the deed?”

“I haven’t even kissed her yet.”

“What are you waiting for?”

“Hello?” Sinjin tossed the soaked wads of paper into a trash bin

behind the bar. “I have a tournament to win.”

“You can’t do both? You can’t win a tournament and get some

action at the same time?”

“I tried that once. It didn’t work.”

“Because you let Queen Viktoriya walk all over you.”

The press had coined Viktoriya’s nickname to describe her

regal bearing on court. Her fellow players used it to describe her

imperious attitude in the locker room.

“You were expected to be her subject, not her equal. She said

‘jump’ and you said ‘how high?’ She said—”

“You don’t have to remind me,” Sinjin said testily. “I was there,

remember?” She finished her drink and slammed the empty bottle

on the bar. “I’ve got to go.”

“Volley drills in the morning,” Kendall said as they stood just

outside the front door. “I know they’re your favorite, so I’m going

to make sure you work your ass off.”

“Take it easy on me, okay? I do have a match to play tomorrow

afternoon.”

“I’ll think about it. Now give me a hug and run home to your

girlfriend.”

Sinjin didn’t bother to correct Kendall’s slip of the tongue. She

gave her a quick kiss and a lingering hug. Then she turned to leave.

“Aren’t you coming?”

“You might have someone waiting for you at home, but I

don’t.” Kendall turned and walked back into the bar.

Sinjin headed for Stephanie’s apartment. As she walked the

crowded streets, she thought about the conversation she and Kendall

had shared.

Could she do both? Could she win the tournament while she

was developing a relationship with one of the players she might

have to defeat at some point?

• 77 •

yoLanda WaLLace

“There’s only one way to find out. Let’s hope I don’t lose both

in the process.”

❖

Laure’s cell phone rang while she and Nicolas were reviewing

scouting reports on her next opponent. Gabrielle picked up the

phone and read the display.

“It’s Sinjin. Shall I send it to voice mail?”

“No.” Laure leaped out of her seat. “Give me the phone.”

Nicolas cleared his throat. “We aren’t finished.”

“Anaïs and I have played each other seventeen times. If I don’t

know her game by now, I never will.” She took the phone and jogged

upstairs to her bedroom. “Sin?”

“How did I do?”

Sinjin’s voice brought an immediate smile to her face. “On the

court or in the press room?”

“Either.”

“You were aces in both.”

“I have something to tell you.”

“Uh oh. That sounds ominous.”

“Promise you won’t get mad.”

Laure’s heart skipped a beat. Sinjin’s press conference had

ended hours ago. Where had she been since then, visiting Abby or

some other equally willing partner to scratch another itch? Barely

any time had passed since they acknowledged their attraction to

each other and Sinjin was already beginning to stray?

“Just tell me.”

“Kendall figured out what’s going on with us.”

Laure released her death grip on the edge of the mattress.

Sinjin’s news wasn’t what she wanted to hear, but it was better than

what she had feared.

“How did she figure us out when we haven’t?”

“Clairvoyant I guess.”

“She should add that to her job description. Somewhere

between Pilates aficionado and Zumba expert.”

• 78 •

Lucky Loser

“I swore her to secrecy.”

“Did she cross her heart and hope to die?” Laure lay back on

the bed. She felt like a teenager in the throes of a crush. Soon I’ll

start peppering my text messages with emoticons and ending every

sentence with LOL or LMAO.

“You’re making light of this? I thought you’d be pissed.”

“Unless Kendall’s walking around with a tape recorder in her

pocket, I don’t think we have anything to worry about.”

“She’s carrying something, but the last time I looked it wasn’t

a tape recorder.”

“When was the last time you looked?” Mireille’s cheating had

left Laure gun-shy. Sinjin was open about her voracious appetites.

Did that make her more suitable as a partner or less?

“It’s been a while. To be honest, I haven’t looked at anyone

since I came to see you last week.”

“Is that a personal best?”

“Pretty close.”

“I’ll buy you a chastity belt for your birthday.”

“Only if you promise we can play French Revolution. I’ll be

Marie Antoinette and you can be Louis XIV.”

“You might want to choose a different role. If I remember my

history correctly, Marie Antoinette lost her head.”

“Then the part’s perfect for me. Because I’m definitely losing

mine.”

“Do you rehearse these lines or do they come naturally to you?”

“I’ll admit that wasn’t my best effort. Let me go back to the

drawing board and see what I can do.”

“You do that.”

Laure was glad they weren’t talking via Skype. If they were,

Sinjin would have seen her blush. No one else got to her this way.

No one else put her at ease while at the same time keeping her on

her toes.

“Are you going to the dog and pony show tomorrow night?”

Sinjin asked.

They were sponsored by the same racquet company. With most

of the tennis world gathered in London, representatives of the firm

• 79 •

yoLanda WaLLace

had planned a lavish gala at the London Eye, the popular tourist

attraction that dominated the waterfront’s skyline.

Laure traced a finger over a rose embroidered in the floral-

themed duvet. “The last time I looked, our presence was required,

not expected.”

“Would you like to go together?”

“Are you asking me on a date?”

“If you want to call it that.”

“Sure. If I’m going to be trapped in a slow-moving capsule for

an hour, I’d rather it be with someone whose company I actually

enjoy.”

“Not the most enthusiastic ‘yes’ I’ve ever received, but I’ll take

it.” They talked for a while longer before ending the call. Laure

floated downstairs. Nicolas took note of her ear-to-ear grin.

“I’m glad you’re happy, but I don’t want you to lose focus.”

Laure tossed the scouting reports on the coffee table and

reached for her sketchpad. “My match isn’t until Thursday. If I’ve

lost focus, I’ve got time to find it.”

• 80 •

Lucky Loser

second round

Sinjin’s knees were fine, but her back was killing her.

Stephanie’s oversized couch was more comfortable than

some hotel beds she had slept in, but it wasn’t the Four Seasons. Or

the Ritz-Carlton. Then again, she hadn’t done much sleeping that

night.Last night she had fallen asleep watching video of her match

against Emme during the qualifying tournament. Now she had the

heavily hyped rematch to play and her muscles were tied up in

knots. So was her stomach.

Emme had drubbed a fellow qualifier in the first round to set

up the match all of England wanted to see. The winner would most

likely play Anke Schroeder, who had upset the twenty-fifth seed in

the first round and was favored to defeat the previous year’s junior

champion in the second.

Stephanie put the empty breakfast plates in the dishwasher and

strode to the corded phone nestled in a cubby hole next to the front

door. The phone was connected to the buzzer downstairs. A small

screen above the phone displayed images from the security camera

above the building’s front door.

Stephanie picked up the phone, listened for a second or two and

said, “She’ll be right down.” After hanging up, she reached for her

suit jacket and shrugged it on. “Your courtesy car’s here.”

The All England Lawn Tennis Club provided a fleet of

compact SUVs to shuttle the players between the tournament site

• 81 •

yoLanda WaLLace

and the players’ temporary accommodations, alleviating them of at

least one headache. They couldn’t do anything about the matches

themselves—or the often iffy weather.

Sinjin quickly downed the rest of her coffee and joined

Stephanie by the front door. “I’ll see you later, yeah?”

“I have meetings all morning, but I’ll be in the stands by the

time your match starts. Tell Nicolas to save me a seat. Good luck

this afternoon.” Stephanie wrapped her arms around Sinjin’s neck.

“God, you’re tense. I feel like I’m hugging a statue.” She briskly

rubbed Sinjin’s arms and shoulders. “If you’re worried about today,

don’t be. You don’t have to prove you belong. You already did that

yesterday. Just go out there and kick Emme’s arse.”

“I’ll try.”

Stephanie tilted her head. “Are you okay?”

Sinjin rubbed her aching back. “I think I’m getting too old for

your couch.”

“Try using the bed next time. That’s what it’s for.”

“Thanks, sis. I’ll try to remember that.”

She followed Stephanie downstairs and climbed into the back

of the courtesy car. The driver whisked her across town and parked

in front of the players’ entrance. Sinjin showed her ID badge to one

of the guards at the security checkpoint, then placed her racquet bag

and duffel bag on a table so they could be searched.

Her match was the third one scheduled for Court Eight, which

meant she probably wouldn’t begin play until after four o’clock.

The forgiving schedule would give her plenty of time to have

a training session with Kendall, a light practice session with her

hitting partner, a rubdown from the tour masseuse, and a leisurely

lunch in the players’ lounge.

After changing clothes in the locker room, she headed to the

practice courts at Aorangi Park. Kendall was waiting for her.

Kendall picked up a medicine ball. “Chuck this around and get

those muscles loose.”

They tossed the six-pound ball back and forth. Sinjin caught it

first on her left side then her right, swinging her body from side to

• 82 •

Lucky Loser

side to warm up her core. As she gradually worked up a sweat, she

thought about her upcoming match.

The last time she played Emme, she had converted only two

of ten break point opportunities. If she played the big points that

poorly again, Emme would bounce her out of the tournament just

like she had in Roehampton. Only this time there would be no

second chances.

“Last one,” Kendall said. “Make it good.”

The force of Sinjin’s throw drove Kendall backward.

“Easy, tiger. Don’t sprain all ten of my fingers. I may need my

hands later.”

Andrew ambled over. His weathered face and skinny, bowed

legs made him look more like a leprechaun than a tennis coach. He

ran a hand through his thinning silver hair. “All right. Let’s get to

work.”

Sinjin honed her game under his watchful eye.

Though long retired, Andrew had agreed to help her attempt

to refine the raw talent he had first spotted so long ago. She had

called him the day after the final round of qualifying matches at

Roehampton. He had immediately volunteered his services—with

one caveat. He would oversee her practice sessions as long as he

didn’t have to sit courtside during her matches.

Sinjin had readily agreed to the unusual—and probably

temporary—arrangement. Andrew had been a father figure for her

during her formative years after her biological one hit the bricks.

She was just happy to have him in her life again even if, at the

moment, he was making her life hell.

“You’re cheating on those low volleys. When I say, ‘bend,’ I

mean with your legs, not your back.” He demonstrated the proper

technique, practically scraping his knee on the court as he brought

his leg parallel to the ground. “If you get grass stains on those fancy

new clothes of yours, it won’t be the end of the world. Everything

comes out in the wash.”

Though his words sounded harsh, his voice was as warm

as ever. That didn’t stop them from bursting Sinjin’s balloon,

however. She thought she had played a perfect match when

• 83 •

yoLanda WaLLace

she upset Rosana. According to Andrew, she still had room for

improvement. Lots of room.

She had forgotten it took alligator skin to work with him. She

had to be careful not to let his blunt critiques dent her confidence.

Sometimes one word was all it took to shake her self-belief. She

could feel like a world-beater one second and a rank amateur the

next. The flaw had kept her from building on her sensational rookie

year. It had helped grease the skids as she slid down the rankings.

Her injuries had provided built-in excuses. The real reason for the

downturn in her career wasn’t her body but her head. Viktoriya was

inside it and she couldn’t get her out.

No one was better at shaking her confidence than Viktoriya

Vasilyeva. Viktoriya was an expert at planting seeds of doubt. She

was the queen of backhanded compliments. If Sinjin could beat her

once—just once—she could turn the tide in their rivalry. She could

close the book on years of frustration and begin writing a new chapter.

“Rosana let you get away with a couple of loose volleys

yesterday because it was the first round and she was so nervous she

couldn’t breathe,” Andrew said. “Don’t expect Emme to let you off

the hook today. She beat you once and, in her mind, she thinks she

can do it again.”

Sinjin set her jaw. “She’s wrong.”

Andrew allowed himself a rare smile. “That’s the spirit.”

❖

Laure hung out in the players’ lounge while she waited for

her scheduled practice court to open up. Sinjin had just finished

her practice session and was enjoying a pre-match snack. A grilled

chicken sandwich, a bowl of pasta salad, an apple, a couple bananas,

and a large bottle of water crowded the tray in her hands. All were

better options than the fare offered to fans in the food court, where—

aside from the ever-popular strawberries and cream—only the worst

of British cuisine crowded the menu.

While they waited, Laure and her trainer Gabrielle Meunier

pored through some of the latest tabloids. Sinjin avoided the tabs

• 84 •

Lucky Loser

like the plague, but Laure couldn’t resist their cleverly worded

headlines. Filled with puns and double entendres, they were always

good for a laugh—except when the joke was at her expense.

“The reviews of Chandler’s movie are in,” Gabrielle said, her

nose buried in The Times. “To quote one, ‘Unintentional comedy is

not pretty.’”

Laure was happy to see the reviews for Stephanie’s clothing

line were much more positive. Stephanie was like the big sister she

had never had. Laure adored her. What was not to like? Stephanie

was stylish, sophisticated, and funny as hell. But she wasn’t Sinjin.

Sexy, charming, maddening Sinjin.

Sinjin was a study in contrasts. Underneath the jokes and one-

liners lay a soft center she let only a few people see. She could blow

off adults who asked for her autograph but never turned down a

child who made the same request. Her swagger on court projected

a self-confidence she didn’t always feel. She shared her body but

refused to do the same with her heart. Laure wanted to be the one

who helped her meld the disparate halves of her personality into

one. She wanted to be the one Sinjin finally gave her heart to, freely

and without remorse. To receive it, she had to be able to do the same.

“Let me see that one.” She reached for a sports daily Gabrielle

had cast aside. The Kiss-Off, the headline read. There were two

photos beneath the headline. One was of Sinjin blowing a kiss to

her supporters in the stands. In the other, Sinjin and Kendall were

kissing on a busy sidewalk. “You two make a cute couple.”

Laure turned the newspaper around so Sinjin and Kendall could

see the front page. Kendall nearly choked on the big bite of apple in

her mouth. “Crikey, that’s not how it looks. That’s not how it was.

We were just—”

“Ramming your tongues down each other’s throats from the

looks of it.”

❖

The voice came from behind her.

Sinjin turned to face Viktoriya Vasilyeva. Viktoriya had dropped

only one game in the opening round—a dominating performance

• 85 •

yoLanda WaLLace

matched only by Blake Freeman, who had humiliated her first round

opponent by double bageling her on Centre Court.

Viktoriya wasn’t scheduled to play her next match until the

following day. She had come to the club for a training session and

was on her way out. Sinjin had spotted her on an adjacent court

earlier but had not acknowledged her presence. Now she couldn’t

be ignored.

“I saw you on the practice court. You looked good out there.”

Viktoriya tossed her long blond hair over her shoulder, a move

that always turned the teenage boys in the stands into puddles of

hormone-rich goo during her matches. The way her nipples poked at

the material of her tight, sweat-darkened T-shirt used to do the same

thing to Sinjin. “Then again, you always look good in practice. Too

bad you aren’t able to play well when it counts.”

“Tori.”

Viktoriya’s eyebrows shot up as if she were surprised to hear

Sinjin use the term of endearment.

Sinjin said something in Russian.

Viktoriya’s brow furrowed as her face clouded with fury.

Muttering something about “Ungrateful wastes of talent,” she

whirled around and stomped toward the locker room, her coach,

agent, and hitting partner trailing in her wake.

Laure set the newspaper aside. “What did you say to her?”

“‘Leave now or I’ll put my fist through your fucking face . ’

Or something to that effect. I can’t guarantee nothing was lost in

translation.”

Kendall laughed so loud people at the surrounding tables

craned their necks to see what she had found so amusing. “Good

one, mate. I have someplace I have to be—wink, wink—so I’ll see

you later.”

Gabrielle pushed her chair away from the table. “And I need to

check on your practice court, Laure, before Nicolas has someone’s

head.”Sinjin and Laure found themselves alone. Or as close to it as

possible in a room filled with hundreds of people.

“She still gets to you, doesn’t she?” Laure asked.

• 86 •

Lucky Loser

Sinjin smiled wanly. “More than you know.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“Maybe when we’re old and gray. Not right now. I can’t afford

the distraction.”

Laure drummed her fingers on the tabletop, her chin resting on

the heel of her hand. “What am I? Am I a distraction as well?”

“No.” Sinjin rested her hand on Laure’s, stilling her restless

fingers. “You’re better than I deserve.”

Laure’s dour expression didn’t change, but her eyes blazed.

Sinjin saw hope blossom in their depths. Despite that encouraging

sign, she felt unsettled when she took the court later that afternoon.

As the fans continued to file into their seats, she took a deep

breath and tried to calm down. The time would come to let her

emotions take over, but this wasn’t it. She channeled them into

her game instead. Her anger, her stress, her fear. All her feelings

flowed through her when she played, transferring from her hand to

her racquet to the ball. The court was her safe haven. Her sanctuary.

Nothing could touch her as long as she was standing between the

painted lines.

When play began, she felt safe. Protected. Invincible. She

trounced Emme 6-2, 6-1 in under an hour.

“Perhaps we should have Viktoriya piss you off every day,”

Laure said afterward.

“No,” Sinjin said, wondering how much the day’s emotional

upheaval would affect her in the next round. “Let’s not.”

“Are we still on for tonight? I could think of an excuse if you’d

like to skip the party.”

“No,” Sinjin said firmly. “The time for excuses is over. I’ll see

you tonight.”

❖

Laure joined Sinjin at the edge of the crowded capsule. The

glass pod held up to twenty-five people and it was filled to capacity.

“Regular or unleaded?”

• 87 •

yoLanda WaLLace

“I have tomorrow off. You don’t.” Sinjin reached for the glass

of champagne, leaving Laure with the mineral water. She pointed

at the panorama outside the clear glass walls. “Amazing, isn’t it?”

The view from the 443-foot London Eye was spectacular enough

to render one speechless. Each of the thirty-two transparent capsules

offered unobstructed 360-degree views of the city. On a clear day,

passengers could see up to twenty-five miles in all directions as The

Eye moved at a snail-like .6 miles per hour. Formerly known as the

Millennium Wheel, the architectural wonder rotated continuously,

affording riders one of a kind aerial views of, among others,

Buckingham Palace, the Houses of Parliament, Battersea Power

Station, and the countryside beyond. At the moment, Laure and

Sinjin were being treated to the awe-inspiring sight of a picture-

perfect sunset as the sun sank over the Thames. When they weren’t

posing for pictures with dignitaries who wanted face time with a

celebrity.

Sinjin looked at the gathered executives. “How much longer do

we have to play nice?”

Laure discreetly consulted the sleek designer watch on her

wrist. Barely fifteen minutes had passed since the doors had closed

and The Eye had been set in slow motion. “You don’t want to know.”

She touched her glass to Sinjin’s. “Welcome to the third round.”

“I would say the same, but you have some work to do.”

In her next match, Laure would square off against Anaïs

Chouinard, a former Wimbledon finalist whose game—and ranking—

had seen better days. “I’m not going to break our date. Are you?”

“I wasn’t planning on it.”

Sinjin sounded confident, but she looked as if she were in over

her head. Laure knew the feeling. She was in uncharted territory,

too. She was falling for another player. And she was falling hard.

“How is it you wine experts are able to tell what’s what about

a vintage simply by tasting it?” Sinjin asked.

“Patience, practice, and a strong liver.”

“No, really. I want to know.”

Laure was pleasantly surprised by Sinjin’s desire to become

informed on a subject about which she was so passionate. Sinjin

• 88 •

Lucky Loser

usually dismissed her other passions—antiques, history, and art—as

boring.

“There are five things to look for. The first is color.”

She closed her fingers around Sinjin’s. Sinjin’s warm skin

provided a sharp contrast to the chilled glass. Laure’s own skin

prickled from the heat.

She raised the champagne flute and tipped it toward Sinjin.

“Tilting the glass at an angle lets you see the colors, which can

give you clues to the variety of grape the vintner used.” She raised

the glass to eye level and examined the bubbling champagne. “This

test works best on a medium- or full-bodied red like a Syrah or a

cabernet instead of champagne, but we’ll make do.”

She loosened her grip on Sinjin’s fingers but didn’t release them.

She was enjoying the contact too much to sever the connection. She

raised the glass higher.

“The second stage is swirl. Swirling the wine exposes it to

more oxygen and releases the aromatic molecules that make up

its bouquet. We’ll skip this step because champagne is a sparkling

wine. Swirling would release more bubbles and ruin the bouquet.”

“Aromatic molecules, huh? If all my teachers looked like you,

Professor Fortescue, I would have paid more attention in school.”

Laure moved her hand to Sinjin’s wrist. She stroked the

sensitive area on the underside. She could feel Sinjin’s pulse racing.

Or was that hers?

A camera flashed nearby, but she didn’t pull away. The

dangerous game of cat and mouse she and Sinjin were playing was

completely out of character for her—and utterly liberating.

“A wine’s nose determines the drinker’s perception of its flavor.

Once you taste it—once you take it into your mouth—the aromatics

are exposed to body heat and burst against your tongue.”

Sinjin’s breath caught. Her eyes widened ever so slightly. “Are

we still talking about wine?”

Laure raised the glass to Sinjin’s lips. “Take a sip. Taste the

flavors. Let the champagne flow over your tongue. Let it saturate

your taste buds. Feel the weight of it. Feel its length.”

• 89 •

yoLanda WaLLace

Sinjin nearly choked on her drink. “Damn,” she said, wiping

her chin, “I think I just came.”

Laure dipped a finger into Sinjin’s glass. Sinjin watched her

intently as she raised the finger to her lips and slowly licked the tip.

“How was the finish?”

“I’m craving a cigarette and I don’t even smoke. Does that tell

you anything?”

“Then I won’t ask you about the afterglow. I mean aftertaste.”

Laure let the champagne infuse her senses. “I’m getting notes of

citrus, vanilla, honey, and toast.” She paused. “Pommery Brut

Royal. Ten years old. No, eleven.”

Sinjin looked astonished. “You barely tasted it. How the hell

did you know that?”

Laure grinned. “I read the label while the bartender poured

your glass.”

“Unfair. Patently unfair.” Sinjin took another sip of her

champagne. “I had no idea wine tasting could be so sexy. Or maybe

it’s just you.”

Laure rolled her eyes. “Are all your lines this bad?”

“No, I have some that are even worse.”

“I can’t wait to hear them.”

“If I said you had a beautiful body, would you hold it against

me? Or how about this one? You must be tired because you’ve been

running through my mind all night.”

As she listened to Sinjin recite one wretched pick-up line after

another, Laure sipped her Perrier and gave her the once-over. Not for

the first time. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t keep her

eyes off her. Sinjin’s long hair was swept up and pinned into a loose

bun. Two dreads, which had been allowed to remain free, framed her

face. And what a face it was. Her makeup was subtle but stunning.

Her lips were painted an enticing shade of plum. Blush a few shades

darker than her cinnamon-colored skin made her high cheekbones

look even higher. Black tuxedo pants showed off her long legs. A

sequined black halter-style blouse drew attention to her strong arms.

“You look incredible tonight. More of Stephanie’s line?”

“I said she had some great looks planned for me.”

• 90 •

Lucky Loser

“When her designs make it to the stores, they won’t be on the

shelves for long.”

“I’ll tell her you said so. I love you in that dress. Though I can’t

figure out which view I like best. The front or the back.” She took

Laure’s hand and spun her in a circle as if they were partners in a

ballroom dancing contest.

Laure was wearing a basic black dress that didn’t look so basic

when she turned around and revealed the deeply plunging back.

Gabrielle had picked it out. The dress wasn’t really Laure’s style—

she would have preferred jeans and a T-shirt—but she liked the

dress a little more each time someone said, “Picture, please,” and

Sinjin’s hand brushed across her bare skin before settling into the

small of her back.

Sinjin rubbed her neck as if it ached. Earlier that day, she had

mentioned feeling stiff and sore after falling asleep on Stephanie’s

couch. Had her post-match rubdown not been enough to work out

the kinks?

“Here. Let me.” She placed their empty glasses on a passing

waiter’s tray. Then she reached up and massaged the back of Sinjin’s

neck, feeling the tension melt away beneath her fingers. Sinjin’s

tight body thrummed with energy. Like a bullet waiting to be fired

or a thoroughbred yearning to run free. Sinjin groaned when Laure’s

thumbs dug into the bunched muscles in her shoulders. Then Laure

felt Sinjin’s energy change. She felt it find focus.

Sinjin turned around. “If you don’t stop that, I’m going to

make a public spectacle out of you. Although you would enjoy it

immensely at the time, you might kill me later.”

Laure played innocent. “What could you possibly do to me

while we’re suspended one hundred thirty-five meters in the air?”

Sinjin reached for her. For a moment, Laure thought she meant

to pull her into her arms. To grab a handful of her hair and hold her

in place. To lean down and press her mouth to hers. Instead, she

turned her around and pretended to repair a broken clasp on the

strand of pearls around her neck.

“First, I’d do this.”

• 91 •

yoLanda WaLLace

She ran her fingers through the downy-soft hairs on the nape

of Laure’s neck. The sensation was electric. Laure pressed her lips

together to keep from crying out.

“Then I’d do this.” She slid one hand from the nape of Laure’s

neck to the base of her spine.

Laure felt her control begin to slip.

“Then I’d replace my fingers with my tongue.”

Laure tried to turn around, but Sinjin held her in place. She

brought her mouth close to Laure’s ear.

“I want to feel your body arch underneath mine. I want to move

with you. Against you. I want to hear you scream my name again

and again, then beg for more. We could do that here or we could go

back to your place. What do you say?”

Laure rubbed the back of her neck to make the tingling stop.

She could still feel Sinjin’s breath blowing whisper-soft against her

skin. “I say we need to revisit this conversation at a later date.”

“After you’re retired and we’re no longer in direct competition?

That’s six months from now.”

“Good things come to those who wait.”

❖

Laure fired a ball against the back of the court. She had twice

as many errors as winners in a match that wasn’t as close as the

score indicated. She had just lost her serve to go down a break in

the second set. She had already lost the first set 6-4. If Anaïs had

taken advantage of even half the opportunities she had given her, the

match would already be over.

The crowd, sensing an upset, began to buzz. Was Laure about

to become the highest women’s seed to fall?

She stared at the scoreboard as she waited for the chair umpire

to call time. She was down a set and 3-2. If she didn’t get her act

together soon, her dream of a second Wimbledon title would come

to a premature end.

She jogged to the baseline as Anaïs prepared to serve to extend

her lead. The crowd roared when Laure won the first point. She

• 92 •

Lucky Loser

clenched her fist and glanced at her supporters in the Friends Box.

“Let’s go,” Nicolas and Gabrielle yelled in unison. Next to them

sat her parents, Henri and Mathilde. Unlike most tennis parents,

who were omnipresent during tournaments, her mother and father

normally attended championship matches only. Aware this was

her last time playing Wimbledon, they had come to England early,

arriving via Chunnel that afternoon.

Drawing energy from the crowd and strength from her parents’

presence, Laure tried to claw her way back into the match. She

wasted two break points, though, and Anaïs held serve. Anaïs was

two games from the match. And Laure was two games from going

home.

❖

Sinjin stepped on the balcony outside Centre Court. The area

was called the Crow’s Nest, but the only birds who flocked there

were vultures—agents trying to make deals and players watching

their rivals struggle on the courts that sat a few feet below.

She elbowed her way between a player scouting his next

opponent and an agent working his cell phone to claim a place near

the railing. She would have to support Laure from a distance. Court

Five was packed. Not a seat to be had. She looked at the hand-

operated scoreboard. Anaïs was up 6-4, 5-4. When the changeover

ended, she would serve for the match.

“Come on. You can do this.”

She didn’t know she had said the words out loud until Viktoriya

sidled up to her side and said, “Are you rooting for Laure to win or

lose? Neither she nor Anaïs are in your side of the draw and neither

one has a chance in hell of beating me, so what does it matter to you,

anyway? Besides, if Laure lost, she’d do us both a favor. She’d be

out of my hair as well as yours. You wouldn’t have to wring your

hands over the prospect of playing her in a final neither of you is

going to reach. So be honest. Aren’t you rooting for Anaïs just a

little bit?”

• 93 •

yoLanda WaLLace

Sinjin hated to admit it, but there was an element of truth in

what Viktoriya was saying. If Laure lost, she wouldn’t have to

worry about competing against her if they reached the championship

match. With Laure out of the tournament, she would have one less

player to worry about. But she didn’t want to see Laure hurt. A loss

this early would devastate her whether it was her last Wimbledon or

her first.

Sinjin faced Viktoriya for the second time in as many days.

“What I said yesterday still stands.”

Viktoriya smirked, her ice blue eyes dancing with merriment.

She didn’t look like a woman in danger of losing her number one

ranking. She looked like her old self. “I’m not afraid of you, Sinjin.

You may talk a big game, but I know you’re a pussycat underneath it

all.” She leaned forward until her lips were inches from Sinjin’s ear. “I

saw the way you looked at me in the players’ lounge yesterday,” she

said in Russian. “You still want me. Let me make you purr, pussy.”

Sinjin gripped the railing as if the safety structure were a

life preserver preventing her from going under. Viktoriya’s offer

should have been easy to refuse. Why wasn’t she saying no? When

Viktoriya trailed a finger across the back of her hand, she felt her

body begin to betray her. Quick, no-strings sex was her favorite

outlet for relieving tension. Heaven knew she was about to blow.

But for the first time in a long time, what she wanted wasn’t what

she needed. She needed—and wanted—Laure.

“I’ve learned some things since we were together,” Viktoriya

said. “I would love to show them to you.”

“I would love to show you something, too. My back as I walk

away. I hope you enjoy the view.”

Sinjin hoped to get in the last word. Viktoriya, as usual, one-

upped her.

“I always do. There’s nothing like the view from the top.”

❖

As she sat in her chair during the changeover, Laure took a sip

of water and looked around. The court was standing room only. So

• 94 •

Lucky Loser

was the Crow’s Nest. The vultures were circling. Let them circle.

She wasn’t dead yet.

She took another sip of water. And nearly choked on it when

she spotted Sinjin and Viktoriya conversing. Though calling it

conversing was a stretch. Viktoriya seemed to be doing most of the

talking. Sinjin’s body language screamed “Go away,” but Viktoriya

kept moving closer.

Sinjin walked away, but Viktoriya’s broad smile said she had

gotten what she wanted. Or soon would. Turning that smile in

Laure’s direction, she held up her hand and waved. Was she waving

hello or good-bye?

“You can’t get rid of me that easily, your highness. You and I

have a date in the semifinals.”

She broke Anaïs’ serve at love, then went on a tear. She

couldn’t miss. No shot was impossible. She won the second set 7-5

and closed out the match in dominant fashion, finishing with her

sixth ace as she won the third set 6-0.

“The match was closer than most people anticipated,” a reporter

said during the press conference that followed. “What happened?”

“Anaïs played well from the beginning of the match and I

didn’t play as well as I’m capable of until the match was almost

over. She hit some good shots and kept me off balance for almost

two sets. I was a bit lucky to pull out the second set. I’ve been

working on beefing up my serve. In the third set, it finally began to

pay dividends. The match wasn’t pretty, but a win’s a win and I’ll

take it.”

“I noticed Sinjin Smythe wasn’t in attendance today. Will you

explain why?”

“Just because you didn’t see her didn’t mean she wasn’t around.

She has a match to prepare for. She can’t do that by sitting around

watching me struggle for two and a half hours.”

“Will you be in the stands for her match tomorrow?”

“Of course. This is my—” She barely stopped herself from

saying last. “This is one of my favorite tournaments and I want to

spend it surrounded by the people I care about. Sinjin’s one of those

people.”

• 95 •

yoLanda WaLLace

❖

Sitting on the couch in Laure’s rented house, Sinjin cued

up a replay of the 1986 U.S. Open semifinal between Martina

Navratilova and Steffi Graf. Navratilova had won the classic match

10-8 in the third set tiebreaker against the upstart Graf who would

go on to claim twenty-two Grand Slam singles titles, second only to

Australian great Margaret Smith Court’s twenty-four.

Laure looked over Sinjin’s shoulder. “Why are you watching

a hard court match to prepare for one on grass? The styles of play

dictated by the two surfaces are completely different.”

In the next round, Sinjin would be squaring off against Anke

Schroeder. The winner would advance to the round of sixteen for the

first time in her career.

“To remind myself of something.”

“What?”

“That.”

She pointed to the computer monitor. Laure peered at the action

on the screen.

Preparing to deliver a second serve at eight points-all in the

third set tiebreaker after failing to convert three match points,

seventeen-year-old Graf was so nervous she couldn’t hold on to her

racquet as she stood at the baseline.

“I have to keep telling myself Anke will hit her share of winners

tomorrow, but at some point, she will eventually remember she’s

only eighteen. I just have to hang in there long enough to be in

position to take advantage of the moment when it arrives.”

She closed the file and opened one that contained footage of the

same players’ clash in the following year’s Wimbledon final. The

match was less complicated than its predecessor, but it had meant

much more. History—and the number one ranking—had been on the

line. In the end, Steffi had eventually taken Martina’s top spot, but

on that day, Martina’s kick serves to Steffi’s backhand had carried

her to her sixth consecutive Wimbledon title and eighth overall. She

would earn a record ninth three years later. Sinjin turned the sound

down, letting the images flow across the screen sans commentary.

• 96 •

Lucky Loser

“How was your day?” she asked.

“Frustrating, but I managed to get through it. That’s what

counts. On the brighter side, Nicolas told me he asked Stephanie to

dinner.”

Sinjin was only mildly surprised. She had seen the way

Nicolas looked at Stephanie over the years—and Stephanie at him.

The interest was definitely mutual. The only question was how

far Stephanie would allow the relationship to develop before she

reverted to her usual MO and found an excuse to end it.

“You’ll never guess what I got in the mail today,” Sinjin said.

“An offer to change your mobile phone provider?”

Sinjin pulled an envelope out of her laptop bag and tossed it to

Laure. “No, try again.”

Laure turned the envelope over in her hands but didn’t reach

for what was inside. “What’s this?”

“A letter from the Queen.”

“Oh? Did you forget to pay your taxes?”

“No, she said if I make the final, she’ll come to watch me play.”

Laure’s eyes widened. The only sporting events the Queen

regularly attended were The Derby and the Royal Ascot. She never

missed England’s most prestigious horse race, but aside from the

Duke of Kent and the late Princess Diana, the sight of a Windsor at

the All England Club was as rare as a Wimbledon without rain. “I

thought she hated tennis.”

“She does.”

“So I guess it’s up to you to change her mind.” Laure nudged

Sinjin’s hip with her foot. “Good luck with that.”

“Thanks. I appreciate the support.”

“I’m here for you. Do you really think she’ll come?”

“She said she would. Why would she lie?”

“She is a politician after all.”

“Then I guess there’s only one way to find out for sure: make

the final and see if she shows up.” She leaned back on the couch and

sighed.

Laure hugged her knees to her chest. “Would you rather be off

painting the town red instead of listening to Stephanie, Gabrielle,

• 97 •

yoLanda WaLLace

and my parents discuss the merits of paisley versus plaid while

Nicolas tries not to burn the steaks? Excuse me. Six steaks and one

lonely salmon filet.”

“I’ve already risked jinxing myself by having dinner here

instead of at Fog. You managed to get me here, but there’s no way

you’re going to convince me to change my meal, too.”

“Relax. I’m not trying to play mind games with you. I just

wanted to spend some time with you without talking about anything

remotely related to tennis.”

Taking the hint, Sinjin shut down her laptop.

“This nuclear family thing is new to me. I haven’t been part

of a traditional family since I was little. My father left when I was

four. My mother died when I was thirteen. My father’s parents took

care of Steph and me for a while. I’ve lived in the States off and on

since I enrolled at a tennis academy in Florida when I was fifteen.

Stephanie moved out on her own shortly after. For years, it’s been

the two of us against the world, and we didn’t see each other as

much as we should because I was traveling all the time. Both of us

have been alone more often than not.”

“Has your father ever tried to reach out to you? My parents and

I are so close I can’t imagine not having either of them around.”

“I haven’t seen my dad since I was sixteen. He showed up at

one of my junior tournaments and stuck around long enough to say

hi then took off again. When Steph and I were kids, he would call

us on our birthdays and say he was coming to see us, but he never

showed up. After a while, we stopped caring. We had a mother who

loved us, we had each other, and we didn’t need anyone else.”

“But your grandparents are still in your life. I remember you

telling me how your father’s parents tape your matches and watch

them after they’ve ended.”

“Even though they already know the result by the time they

watch the tapes, my grandfather still yells at the screen as if he can

affect the outcome and my grandmother makes enough pots of tea

to supply an army.” She laughed at the fond memory. “My mother’s

parents are just as bad. I’ve offered to get all of them tickets for

some of my matches, but they’re just like Andrew—so nervous they

• 98 •

Lucky Loser

can’t watch in person. My paternal grandparents are in Brighton,

but my maternal ones are still in Nigeria. I don’t see my mother’s

parents as often as I do my father’s, obviously, but I do keep in touch

with them. The last time I talked to them, they said all of Lagos was

cheering for me.”

“Great,” Laure said with a wink. “Like you weren’t enough of

a crowd favorite already.”

Sinjin shrugged as she basked in the glow of Laure’s smile.

“Everyone loves an underdog.”

“I’m rather fond of them, too.”

“I think I can do this.”

“What? Win the tournament?”

“No.” She leaned forward and kissed Laure’s cheek. “Fall in

love with you.”

• 99 •

• 100 •

Lucky Loser

third round

Laure thought the best part of a relationship was having

someone to share things with. From something as simple

as a meal to something as profound as a work of art. She wanted

someone to share her life with the way her parents had been sharing

theirs for the past forty years. Her mother was a curator for the

Louvre. Her father was an art dealer who specialized in emerging

artists. She had grown up listening to their lively debates about food,

wine, music, and art. Their latest talking point was Picasso’s Child

With a Dove. She smiled to herself as she watched them debate the

merits of the portrait while speculating about the “secret” painting

that might be hidden under the thick layers of oil. As she stood in

line to see Van Gogh’s Sunflowers, she wished she could emulate

their example. She wished Sinjin was by her side.

Her parents provided pleasant company as they spent the day

exploring the endless treasures housed in the National Gallery, but

she couldn’t stop wondering what Sinjin would make of them all.

What would she have to say about Rubens’ Samson and Delilah?

Would Sinjin, as she had, find areas of confluence in Cézanne’s

Bathers and Seurat’s similarly-titled Bathers at Asnières? Would she

prefer them to Monet’s Bathers at La Grenouillère? Would she be

entranced by Velázquez’ Rokeby Venus or would she be drawn instead

to Ingres’ haughty Madame Moitessier? Would she aspire to have her

likeness hang alongside those of other notable Britons in the National

Portrait Gallery? Or would she be bored to tears by the whole thing?

• 101 •

yoLanda WaLLace

Someone in line behind her gently tapped her on the shoulder.

“You’re Laure Fortescue, aren’t you?”

Laure turned to face her inquisitor, a cute redhead in a pinstriped

suit, stiletto heels, and a lacy blouse that invited further inspection.

Then she took a quick glance around to see how many people might

swoop down on her if she said yes. She liked spending time with her

fans, but she’d rather spend this day with her family. Just like Sinjin,

she didn’t see her family nearly as often as she wanted. Another

reason to look forward to retirement. When her playing days were

over, she and her parents could try to regain some of the time they

had lost. She couldn’t wait for them to be together for days or even

weeks at a time, either at their apartment in Paris or her house in

Saint Tropez.

“Yes, I am.”

“I thought it was you. Thrilling win yesterday.”

Laure reflexively gripped the sketchbook in her hands. The

only thing she wanted to take away from the previous round was the

fact that she had won. Everything else was best forgotten. “A little

too thrilling, if you ask me.”

“You’ll play better when you’re back on the show courts. I

imagine it must be difficult to concentrate with the excitement and

hubbub of seven other courts in action all around you. Speaking of

excited, Sinjin has a lot of people’s pulses racing.”

Mine included.

“Do you think she can go all the way?”

“She has a tough draw,” Laure said, “but if she plays up to her

abilities, she can do some damage.”

“That would be lovely to see. Tell her we’re all rooting for her.

All of us.”

“I will.”

She inched closer to Van Gogh’s Impressionist masterpiece. In

another week, she hoped to paint a masterpiece of her own. And it

could come at Sinjin’s expense.

A roar swept across the room.

“Unless a long-lost Gainsborough has been found,” Laure said

to no one in particular, “I fear we’ve missed something.”

• 102 •

Lucky Loser

The redhead consulted her smartphone. “Ah, Andy Murray just

advanced to the round of sixteen.”

“Good for him.”

Murray was poised to make another deep run. Would he stall in

the semifinals yet again or was he finally ready to break through to

his first Wimbledon final?

After she made her way through the line and got a good, long

look at the painting, she headed to the espresso bar downstairs. Her

parents joined her a few minutes later. While her mother viewed

digital reproductions of the gallery’s collection via a state-of-the-art

touch screen, her father reached for her sketchbook. “Let’s see what

you’ve been working on this week.”

“It’s not finished yet.” She tried to grab the book, but he pulled

it out of her reach.

He arched an eyebrow. “Are you doubting my ability to judge

a work in progress?”

“Of course not, but I’d rather show you the finished product.”

She took another swipe at the sketchbook, but he leaned away from

her. “Indulge him,” her mother said with a well-practiced sigh.

Laure tore her paper napkin into shreds as her father slowly

flipped through the pages. He rubbed his chin as he examined the

last page in the sketchbook. She recognized the look. It was the

same look that crossed his face every time he examined a work that

intrigued him.

“Hmph.” The familiar grunt was a mixture of appreciation and

pride.Her mother leaned over to take a peek. “Extraordinary. Do you

have a title?”

“Medusa.”

“Fitting,” her father said, sliding the sketchbook across

the table. “I look forward to seeing the completed work. And to

continuing to get to know your subject.”

After the final point of each of her matches, Sinjin removed

the bandanna that held her hair out of her eyes. When she shook

her hair free, she always reminded Laure of the gorgon from Greek

• 103 •

yoLanda WaLLace

mythology. Only Laure didn’t turn to stone when she looked into her

eyes. She turned to mush instead. Her sketch depicted Sinjin in all

her hair-flying glory. She traced a finger across the nearly finished

drawing, being careful not to smudge the hatch lines.

Warm fingers grazed the nape of her neck, sending chills down

her spine. She turned, half-hoping Sinjin had decided to brave a

potential mob scene in order to surprise her. The cute redhead with the

stiletto heels held a business card between two French-tipped fingers.

“In case you need additional tennis results.”

Laure glanced at the card, which identified its owner as Sienna

Armstrong, corporate accounts representative for one of London’s

largest banks.

“Good luck tomorrow,” Sienna said.

“Thank you.”

“My pleasure.”

“Hmph,” Laure’s father grunted after Sienna took her leave.

“The Fortescue charm strikes again. She gets it from me, you know.”

“Thankfully,” Laure’s mother said as Laure passed her the card

under the table, “she gets her discretion from me.” She palmed the

card and deposited it in the nearest trash bin.

Laure knew she would be fantasizing about those stiletto heels

for days. In her dreams, the woman wearing them wouldn’t be

Sienna Armstrong but Sinjin Smythe.

❖

Sinjin toed the baseline. Anke was too talented a returner to

give her free games and hope to be able to catch up. Holding serve

was imperative. Sinjin hadn’t had her serve broken in her first two

matches. She hadn’t even faced break point. Now in the very first

game, she found herself staring at three of them.

She erased the break points with back-to-back-to-back aces,

then struck a service winner to reach game point. Before she could

put the anxious crowd’s fears to rest, though, Anke drew the game

to deuce with a return that whizzed past her before she was barely

out of her service motion.

• 104 •

Lucky Loser

Okay, she thought as she looked around Court Two, it’s going

to be a long day at the office.

Sensing she needed an energy boost, the crowd broke into

rhythmic applause.

Sinjin bounced on her toes, reminding herself to move her feet.

She tried to pump herself up, but she felt flat. By making the third

round, she had achieved a personal best. She had reached one of

the goals she had set for herself before the tournament began. But

that modest goal was no longer enough. She wanted more. And she

would have to do it at the expense of a friend.

She looked across the net at Anke. So young, so eager. Her

hunger to win was fully evident. For the first time in the tournament,

Sinjin didn’t feel that hunger in herself. What she felt was the fear

of losing. She didn’t want to walk off the court second best, but at

the same time, she didn’t want to be responsible for dashing Anke’s

dreams.

When she double faulted to give Anke another break point, she

felt as if she was reverting to her old self.

“Dig deep.” Laure pounded her fist over her heart. “Whatever

it takes. Win this and you get two days off.”

Sinjin had tried to conserve energy in the first two rounds

to save herself for the later ones. But with no play scheduled for

Sunday, the traditional day of rest, she was in a good position. She

could tap into her reserves as much as she needed to and she would

have two days to recover from the effort.

She hit three sharply angled serves to pull out the game. After

the last one, she felt the surge of excitement she had expected to

kick in when she had first walked on court. Riding the wave, she

reeled off eight straight points to build a quick 3-0 lead. Anke shook

off her early nerves and found her game but not before Sinjin took

the first set 6-3.

The second set was a reversal of the first. Anke was the one who

got off to the fast start as Sinjin, perhaps too relaxed after winning

the opening set, let her concentration lapse and dropped serve for

the first time in the tournament. Painting the lines with her returns,

Anke got an insurance break and pushed her lead to 5-0.

• 105 •

yoLanda WaLLace

During the changeover, Sinjin tried to decide whether to fight

for the set or throw it away and prepare for the third. Make her serve

it out and see what happens, she said to herself as she toweled off.

Hold your serve and see if she starts to feel it. If she tightens up, you

still have a chance to win this set. If she doesn’t, at least you’ll start

the third serving first.

“Time,” the chair umpire said.

Sinjin bounced out of her chair and took the court with her

head up and her shoulders back. Her positive body language let

Anke—and the crowd—know that she wasn’t discouraged by the

seemingly insurmountable deficit she faced.

One problem with Anke’s game was she didn’t put enough

thought into constructing a point. Her strategy was a simple one:

hit every ball as hard as she could. She also rushed through her

matches, playing each point as if she were late for dinner. The rules

allowed for thirty seconds between points, but she rarely took more

than fifteen. Instead of taking some extra time before a big point the

way most veterans did, she just grabbed the ball and served.

Common sense said Sinjin should slow the pace in order to

throw off Anke’s rhythm. Throwing common sense to the wind,

she followed Anke’s frenetic pace instead of disrupting it. After

punching a backhand volley into the open court to hold serve, she

sprinted to the baseline to receive Anke’s deliveries.

She came in on each of Anke’s serves, no matter how good

or bad the return. She wanted Anke to feel the pressure of the

moment—and from the other side of the net.

Anke missed her first passing shot by an inch then started to

press. Her next shot caught the top of the tape. The next two found

the middle of the net.

Down 2-5, Sinjin sprinted to her chair for the changeover. Once

more, she returned to the court before the end of the allotted ninety

seconds. She took half her normal amount of time between points

as she quickly held serve for 3-5. Another break and she would be

back on track.

“Come on, come on, come on,” she chanted to herself.

• 106 •

Lucky Loser

She won the first point by hitting an unexpected drop shot in the

middle of a long rally. On the second, she sliced a backhand return.

The ball landed short and stayed low, drawing Anke to the net just

as she had intended. Anke got to the ball in plenty of time only to

watch Sinjin hit a lob over her head for a clean winner. Love-30.

Continuing to go for broke, Sinjin grabbed the next two points

to break serve.

The crowd, dead silent only minutes before, regained its voice.

Sinjin breathed a sigh of relief but reminded herself not to take

her foot off the gas. “You’re not out of it yet.”

When play resumed, she took something off the ball, forcing

Anke to generate her own pace. Like a batter who expected a fastball

but received a changeup, Anke mistimed her swing. She caught a

couple of balls late and overhit the rest. Spraying errors all over the

court, she allowed Sinjin to pull even at 5-all.

Two games away from the match, Sinjin finally slowed down.

She played at the pace of the server as the rules dictated, but she also

made sure Anke had plenty of time to think. Time to rue her missed

opportunity.

Anke took deep, gulping breaths to settle her frayed nerves, but

the damage was done. Sinjin had her teeth in the match and refused

to let go. Playing power tennis from the baseline, she beat Anke at

her own game.

She broke Anke at love and served for the match.

When Anke stroked a backhand return long on match point,

Sinjin dropped her racquet and raised her hands to her head in

disbelief. She had overcome a crisis of confidence in the first set,

then she had reeled off seven straight games to win the second.

Anke’s eyes were wet when she and Sinjin shook hands at the

net. Having been in Anke’s position many times before, Sinjin knew

Anke wanted to get off the court as fast as possible so she could cry

in the locker room, but she had to impart something to her first.

“Experience got me through this one. You’re only going to get

better. Learn from this.”

“I will,” Anke said, choking back the tears that were threatening

to fall.

• 107 •

yoLanda WaLLace

Though Anke was distraught over the loss, Sinjin knew she

would take her advice to heart. Anke was a hard worker dedicated to

improving her game. As soon as she fulfilled her obligations to the

press, she would probably head to the practice court to work on the

shots Sinjin had pressured her into missing.

Sinjin raised her arms over her head to applaud the cheering

crowd. She kept telling herself to act like she had been there before,

but she couldn’t because she hadn’t.

For the first time in her career, she had made it to the second

week of Wimbledon.

• 108 •

Lucky Loser

middLe sunday

Unlike Chandler Freeman, whose off-court activities contin-

ued to make headlines, Sinjin’s weekend was a quiet one.

Though Friday’s match had not been physically demanding, it had

exacted an emotional toll.

She spent most of Saturday paying the price. While she watched

Laure cruise to an easy straight set third round win, she struggled

with the realization that the first week of the tournament, as difficult

as it had been, was actually the easy part. Now she would have to

win four matches in six days. All the round of sixteen matches would

be played on Monday. The women’s quarterfinals would follow on

Tuesday with the semifinals on Thursday and the final on Saturday

afternoon. If she kept winning, the condensed schedule would

provide a stern test of both her physical and mental endurance.

As the tournament progressed, the matches were bound to

get tougher—and longer. The first week, she had tried to win each

match in straight sets. The second week, she simply wanted to win

each match. She didn’t care if the scores were close or one-sided as

long as they were in her favor. Her entire career had come down to

this. She had one week to prove to herself and to everyone else she

belonged on her sport’s grandest stage.

In the round of sixteen, she was set to square off against

Madeline Harper. Though seeded ninth and ranked ten in the world,

the rising star from Ottawa had received very little attention during

the first week of the event. Journalists tried to pull interesting

• 109 •

yoLanda WaLLace

quotes from her during her post-match press conferences, but she

didn’t give much away. She followed the same strategy on court,

sacrificing flashiness for workmanlike consistency. But when she

spotted an opening, she unleashed a forehand that was as big as

anyone’s in the game.

To beat her, Sinjin would have to change her tactics yet again.

Unlike most baseliners, Madeline made frequent forays to the net,

especially on fast surfaces. When they squared off, Sinjin would

have to get to the net first and play the baseline well enough to keep

Madeline on her heels. But with the match a full twenty-four hours

away, she had plenty of time to sit down with Andrew and come up

with a game plan. She didn’t want to start thinking about Xs and Os

just yet. She had something else she needed to do first.

On Middle Sunday, the traditional day of rest during which no

matches were played, she took the train to Notting Hill. Outside the

tube station, she hailed a cab and directed the driver to a house with

a blue door. “Wait for me.”

The cab driver tipped his Manchester United cap as if he were

a nattily-attired chauffeur. “Yes, Miss Smythe.”

Sinjin was still getting used to the star treatment she had been

afforded since her upset victory in the first round. She hadn’t paid

for her own meal or bought her own drink in days. Funny how a few

wins can change everyone’s opinion of you. A few days ago, I was a

has-been. Now everyone knows my name.

She climbed out of the backseat and walked up the driveway.

Standing on the stoop, she lifted the heavy brass knocker and rapped

three times. Laure appeared in the doorway. Sinjin held out her

hand, her heart pounding so hard she could feel it thumping against

her ribs. She felt like she had just finished a three-hour match when,

for all intents and purposes, she was barely halfway through the first

set. “Come with me.”

Laure glanced at the taxi idling by the curb. “And go where?”

“There’s someone I want you to meet.”

❖

• 110 •

Lucky Loser

“Would you like me to wait?” the cabbie asked after Sinjin paid

the fare.

“No, we’re going to be a while. We’ll take the tube back.”

“Cheers then,” the cabbie said before speeding away.

Laure shoved her hands into the pockets of her cargo shorts.

“Should I have packed a lunch?”

“It’s not that kind of trip. If you’re hungry, I’ll take you

somewhere when we’re done.”

Based on Sinjin’s much-too-serious expression, Laure doubted

she would feel like eating when they were “done.”

In contrast to tourist-laden Hyde Park, Hampstead Heath was

frequented mostly by locals. On Sunday afternoons, the Heath’s three

square miles of woods, meadows, hills, ponds, and lakes teemed

with residents burning off the calories from lunch or discussing the

latest headlines while they basked in the sun.

As she and Sinjin walked through the Heath’s open spaces,

Laure felt like they had abandoned the city for the country. But then

Sinjin led her to a wooden bench perched atop a gently rolling hill

and she was treated to a panoramic view of the sprawling metropolis

that was London.

“My mother used to bring me and Stephanie here every

weekend,” Sinjin said, taking a seat. “Just about every momentous

event in our lives has taken place here.” She patted the spot next to

her. “I signed my first professional contract here. Stephanie had her

first kiss here.”

Squatting in front of the bench, Laure traced her fingers over the

initials that had been carved into the wood. SIS. SJS. Sinjin Imogene

Smythe. Stephanie Jacinda Smythe. “Where was your first kiss?”

“I haven’t had it yet.”

“You’ve probably experienced more first kisses than all my

other friends combined.”

“I’ve had kisses that made my toes curl and kisses that made

me think twice, but I’ve never had one where bells ring, angels sing,

and I know this is it. Where I know this is the person I’m supposed

to spend the rest of my life with. I’ve never been kissed like that.

Have you?”

• 111 •

yoLanda WaLLace

“Once. You gave it to me.”

“Really? When?”

“Three years ago, you kissed me in the middle of Arthur Ashe

Stadium. I’ve never forgotten that moment. Or how I wished it

would never end. At the time, I thought I was excited about the title

we had just won—and mortified by the fact that twenty thousand

people were watching us. Now, the more I think about it, I realize

I didn’t care about the title or how many people were looking on. I

just wanted you to kiss me again.”

She took a long look at the bench, finally recognizing it as

the one from the photo in Stephanie’s foyer. The photo of Sinjin,

Stephanie, and their mother that Sinjin rubbed for luck before each

match. She felt as if something momentous was about to happen.

She sat next to Sinjin, alternating between admiring the view and

examining Sinjin’s face. Sinjin seemed to be on the verge of tears.

“Who did you want me to meet?” she asked as gently as she

could.“My mum.”

Laure must have looked as confused as she felt. Sinjin took her

hands in hers.

“In Brighton, we lived close to the pier so we got to see it every

day. On the weekends, it was too crowded and too noisy for Mum’s

taste. She preferred it here. The trip is only an hour by train, but for

us, coming to London was like going on holiday. While Stephanie

and I ran all over the place getting into everything we could, Mum

used to sit here and do crossword puzzles. It’s how she improved

her English. She would bring The Times and a crossword puzzle

dictionary and spend hours filling in all the spaces. We weren’t

allowed to leave until she finished the puzzle of the day. So no

matter how long it took, we were here for the duration.”

Laure looked out at the Heath. Sinjin’s words were so vivid she

could clearly see the images she described. She could hear Stephanie

and Sinjin giggling while they played. She could see their mother’s

proud smile as she watched over them.

Sinjin’s voice shook as she related the story. She didn’t talk

about her mother often. Until a couple of nights ago, she had never

• 112 •

Lucky Loser

offered anything other than the most basic information about either

of her parents. Even though her mother had been gone for years, she

obviously still grieved her loss. She pulled a photo out of her pocket.

Laure looked at the creased picture. Sinjin’s mother was an

arresting woman with regal bearing, warm brown eyes, and skin the

color of dark chocolate. Sinjin and Stephanie looked like the woman

in the picture, but their height, caramel complexions, and hazel eyes

were signs of their father’s contributions to their gene pool.

“When she died, we spread half her ashes in Lagos and the rest

here because this was her favorite spot in the whole world. I can still

feel her here, so whenever I’m in London, I always come here to sit

and talk to her for a while. I brought you here because I wanted her

to meet you.”

Laure placed a hand over her heart. No one—friend or lover—

had ever made such a magnanimous gesture on her behalf. A light

breeze bearing a faint scent of coconuts gently kissed her tear-

streaked cheeks.

“Coconut rice was Mum’s favorite dish. She could eat it three

times a day,” Sinjin said as the aroma grew stronger. She put her arm

around Laure’s shoulders and held her tight. “I think she likes you.”

She pressed a kiss to Laure’s temple. “I think I do, too.”

• 113 •

• 114 •

Lucky Loser

round of sixteen

The second Monday of the tournament brought something

none of the organizers wanted to see: rain.

Thanks to a multimillion-dollar translucent roof, the matches

on Centre Court could be played until conclusion after a brief delay,

but the players on the surrounding courts would have to wait for the

downpour to end before they could see action, and even then they

weren’t guaranteed they would be able to complete their matches.

Sinjin was one of those players.

Waiting anxiously in the players’ lounge, she peered out at the

gunmetal gray sky. Her match was the third one on the schedule for

Court Fourteen. If either of the matches preceding hers ran long,

she would run the risk of having her match suspended because of

darkness. If that happened, it would contract her compact schedule

even more. Instead of playing four times in six days with a day

off after the quarterfinals, she would have to play for four straight

days and she wouldn’t have a day off until Friday—if the rain didn’t

disrupt the rest of the week’s schedule.

Wimbledon, like the French Open, did not have lighted courts.

Matches at the Australian Open and the U.S. Open were often

contested until the wee hours of the morning, but play in Paris and

London ended as soon as darkness descended. On normal days,

matches at Wimbledon could be played until nearly ten p.m. But with

the sun nowhere to be seen, fourth round matches would probably

be called at least an hour before then. Centre Court could be bathed

• 115 •

yoLanda WaLLace

in bright artificial light if the need arose, but because the organizers

were determined to have the tournament remain a daytime, outdoor

event, the lights were illuminated only when inclement weather

necessitated the roof’s closure.

Sinjin tried to convince herself that if she kept winning, the

schedule makers would have no choice but to place her match on

Centre Court. Until then, she kept being relegated to the outer courts

as the top seeds hogged the spotlight. There had been some upsets

in the first week of the tournament, but the top eight seeds were

still around, the only exception being her dismissal of Rosana de

los Santos in the opening round. Though she was let down by the

scheduling committee’s decision to place her match on an outer

court, she couldn’t blame the organizers for not putting her on one

of the show courts. Her past results certainly hadn’t warranted the

exposure. But the way she was playing, the past didn’t matter.

Laure scrolled down the Web page displayed on her phone.

“According to most forecasts, this front’s going to clear out in about

an hour, but there may be intermittent showers later this afternoon.”

“Fantastic,” Sinjin said sarcastically. Each year she told herself

the rain affected everyone equally, but each year she could only

focus on how it affected her. She had practiced for an hour on one of

the indoor courts under Andrew’s watchful eye, but the only thing

she could do now was wait for the rain to stop. Of all the things she

did well, waiting wasn’t one of them. Stephanie could watch paint

dry and be perfectly content, but Sinjin was more like their father:

eager to make things happen.

She paced the perimeter of the players’ lounge like a caged

tiger.“Why don’t you sit down before you wear a hole in the carpet?”

Laure said after she completed another circuit of the room.

She reluctantly complied with Laure’s request. She wasn’t the

only player having problems corralling her nervous energy. All the

competitors who hadn’t been lucky enough to be scheduled to play

on Centre Court were scattered around the lounge. Some played

cards, others board or computer games. Some slept, others lined up

to take their turns on the Ping-Pong table. A few stood in front of

• 116 •

Lucky Loser

the plasma TV in the corner watching what little live action that was

taking place.

On the screen, Blake Freeman was making five-time champion

Venus Williams look ordinary. If she got past Madeline Harper,

Sinjin would be next on Blake’s radar. Most players feared matching

up with Blake on her favorite surface in her favorite tournament, but

Sinjin was looking forward to the challenge. She wanted a chance

to measure herself against the best. And if it happened, she knew

the match would be guaranteed to take place on Centre Court. She

would finally get her chance to play on the most revered court in her

sport. The mere thought of it gave her goose bumps.

When Blake stretched her lead to 6-1, 4-1, Laure rose from her

seat. She was scheduled to play the next match on Centre Court. The

way Blake was sprinting to the finish line, her match would begin in

a matter of minutes.

When she took the court, Laure would be across the net from

Maria Sharapova, the Russian glamour girl who had finally found

her footing after losing seven months of her career to a shoulder

injury. Maria’s comeback was nearly complete. Since her return to

the tour, she had made the final of one Grand Slam and the semis

of two more. She had retooled her service motion, eliminating the

double faults that had plagued her game for the past two years.

Her fearsome ground strokes were as punishing as ever. All that

was missing was another Grand Slam title to add to her already

impressive résumé. Laure would have to be on top of her game in

order to beat her.

“Good luck.”

“Thanks. I’ll need it.” Laure seemed unwilling to leave. “I

won’t be able to watch you play today,” she said after a moment’s

hesitation. “Not in person, anyway. I want to, but I can’t risk getting

sick sitting in the damp air.”

Though she understood the reasoning behind Laure’s decision,

Sinjin was disappointed nevertheless. When Laure was in the stands

for her matches, she felt like she was playing to an audience of one.

She’d hit a great shot and immediately look at Laure to see her

reaction.

• 117 •

yoLanda WaLLace

Unable to sit still after Laure left, she popped out of her seat

and resumed her pacing.

The day was cold and damp. The kind of weather England was

famous for. The kind of weather Sinjin had hoped to avoid. Her

left knee was talking to her, and she didn’t like the things it was

saying. She couldn’t chase down every shot. Not today. Not unless

she wanted to risk injury by taking a tumble on the wet grass.

“Use your head, not your legs,” Andrew had advised her during

their practice session. “Play all out, but play within yourself. Be

smart. Tennis isn’t rocket science. You know what you have to do.”

Sinjin had answered the question he had left unspoken. “Win

the last point.”

❖

Laure tried to banish thoughts of Sinjin from her mind. With

a formidable opponent across the net, she had enough on her plate

without worrying about whether Sinjin would be able to play today.

She had to stay focused and maintain her concentration no matter

what happened on the other side of the draw. Or in the newspapers.

A knot had formed in her gut when she read the morning’s

tabloids. Her face was all over the front page. Grainy, long-distance

photos of her and Sinjin’s emotional visit to Hampstead Heath were

everywhere. “Are They or Aren’t They?” one headline asked. “Just

Friends?” another wanted to know.

By the time she made it to her post-match press conference,

it would be like her first Wimbledon all over again, when her run

to the final had been overshadowed by the controversy over her

sexuality. Sure, the tour’s handlers would probably ask the press

to limit their queries to her on-court activities, but she knew the

moratorium wouldn’t last long. If at all. Having her face splashed

on the front page of every newspaper from here to Timbuktu wasn’t

her thing. She liked flying under the radar, quietly going about her

business and garnering very little attention until championship

weekend when the focus was squarely on her game, not her personal

life. So much for that.

• 118 •

Lucky Loser

She lost the first three games of her round of sixteen match

while her head was in a fog. She broke Maria to get back on serve in

the first set, then broke again to take the lead. She won the first set

6-4 and ran through the second 6-1.

She was playing better with each round. She could feel her

game start to come together. If she peaked at the right time and kept

her lapses in concentration to a minimum, the title was hers for the

taking. Claiming Sinjin’s heart would have to wait.

❖

Two more games. That was all she needed. Sinjin looked up at

the darkening sky. Did she have enough time? Madeline had slowed

the pace in the past few games, trying to drag things out. She was

obviously hoping for a continuation. Sinjin was determined not to

give her one. A late break had earned her the first set; an early one

had given her the lead in the second.

Keeping the points short, she played exclusively serve-and-

volley in her next service game to pull ahead 5-3. One more game.

If she broke serve, the match was over.

Even though her back was to the wall, Madeline refused to give

in. She fought her way out of a 0-30 hole to hold serve and pull to

within a game. Then she spent the entire changeover attempting to

convince the chair umpire to call the match.

“It’s so dark out here I can barely see my hand in front of my

face,” she said while the crowd whistled in displeasure. “What do

you want us to do, play by moonlight? If you expect us to do that,

you’d better round up some balls that glow in the dark.”

The chair umpire called the tournament referee for advice.

Sinjin’s heart sank when the official reached for his walkie-

talkie. She wanted to play the next day, but in the quarterfinals, not

the round of sixteen.

The chair umpire lowered the volume on his two-way radio and

signaled for both players to join him. The overflow crowd strained

to hear the quiet conversation. “You have one more game. After that,

we call the match.”

• 119 •

yoLanda WaLLace

“Why don’t we call it now?” Madeline asked.

The chair umpire stood firm. If a match had to be called,

officials preferred to do it at a point that didn’t favor one player over

another. After one more game, the set would end at 6-4 or be knotted

at 5-all. “It’s only fair.”

The crowd roared its approval when the players returned to the

court. Standing at the service line, Sinjin did her best to keep her

knees from knocking. She had never felt such pressure. Every cliché

in the book could be attached to this next game. If she won it, she

would join the Last Eight Club. If she lost it, all bets were off.

Two sloppy volleys put her in a hole.

“Fifteen-thirty,” the chair umpire said.

Slow down. Sinjin reminded herself to play one point at a time.

Though she wanted to get the game in before darkness fell, doing so

would be pointless if she let the game slip through her fingers.

Picking on Madeline’s suspect backhand, she tossed a serve out

wide and followed it to the net. Madeline’s return was better than

she expected, but she picked it off her shoe tops for a drop volley

winner.

Thirty-all.

She reached match point with an ace down the middle, then

promptly squandered it by blowing a forehand volley.

When the crowd groaned in disappointment, Sinjin resisted the

urge to hang her head.

It was just one point. You’ve got to play at least two more.

Granted new life, Madeline took advantage of her second

chance. She smacked a blistering forehand passing shot to reach

break point. The crowd groaned even louder and Sinjin’s shoulders

slumped for the first time all tournament.

Sinjin slowly picked herself off the ground. Her diving effort

to reach Madeline’s forehand had come up just short. Would she do

the same?

This is your chance, she thought as anger replaced her nerves.

This is your moment. Don’t throw it away.

Her clothes were covered in grass stains, but she paid them no

mind. When the ball boy offered her a towel, she waved him away.

• 120 •

Lucky Loser

It was time to get dirty.

Her eleventh ace brought her to deuce. Her twelfth to match

point.She waited for the ball boy to toss her the ball she had used to

serve the previous point. This is the one, she thought, giving the ball

a fervent kiss. Let’s end this.

The serve felt pure when it left her racquet. For a split-second,

she thought she had hit another ace. Evoking vintage Jimmy Connors,

Madeline threw herself at the return and somehow managed to get

her racquet on it. Sinjin stretched her eyes wide to see clearly in

the fading light while she raced to the net to intercept the weak

return. When she drew her racquet back, the crowd murmured in

anticipation. She smashed the ball into the open court. It landed well

out of Madeline’s reach and bounced into the stands. She sank to her

knees as the crowd leaped to its feet.

“Game, set, match, Miss Smythe,” the chair umpire said. “Miss

Smythe wins two sets to love. Six-three, six-four.”

❖

After they completed their respective press conferences, Laure

and Sinjin headed to Notting Hill. Sinjin slumped on the couch,

seemingly too tired to string two sentences together let alone take

advantage of the fact they were alone for the first time in days.

Carrying a nation’s hopes and dreams on your shoulders was

exhausting. Laure had carried the same weight for years. When she

had finally relieved herself of her burden by winning the French

Open a few weeks prior, she had felt lighter than air. She hoped

Sinjin would experience the same sense of euphoria one day. But

not this year. This year was her time.

“You never said it would be this hard,” Sinjin said. “Winning

a tournament is tough, but this is like winning two or three of them.

The second week, the matchups in each round are worthy of a final.

And that”—she pointed to her cell phone, which was vibrating

almost nonstop on the table—“that is driving me crazy. Companies

are coming out of the woodwork, all wanting to know if I’ll endorse

• 121 •

yoLanda WaLLace

their products. Even my old clothing company has come courting.

They offered me a signing bonus and a lucrative extension if I

agreed to let them reinstate my deal.”

“What did you say?”

“Thanks but no thanks. Only I wasn’t nearly that polite. If I’m

worthy of such fantastic offers now, why wasn’t I four months ago?”

Sinjin’s voice was tinged with anger. Laure couldn’t blame

her for having a chip on her shoulder, but now wasn’t the time to

seek retribution for real or imagined slights. She tried to smooth her

ruffled feathers.

“It’s not you who has changed. It’s the size of your audience.

You’re a hot commodity now and will be for a while. Don’t be

stubborn. This is your chance to secure your financial future. The

trickle of calls you’re getting now won’t compare to the flood you’ll

receive when we make it to Saturday’s final.”

Sinjin frowned. “You talk about the two of us playing for the

title as if it’s a done deal. Have you taken a look at the draw sheet?”

In the next round, Sinjin would play Blake in the showcase

match on Centre Court. Their opening act? Viktoriya against Serena

Williams in a battle of current and former world number ones. The

matches scheduled for Court One weren’t too shabby, either. Laure

would open play by taking on Mirjana Petkovic, a hard-hitting

Serbian teenager bidding to become her relatively new nation’s third

Grand Slam champion. Then third-ranked Chandler Freeman would

square off against the resurgent Kim Clijsters.

“I know we have formidable opponents in our way, players

who are playing as well as we are, if not better, but what we’ve

been dreaming about for weeks is close to becoming a reality. I’ve

never lost to Mirjana and I have a good record against Viktoriya.

I’ve beaten her here before and I know I can do it again. On your

side of the draw, the Freeman sisters aren’t going to be easy, but

Blake’s injured and Chandler hasn’t won the title in three years.

This is the only tournament where she consistently runs into players

who believe they can beat her even when she’s playing her A-game.

Blake has beaten her here three times, I’ve done it twice, and Maria

• 122 •

Lucky Loser

Sharapova has done it once. Thursday, you could add your name to

the list. Pretend it’s Miami all over again. Would that help?”

The ten-day hard court tournament in Miami was considered

the tour’s fifth major. The last time she had qualified for the event

in her adopted hometown, Sinjin had upset Chandler in the third

round.“In Miami, I beat Chandler and lost to Blake. I don’t want to

lose. To anyone.”

Laure stroked Sinjin’s furrowed brow. Sinjin had been irritable

all day. At first Laure had attributed her unease to the weather. Now

she feared something else might be the cause. Was the stress of the

tournament or the uncertainty of a new relationship to blame?

“Let’s stop worrying about wins and losses and enjoy our time

together. My parents are having dinner in town tonight. Stephanie

and Nicolas are off doing who knows what. Gabrielle and Kendall

are off doing who knows who. Why don’t we stay in instead of

going out to dinner?”

“Because it feels like the walls are closing in and I need to get

out of here. I need to breathe.”

Laure remembered the moment of panic she’d faced when she

neared her first Grand Slam title. When everything she had worked

so hard to achieve was just a few steps away. So near and yet so far.

“Let’s go out,” Sinjin said. “There’s a table at Fog with our

names on it.”

Laure shook her head. “We have matches to play tomorrow.

I don’t want to trek all the way into town, wait an hour for our

food, then spend another two hours trying to extricate you from the

clutches of your adoring public.”

Sinjin cocked her head as if seeing the world from a different

angle would help her see things more clearly. “Or is there another

reason you want to hide out behind closed doors? It’s the press

attention, isn’t it? You can’t afford to be seen with me.”

If Sinjin had aimed the verbal arrow at her heart, she had

certainly hit her mark.

“I don’t like being the subject of speculation, but—”

• 123 •

yoLanda WaLLace

“Is that code for you can’t make headlines without losing your

focus?”

Laure tried to keep her voice level despite the anxiety rising

inside her like a flood-swollen river. “As long as we know what’s

really going on between us, it doesn’t matter what anyone else

thinks. Or writes.”

“What’s really going on between us? I’d love for you to define

it for me. We hang out every night, you flirt just enough to convince

me you’re interested, then you put on the brakes whenever I make

a move, and you send me home with a serious case of blue balls. If

what other people said about us didn’t matter, you wouldn’t have

waved that tabloid in my face last week when Kendall and I were

on the front page.”

Laure backed off as the conversation took an unexpected turn.

She didn’t want to start a fight, even though Sinjin seemed to be

itching for one. “I think the pressure’s making you paranoid.”

“No, the pressure’s helping me see things clearly.” Sinjin

pushed herself off the couch. “I don’t know what I was thinking.

The middle of a Grand Slam event isn’t the time to even think about

a relationship, let alone embark on one. We should cut our losses

and call it a day.”

“I thought you said the time for excuses was over.”

Laure’s words stopped Sinjin in her tracks.

“If you walk out that door,” Laure said, “that tells me you didn’t

mean any of the things you’ve been saying the past few months.

That tells me you don’t believe in yourself or your game. Do you

expect me to believe everything you said in Hampstead Heath was

just a line? I was there. I know better. But if you want to take the

easy way out, go ahead.”

Sinjin reached for the doorknob.

“Say hello to Abby for me,” Laure said. “Or whoever you

happen to pick up on the way home.”

Sinjin whirled to face her. “I’m not that person anymore.”

“Are you sure? From this perspective, it still looks like

you’re running away at the first sign of adversity. The second this

relationship stopped being fun, you decided to do what you do

• 124 •

Lucky Loser

best—avoid the heavy lifting and take the easy way out. If Blake

puts up a fight, are you going to tank your match tomorrow, too?”

Sinjin didn’t respond.

“How many times are you going to do this to yourself?” Laure

asked. “How many times are you going to let yourself get close to

what you want, then get scared and shrink from the challenge?”

Sinjin still didn’t say anything. Her face was a blank mask.

Laure had seen that look before. She had seen it on Sinjin’s face

every time she lost a match she should have won. Every time she

convinced herself she was second best.

“If you want to beat Blake tomorrow,” Laure said, “I can tell

you how to do it. If you want to be with me, you’re going to have to

figure that out on your own.”

• 125 •

• 126 •

Lucky Loser

QuarterfinaLs

A crowd shadowed Sinjin during the long walk from the

locker room to Aorangi Park. She signed whatever was

thrust in front of her and blindly returned it without interacting with

the object’s owner. The crowd grew bigger with each step. By the

time she reached the practice courts, she felt claustrophobic.

She’d barely slept since she left Laure’s last night. The scene

they’d acted out kept running through her head.

Last night she’d had a choice to make. She had to decide which

was more important, winning Wimbledon or winning Laure’s heart.

She’d chosen the former.

Holding her racquet over her head, she stretched to her left

then to her right. She groaned pleasurably when her back gave a

satisfying pop. She was so close to getting everything she had ever

wanted. So close to getting a second chance. A Grand Slam title was

within reach. Laure had already won four majors. Laure could take

time to stop and smell the roses. She couldn’t. Not if she wanted to

get where Laure had already been.

She and Laure had seen each other almost every other day

for weeks. The last few had seen them start to develop something

special. Something real. Too real. She hadn’t gone to Laure’s last

night intending to end their courtship, but it was the right thing to do.

Being with Laure was easy in the beginning when the

championship match was so far away. The closer it came—the

closer they crept to playing each other in a final both hungered to

• 127 •

yoLanda WaLLace

win—the harder it got for her to spend so much time with Laure in

a casual setting. How was she supposed to look across the net on

Saturday and see an opponent instead of a woman she had begun to

care for? Laure might be able to compartmentalize her feelings, but

she couldn’t.

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?”

• 128 •

Lucky Loser

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.

❖

• 129 •

yoLanda WaLLace

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.

• 130 •

Lucky Loser

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.

• 131 •

yoLanda WaLLace

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 coming 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?

• 132 •

Lucky Loser

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—”

• 133 •

yoLanda WaLLace

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.

• 134 •

Lucky Loser

“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.

• 135 •

yoLanda WaLLace

“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.”

• 136 •

Lucky Loser

“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.

She spent her post-match shower trying to formulate a game

plan.The Freeman sisters were never far apart when they played a

Grand Slam event, one observing while the other played. Though

their parents were their official coaches, they usually turned to each

other for advice. When she played Chandler in the semifinals, Sinjin

knew Blake would be watching from the Friends Box after telling

Chandler what to expect. The game plan that had worked so well

against Blake would be useless against Chandler. If Sinjin tried to

employ the same tactics, Chandler would be ready for them.

In the semis, Sinjin would have to play the match of her life.

Again.

She turned off the water and reached for the towel she had

hung on the peg just outside the shower stall. She came up empty.

She sluiced water off her face with her hands. She looked down,

thinking the towel had fallen to the floor. It wasn’t there either.

“Looking for this?” Viktoriya held the towel just out of reach.

Sinjin jerked her thumb toward the door. “The seeded players’

locker room is that way.”

“Don’t worry. I won’t stay long.” Viktoriya tossed her the

towel.Sinjin dried off and quickly began to dress. Most players left

little to the imagination in the locker room. She was no different.

• 137 •

yoLanda WaLLace

She could have a conversation stark naked and think nothing of it.

Standing in front of Viktoriya, she felt exposed.

“I just wanted to thank you,” Viktoriya said.

“For what?”

Viktoriya’s brilliant smile had enough wattage to illuminate all

the British Isles. “I’m still number one and I owe it all to you. Now

I can relax and play my best tennis.”

Viktoriya had barely broken a sweat all tournament. If she

hadn’t played her best tennis yet, she would be impossible to beat.

Or was that what she wanted her to think?

Sinjin freed herself from Viktoriya’s clutches. “If you make it

past Laure, I’m going to be waiting for you.”

Viktoriya roared with laughter. “If that’s supposed to be a

threat, try again. It sounds more like incentive.”

“If you make it past Laure, I’m going to be waiting for you,”

Sinjin repeated. “And I’m going to beat you.”

Viktoriya’s smile devolved into a smirk. “For what it’s worth,

I hope you do win on Thursday. Then one queen will get to watch

another.”

Viktoriya walked away in apparent triumph. Sinjin let her go.

As far as she was concerned, the last word was yet to be uttered.

And when it was spoken, she would be the one saying it.

❖

The next day, Laure settled into her seat on the patio. At the

All England Club five miles away, the men were playing their

quarterfinal matches. The most anticipated match of the day was

Andy Murray’s showdown against Roger Federer. Murray owned

the regal Swiss in tour events but had never beaten him in a Grand

Slam tournament. If he was to win his first Wimbledon title, he

would have to take down the man who had garnered six of them.

With the men assuming center stage, Laure was grateful for

the day off. The break gave her a chance to get some much-needed

rest. She was fine physically—thanks to Gabrielle and Kendall, she

had never been in better shape—but she was emotionally exhausted.

• 138 •

Lucky Loser

For most of the past month, she had been on top of the world.

When she won the French Open, she didn’t think she could get any

higher. Then she started to develop a new appreciation for Sinjin

Smythe. She had trained with her. Bantered with her. Laughed with

her. Cried with her. She had listened to her stories. She had shared

her own. Each day, her heart had soared to greater heights. Which

made her current low feel that much worse.

She opened her sketchpad, pulled out her charcoal pencil, and

began to sketch something suitably dark.

Her cell phone rang. She wiped her hand on her shorts and

automatically reached for her phone. Sinjin’s mobile number was

printed on the display. Laure’s thumb hovered over the Answer

button. Was Sinjin calling to apologize or pretend nothing had ever

happened? Last night or over the past few weeks.

She sent the call to voice mail and returned to her sketch. She

kept one eye on the phone until the message indicator began to flash.

“And now for the coup de grâce.”

She accessed her voice mail and lifted the phone to her ear.

“Are you screening all your calls or just mine?” Sinjin’s

message began. “Even though it’s only been twenty-four hours, I

feel like it’s been twenty-four days since the last time I talked to

you. I almost called you so many times last night. I reached for

the phone so often I’ll probably develop a hitch in my forehand.”

A deep sigh, followed by a long pause. “I suppose I should get to

the point. I wanted to thank you for everything you’ve done for me.

Yes, I know I’ve told you before. I’m going to keep telling you until

you finally realize how generous you’ve been. Good luck tomorrow.

Maybe, when this is over, you’ll let me buy you a drink. I know

where I can get a good deal on a bottle of wine. Cheers.”

Laure fingered the numbers on the keypad. No matter how

much she wanted to remain angry with Sinjin, she couldn’t manage

the feat. But she couldn’t call her back. Not yet. She had two more

matches to win first.

She toggled over to her text messages, pulled up Sinjin’s

number, and typed a short reply.

You’re welcome.

• 139 •

yoLanda WaLLace

❖

Against Andrew’s objections, Sinjin had decided to take the

day off. What had Laure said in Roehampton?

“Tennis is a big part of my life, but I don’t let it consume me.

If I wake up and feel like I’d rather spend the day doing something

other than chasing after a fuzzy yellow ball, I do. I know coming

back is important to you, but you need to find a balance.”

Sinjin’s drawing skills were so bad she could barely make a

stick figure recognizable. She found her balance where she always

did. On a bench in Hampstead Heath.

She stretched her legs in front of her and enjoyed the warmth of

the late afternoon sun. She raised her face to the sky.

“Almost there, Mum,” she whispered. “Almost there.”

Her phone buzzed against her hip. She pulled the phone out of

its holster. She had two text messages.

The first was a score alert. Andy Murray had just lost to Roger

Federer in five grueling sets. Combined with Abby’s loss in doubles

earlier in the week, that left her as the only player of local interest

in the entire tournament. She felt the tremendous weight on her

shoulders grow even heavier.

The second message was from Laure.

You’re welcome.

She didn’t know how to interpret what Laure had written. Was

Laure warming up or growing colder?

She slid the phone back into its holster. She might be two

matches away from winning Wimbledon, but she might have already

lost something much more important.

• 140 •

Lucky Loser

semifinaLs

The match was ninety minutes old, but Laure still hadn’t

found the range on her serve. Each time she went for the

hard, flat one down the middle, she’d hit it just long or into the net.

Facing one of the best returners in the sport, she knew she was lucky

to be in the match at all, let alone tied at a set apiece. Guile had

gotten her this far. Now, with Viktoriya starting to get a better read

on her serve, she would have to rely on guts. She needed to sacrifice

pace in favor of percentage—and hope like hell her ground game

could save the day.

As she grew older, wins—especially Grand Slam wins—

became more precious; losses more devastating. She wanted to

win this Wimbledon nearly as much as she had wanted to win the

French Open. Her win at the French had felt like the culmination

of her career. Another win at Wimbledon would remind her of the

beginning. The All England Lawn Tennis Club was the site of her

first Grand Slam singles title. She had won the Ladies’ Plate when

she was twenty, claiming the coveted trophy while she was too

young and too naïve to realize winning majors was harder than it

looked.

Knowing she was in the Wimbledon semifinals for the last

time, she had started out anxiously. Facing Viktoriya was a daunting

task that required every ounce of her concentration, which had faded

in and out during the early rounds. By the time she got locked in

during the semis, she had already fallen behind.

• 141 •

yoLanda WaLLace

She had double faulted twice in the first three points, gifting

Viktoriya a break in the opening game of the match. Viktoriya had

claimed the first set 6-4, but she had bounced back to win the second

set in a tiebreaker. As the third set began, momentum was on her

side. So why did she feel like she was holding on by her fingernails?

She looked at the stats as they flashed across the scoreboard.

She had more winners than errors and her first serve percentage was

a gaudy eighty-five. Both positive signs. But she hadn’t come close

to breaking Viktoriya’s serve. In fact, the break in the first game

of the match was the only time either player had dropped serve all

day. Each of her service games had been a struggle. Viktoriya had

breezed through hers while she had labored to hold.

She tried to look on the bright side. If she could hang on long

enough—if she could keep fighting off break points and remain

within striking distance—she could pull off the upset. All she needed

was a chance. Just one chance.

She glanced at the Friends Box. Viktoriya’s team occupied the

front row; hers took up the second. Nicolas and Gabrielle sat next to

her parents. Stephanie and Kendall rounded out the row. Laure had

never felt so supported or so loved. But the person whose support

she needed most wasn’t there. Sinjin, who was scheduled to play the

second semifinal, wasn’t there. Not physically, anyway.

Whenever Laure felt herself getting tight, she remembered one

of Sinjin’s lousy jokes and immediately began to relax. Whenever

her spirits started to flag, she could hear Sinjin urging her on like she

had in training. And when she finally strung enough points together

to break Viktoriya’s serve and take a 5-4 lead in the third set, she

could almost hear her leading the cheers.

Adrenaline coursed through Laure’s body as she sat in her chair

during the changeover. She was so close now she could taste it. So

could her family and friends. Her parents looked calm, but she could

see their excitement—their relief—bubbling just beneath their

placid exteriors. The rest of her supporters were more demonstrative.

Stephanie and Kendall stood throughout the changeover, clapping

rhythmically along with the rest of the crowd. Nicolas and Gabrielle

cheered right along with them.

• 142 •

Lucky Loser

“Stay strong,” Nicolas said, shaking his clenched fists. “Serve

it out.”

Gabrielle raised a finger in the air. “One more game.”

Nodding in assent, Laure knew the next game would be one of

the hardest she had ever tried to win.

❖

A few days ago, Sinjin wondered who she would root for—

Laure or Viktoriya. When Laure hit a gorgeous backhand down the

line to take the lead in the third set, she had her answer. And it had

nothing to do with match-ups or career head-to-head results. It had

nothing to do with loyalty or revenge. She wanted Laure to win

because she was in love with her.

“Yes!” she shouted, her voice echoing off the walls.

The locker room attendant covered her mouth with her hand,

but not before Sinjin noticed her indulgent smile, the kind of smile

mothers reserved for their children who have done something cute

but borderline embarrassing. Blushing, Sinjin moved closer to her

computer screen. She had said she wouldn’t watch the match so

she wouldn’t expend much-needed emotional energy rooting for or

against either player. But hearing the crowd’s distant roar without

knowing who or what had prompted the sound was even more

nerve-wracking than watching the match unfold. She had booted up

her laptop near the end of the second set—just in time to see Laure

win the pivotal tiebreaker seven points to five. Now Laure was only

four points away from the match. Four points away from the finals.

Sinjin wiped her sweaty palms on her pants as she peered at the

images on the computer screen. She wished the changeover hadn’t

disrupted play. Ninety seconds was a long time to think. Especially

when tennis history was on the line.

When play resumed, though, Laure looked focused. She looked

like she knew what she had to do. But would that be enough? She

had a history of blowing winning leads and Viktoriya wasn’t going

to go down without a fight. In the ensuing battle of wills, who would

be declared the victor?

• 143 •

yoLanda WaLLace

“If you win the first point, the game is yours.” Sinjin talked to

the computer screen as if Laure could hear her. She hoped she could.

“Win the first point, get ahead of her, and the rest is easy. I’ll be right

behind you. We have a date to keep.”

❖

Laure had always been such a crowd favorite at Wimbledon

she sometimes felt half-English. As she prepared to serve for the

match, she could feel the crowd’s apprehension. She could feel how

much they wanted her to win. And how afraid they were that she

might lose. She felt the same fear.

The first point was crucial. If she won it, she could relax and

cruise through the rest of the game. If she lost the game, the match

would be even, but momentum would switch to Viktoriya’s side of

the court.

She went for a hard, flat serve down the T. The serve was the

fastest she had ever hit in her life—one twenty-five, according to the

speed gun—but Viktoriya jumped all over it. Her return was struck

with such force it nearly knocked the racquet out of Laure’s hands.

Love-fifteen.

Viktoriya had spent most of the past two off-seasons training

in Barcelona in an effort to improve her clay-court game. Rumor

had it she had spent more time hitting nightclubs than lobs. Though

she spoke Russian when she was upset about losing a point, she

used Spanish when she celebrated winning one. A torrent of Catalan

spilled from her lips as she sprinted to the other side of the court.

“Stupid, stupid, stupid.” Laure admonished herself for getting

away from her game plan. Placement, not power had brought her

this far. Why change tactics now?

An acutely angled serve drew her even. Another one pushed

her ahead. Thirty-fifteen. Two points away now.

Her string of aces ended on the next point, but she quickly took

control of the rally. Appearing to tire, Viktoriya charged the net out

of desperation. Laure coolly lined up a passing shot. Her forehand

clipped the top of the net, slowly crawled up it, then fell back on her

side of the court.

• 144 •

Lucky Loser

Laure held her head in her hands as the crowd groaned. If she

had made the shot, she would have earned two match points. As it

stood, she was still two points from winning. But now Viktoriya was

two points from breaking her serve. And her spirit.

“Shake it off,” Laure whispered as she waited for the crowd to

settle.But the mistake would prove insurmountable.

Viktoriya, recharged and firing on all cylinders, won the next

two points to break serve. Then she held easily to push her lead

to 6-5. Laure spent the changeover telling herself she was still in

the match, but she couldn’t shake the feeling she had missed her

chance. Before she knew it, she was down triple match point and

the crowd was begging her to pull off a miracle. Out of comebacks,

she watched helplessly as Viktoriya’s lob cleared her outstretched

racquet and landed safely inside the baseline.

“Game, set, match, Miss Vasilyeva,” the chair umpire said.

“Miss Vasilyeva wins two sets to one, six-four, six-seven, seven-five.”

Viktoriya’s delighted shriek cut through Laure like a buzz saw.

Leaning across the net, she extended her hand for the traditional

post-match handshake. “Well played,” she said automatically. Her

voice was devoid of emotion, belying the feelings roiling inside her.

Viktoriya gripped Laure’s hand and air-kissed her cheeks as

if they were old friends instead of old enemies. “Thanks for the

workout. Better luck next year.”

Melancholy gripped Laure’s heart so tightly the pain brought

tears to her eyes. She bit her lip to keep from crying. Not here, she

admonished herself as she zipped her warm-up jacket. Not in front

of all these people. Try to keep it together until you get off the court.

She quickly packed her bags, but not wanting to seem like a

bad sport, she didn’t leave until Viktoriya was ready to do the same.

As she trailed Viktoriya off Centre Court, she looked back over her

shoulder as if she was seeing the storied venue for the last time. Just

like Billie Jean King had in 1983. Then she knelt and plucked a few

blades of the precious grass. Just like Martina Navratilova had in

1994. Like those two great champions, her Wimbledon career was

over.

• 145 •

yoLanda WaLLace

❖

The locker room attendant was crying. Sinjin felt like joining

her. “She’s not coming back next year, is she?” the attendant asked.

Sinjin shook her head.

“She has always been one of my favorites. Such a classy lady.”

“She certainly is.”

“She never has a harsh word to say about anyone. And I’m sure

some deserve more than a few.”

You don’t know how right you are.

Even when Viktoriya and her ilk were at their worst, Laure

never stooped to their level. Either in public or behind closed doors.

Even now, when their relationship was more uncertain than ever,

Laure had given her the freedom to make her own decisions. She

had given her the room to find her way. To find herself. To find true

love?A tournament official poked her head into the locker room.

“Thirty minutes, Miss Smythe.”

“Thank you.”

The last thing Sinjin wanted to think about was playing

tennis. She wanted— needed—to console Laure. She turned to the

attendant, who was discreetly blowing her nose in a monogrammed

handkerchief.

“I know it’s probably against the rules, but would you bring

Laure in here, please?”

“Certainly, Miss Smythe.” The woman’s blue eyes sprang fresh

tears. “She could use some quiet time after a defeat like that.”

After the attendant left, Sinjin paced the room like an expectant

parent. She kept returning to the exchange Laure and Viktoriya had

shared at the net after the match. Whatever Viktoriya said to Laure

certainly hadn’t set well. Laure’s expression had grown even more

pained than the one she had borne most of the day.

The door opened. The attendant led Laure into the room.

Laure’s eyes were red, her chin quivering. The torment Sinjin saw

in Laure’s face nearly drove her to her knees. She tried to think of

• 146 •

Lucky Loser

something comforting to say but couldn’t find the words. When she

looked into Laure’s eyes, she realized words were unnecessary.

Laure dropped her racquet bag on the floor as her resolve finally

broke. Sinjin spread her arms. Laure stumbled into them.

Sinjin held her as she cried, gently rubbed her back as powerful

sobs nearly tore her in two. She didn’t try to dissect the match or ask

her what went wrong. There would be plenty of time later for what

ifs and if onlys.

After what seemed like hours but was actually no more than

a few minutes, Laure pulled away. “Thank you for this, but you’ve

got a match to prepare for,” she said, drying her eyes on her sleeve.

Sinjin rested her palm against Laure’s cheek and tenderly

thumbed away a stray tear. “The match can wait. Are you okay?”

Laure shook her head. “I can’t do this anymore. I’m done.”

“Are you sure? I know this was a tough loss, but don’t you

want to take time to think about it?”

“I gave everything I had. I’m physically spent. I’m emotionally

gutted. I’m empty. I’ve got nothing left. No amount of time off is

going to replenish my supply. I’m done.” Laure rubbed her face with

the heels of her hands as if she could scrub away the hurt. “But don’t

worry about me. You’ve got a match to win. And as soon as I get

my press conference over with, I’ll be there to watch you do it.” She

managed a smile, but the expression didn’t reach her eyes. “Sorry I

broke our date for Saturday.”

“But we’re still on for the Champions Ball, right?”

Laure’s serious mien finally began to lighten. “I wouldn’t miss

it for the world.”

She turned to leave, but Sinjin’s voice stopped her.

“Laure—”

Sinjin hesitated, uncertain what to say.

“Yes?” Laure asked gently.

“Congratulations.”

“For what? I lost.”

“But you did it the way you do everything else: with dignity.”

She took a step forward. “I want to be you when I grow up.”

• 147 •

yoLanda WaLLace

She held Laure’s face in her hands and gently kissed her lips.

She looked into Laure’s eyes, wishing she had the courage to say the

rest of the words in her head. In her heart.

❖

Laure felt the pieces of her broken heart begin to mend. She

placed her hands on top of Sinjin’s to keep her from breaking

contact. “It seems to me you’re doing a pretty good job of being

yourself. Why don’t you keep doing that for a while?”

She left the locker room and headed to the Millennium

Building to face the gathered media. She knew the forthcoming

press conference would be brutal. She hoped it would also be brief.

Sharing her innermost thoughts with a roomful of strangers holding

tape recorders had never been her idea of fun. Neither was rehashing

a gut-wrenching defeat. Now she had to do both.

She stopped by the tour leaders’ onsite offices to prepare them

for what was about to happen.

“I wish you had given us some warning. We could have held

an on-court ceremony for you after the match ended,” the tour

chairman said.

“I don’t want a going-away party. I want to leave the sport the

way I came into it: with no fanfare.”

The chairman gave her a warm hug. “I’m not going to say good-

bye or even so long. I’ve seen you come back in matches before. I’m

going to hold out hope you’re going to do the same this time.”

She managed a smile. “You can hold out hope. Just don’t hold

your breath.”

“Don’t you want to do something with your hair or put on some

makeup?” the marketing director asked, holding out a bag of free

samples from a cosmetics company tour officials were hoping to

land as a sponsor.

Laure didn’t reach for the proffered goods. She eyed the

marketing director’s shellacked hair and camera-ready wardrobe. “I

don’t have time for pretty. I want everyone to know how much this

• 148 •

Lucky Loser

hurts. All those people who say women’s sports don’t matter, I want

them to see how much it matters to us.”

She walked to the press room and took a seat behind a bank of

microphones. Her throat went dry when she realized what she was

about to do. She opened one of the bottles of mineral water that had

been placed on the table.

“Before we begin,” she said after taking a long swallow, “I

have an announcement to make. When the season started, I knew

this would be my last year on tour. What I didn’t know was that

Wimbledon would be my last tournament and this would be my last

match. As of this moment, I am officially retired from the women’s

tennis tour. It’s been a great run. I’ll miss everyone and I hope, on

some level, you’ll miss me as well.”

“What are your thoughts on today’s match?” someone asked.

“I’m obviously very disappointed about the loss. I had a good

chance and I thought I was going to win.”

“What went wrong?”

“I think I wanted it too much. In the beginning, I was thinking

about the result instead of the process. I couldn’t relax and let my

shots flow. I got back in the match in the second set and managed

to take the lead in the third, but Viktoriya played unbelievably well

throughout. Her level never dropped. Her consistency made all the

difference.”

“What about the forehand you missed at five-four, thirty-fifteen

in the final set?” someone asked. “Do you wish you could have it

back?”

Laure knew she would be replaying the shot for days, weeks,

and perhaps years to come. “No,” she said with a wry smile, “I wish

the net had been a little bit lower.”

❖

Sinjin lay on the floor and stared up at the ceiling as she took

inventory of her body. She felt pretty good, considering how much

tennis she had played in the past three weeks. Counting qualifying,

she had already played—and won—enough matches to earn the

title. But thanks to having to qualify, she still had two rounds to go.

• 149 •

yoLanda WaLLace

A month ago, she felt like she was held together with spit and

duct tape. Now she felt almost like her old self. Winning was truly

the world’s best cure-all. Modern medicine didn’t hurt. She made

a mental note to thank Kendall for being such a kick-ass trainer.

Kendall’s workouts had enabled her to play her best tennis when

most thought her best days were behind her. And Laure was the best

training partner ever.

Though she was taking the time to look back at what she had

accomplished, she had to keep moving forward. How many surprise

semifinalists had gotten to this point and failed to progress? Too

many to count. She desperately wanted to add her name to the roll

of past winners just inside the entrance to Centre Court. If she did,

she would become a Grand Slam singles champion. Just thinking

the words gave her butterflies.

“Two more matches,” she said, momentarily straying from her

mantra of one match at a time. “Two more.”

“Miss Smythe? It’s time.”

Sinjin heard the nervous tension in her newfound friend’s

voice. The attendant wasn’t alone in her apprehension. British fans

had been down this road before. A player made a deep run, fostered

hopes of a title, then failed to deliver. Now it was her turn. The odds

weren’t in her favor—the match in Miami was her only win over

Chandler in six career meetings—but she liked her chances. She

had already beaten three top ten players in the tournament. What

was one more?

Hold your serve and you’re in there with a chance. That’s all

you can ask for.

As she had feared, watching Laure’s match had taken something

out of her. But the kiss had put it all back and then some. She

pressed her fingers to her lips, remembering the kiss she and Laure

had shared. Remembering how hard it had been to limit herself to

just one. She didn’t need the dance music she normally listened to

before matches to get her endorphins pumping. She was doing just

fine on her own.

“Miss Smythe?” the attendant asked.

“Yes, I’m coming.”

• 150 •

Lucky Loser

Sinjin gathered her bags and followed one of the tournament

officials out of the locker room. In the holding area, she bounced on

her toes like a boxer warming up for a fight.

Chandler watched her gyrations with a bemused smile on her

face. “Before you ask,” she said, plucking at the hem of her white

tennis dress, “my wrist is fine. Do you have any other questions?”

Gifted with the same sarcastic sense of humor, Sinjin and

Chandler had a friendly but prickly relationship. Sinjin responded

to Chandler’s jibe about gamesmanship with a teasing dig of her

own. “How’s the movie performing?”

“The reviews are terrible. The returns are even worse. The

paycheck was good, but I think I’ll stick to my day job.”

“Smart idea.”

“I’m the one who usually makes headlines.”

Everything Chandler did made front-page news, sometimes for

the wrong reasons. When the press wasn’t talking about her latest

dramatic come-from-behind victory or equally dramatic outfit, it

was focused on her very active love life. In the past four years, she

had been romantically linked to an actor, a rapper, a Saudi prince,

and a racecar driver. Her current flame wasn’t as high profile as her

previous ones. She had been seen out on the town with a stunt man

she had met on the set of her latest movie, meaning some good had

come out of her cinematic bomb.

“Way to steal my spotlight this week,” she said. “Mind if I have

it back?”

“Why don’t we share it for a while, say ninety minutes or so?”

“I was thinking more like sixty.”

Chandler normally talked a blue streak after her matches but

not before. Prior to a big match, she was as silent as a monk. Unless

she was nervous.

Sinjin could tell Chandler’s constant chatter was an effort to

settle her frazzled nerves. She went along with the ribbing because

the back-and-forth helped ease her anxiety, too. She loved the

camaraderie of the tour, where everyone wanted to win, but for the

most part, weren’t willing to step on other players’ necks to do it.

Viktoriya was the exception to the rule. Then again, Viktoriya was

• 151 •

yoLanda WaLLace

the exception to a lot of rules. But Viktoriya’s time was coming. So

was hers. Maybe that time was now.

❖

Laure wondered how long it would take to put the loss behind

her. A day? A week? Months? Or perhaps never. She had been able

to joke about it during her press conference, but she couldn’t stop

dwelling on the forehand she had missed while serving at 5-4, 30-

15 in the third set. If the shot haunted her this much while she was

awake, how bad were her dreams—her nightmares—going to be?

She showered and changed before joining her parents in the

holding area outside the Royal Box. As a former champion, she was

granted lifetime priority seating in the prestigious section.

“You’ve had a wonderful career,” her mother said as they

waited to take their seats. “You’re going to be remembered for your

wins, not this loss.”

Laure hoped she was right.

Her mother and father, along with Nicolas and Gabrielle, had

sat in on her retirement announcement. She would be eternally

grateful for their unwavering support. The four of them had been

there for her whenever she needed them. Now it was her turn. The

next phase of her life had begun.

She and her parents climbed the stairs that led to the Royal Box.

A wave of applause greeted them as soon as they stepped out of the

tunnel. At first, Laure didn’t realize the greeting was for her. When

the wave began to crest, she looked to see if Sinjin and Chandler

were walking onto the court. Then the crowd began chanting her

name.Feeling unworthy of the adulation, she raised her hand to

acknowledge the cheers and quickly took her seat. The crowd’s

sustained applause—and the hand of a tantalizing young royal—

lifted her out of it.

Laure said “Thank you” to both.

Just as they had during her match, Stephanie and Kendall led

the cheers. Gabrielle and Nicolas sat to Stephanie’s right, Kendall to

• 152 •

Lucky Loser

her left. Stephanie must have been wearing a nicotine patch because

she looked to be the calmest of the bunch. Next to her, Kendall

bounced like a Mexican jumping bean, filled with so much nervous

energy she couldn’t sit still. Laure knew the feeling.

The longer the tournament went on, the more expectations for

and pressure on Sinjin continued to grow. Now the hopes of a nation

sat squarely on her shoulders.

Laure’s father leaned toward her after she sat again. “By the time

the next match is over,” he said, glancing at the distant member of

the royal family who was openly ogling her, “are you going to have

another phone number to add to your mother’s refuse collection?”

Laure smiled, remembering the redhead from the National

Gallery and the countless others like her who had sought her

attention over the years. The prospect of a few hours of fun with

them didn’t compare to the promise of the future that lay before her.

“By the time the next match is over, I hope to have a return

engagement in this seat to watch Sinjin play the final.”

❖

When the match began, Sinjin looked to exploit Chandler’s one

discernible weakness—her movement. Chandler moved beautifully

side-to-side, her deep ground strokes keeping her opponents pinned

to the baseline. Her movement forward was suspect, however. So

were her volleys. She advanced to the net only on her own terms,

usually after one of her huge approach shots evoked a weak reply.

Sinjin aimed to draw Chandler into the net at every available

opportunity. Instead of zealously defending the net as she had

against Blake, she intended to give it away. At least on Chandler’s

serve. When she had the ball in her hand, she planned to serve and

volley on every point. She didn’t want any rally to last longer than

five strokes. The choppy nature of the match—old-school grass

court tennis at its best—should prevent Chandler from finding a

rhythm. If she could keep Chandler from settling into a groove, she

would live to fight another day. If not, her inspired run would come

to an end.

• 153 •

yoLanda WaLLace

Chandler won the toss and elected to serve. The proud owner

of the consensus best serve in women’s tennis, she would be able to

put it to immediate use.

“Let’s go, Chan!” a familiar voice called from the stands.

Blake Freeman was sitting in the back row of the Friends Box,

her parents on one side and Chandler’s boyfriend on the other.

Her hands cupped around her mouth, Blake continued to shout

encouragement.

Not to be outdone, Stephanie followed suit. “Break her, Sin!”

Then the rest of the crowd got involved, each fan trying to boost

the morale of his or her favorite player. Sinjin was the overwhelming

crowd favorite, but Chandler’s supporters made sure their voices

were heard.

“Quiet, please,” the chair umpire said.

Chandler bounced the ball on the face of her racquet as she

waited for the crowd to comply. After a few more cheers, the fifteen

thousand fans gathered on Centre Court gradually fell silent. Chandler

stepped to the baseline, took a deep breath, and prepared to serve.

The beginning of her service motion was slow and exaggerated, the

ending swift and sudden. When her racquet made contact with the

ball, the percussion often sounded like a sonic boom. She combined

the force with pinpoint accuracy. Her second serve was less potent

but no less a weapon, its high kick quickly bouncing out of most

players’ strike zones. Many players would have been happy to have

her second serve as their first.

Sinjin knew Chandler wasn’t going to be easy to beat. But if

she held her own serve and kept pace, perhaps Chandler would begin

to feel the pressure and miss a few of her first deliveries. Because

of her height, Chandler’s high-bouncing second serve didn’t bother

Sinjin as it did other players. She could tee off on it like batting

practice—if she got to see one. Chandler was serving so well during

the tournament her second serve was practically missing in action.

No wonder bettors had made her, in her sister’s absence and in light

of Viktoriya’s recent struggles, the odds-on favorite to take the title.

Chandler won the first point with an ace and let out the kind of

growl she normally reserved for the crucial stages of a tight third

• 154 •

Lucky Loser

set. Sinjin took the hint. She couldn’t afford to work her way into

the match. If she didn’t match Chandler’s intensity from the outset,

she would be swept off the court.

Chandler got her first serve in on the next point, but Sinjin

guessed right, hit a deep return, and won the point by steering a

backhand winner down the line. She clenched her fist as she prepared

for the next point but she didn’t celebrate. No need for histrionics on

every point. Just the important ones.

At 15-all, Chandler pumped in a first serve that registered one

hundred twenty-five miles per hour on the speed gun. Taking a page

out of Roger Federer’s book, Sinjin blocked the ball back to get

the point started. She responded to Chandler’s crosscourt backhand

with a slice forehand that landed in the middle of the service box.

The short shot drew Chandler to the net just as Sinjin intended.

Chandler got to the ball in plenty of time, but unable to stop her

forward momentum, butchered the shot. Her forehand sailed well

over the baseline.

Rattled, Chandler missed her next serve by four feet. Sinjin

crept forward for the second serve, her heels just inside the baseline.

She got the backhand she was looking for and went for a big return.

Expecting another short reply, Chandler started to move forward

before Sinjin started her swing. The pace of the shot took her by

surprise. Caught in no-man’s land between the baseline and the

service line, her attempted half-volley found the bottom of the net.

“Come on,” Sinjin said under her breath. Her quiet exhortation

was lost in the roar of the crowd.

The underdog had a chance to go up an early break.

A good start was important for both of them. If Chandler could

keep her nose out front, she could keep the partisan crowd quiet. If

Sinjin got an early lead, the place would be bedlam.

Down double break point, Chandler took some extra time

before stepping up to the service line. If she fell behind, she had it

in her to come back—more than one opponent had taken seemingly

insurmountable leads against her only to watch helplessly as she

found her game in time to pull out the win—but she couldn’t afford

to press her luck. Sinjin was a dangerous opponent on most days.

• 155 •

yoLanda WaLLace

Someone who made you sweat, but unless you were having an off

day, wasn’t a real threat to pull off an upset. The way Sinjin was

playing now, though, if she thought she had a chance to win, she

would take it. Chandler had to make sure their latest meeting wasn’t

a repeat of their last.

In Miami, Chandler had entered her third-round match with

Sinjin looking past it to a quarterfinal showdown with Blake. Like

the Williams sisters, the Freeman sisters hated playing each other.

The ratings for the matches were always off the charts, but so was

the emotional turmoil they experienced before, during, and after the

clashes. For Chandler, having to defeat her sister in order to win a

tournament, maintain her ranking, and keep her sponsors happy put

an entirely new spin on the term sibling rivalry. At the end of the day,

she and Blake were family. Between the lines, she was supposed to

put family ties aside. Sometimes she was able to do so. When she

was in the zone, the familiar face she saw across the net belonged

not to her sister but a nameless opponent. Most times, though, she

saw the big sister who had protected her, taken her under her wing,

and taught her how to be a pro. Chandler led their head-to-head

meetings thirteen to twelve, but Blake, better able to suppress the

emotions that churned up whenever she played her sister, had won

the last three matches.

Chandler had seemed almost grateful when her loss to Sinjin

in Miami had prevented another set-to with her sister. That was the

upside. The downside was the win had given Sinjin confidence. It

had taken away Chandler’s edge, the intangible advantage most top-

ranked players had when they faced off against lower-ranked ones.

That edge usually earned the higher-ranked players at least three

games before play even started. Without her edge, Chandler was

meeting Sinjin on an even playing field. And Sinjin had home court

advantage.

Everyone watching seemed to sense Sinjin’s self-belief start to

grow. Where was the player who was always down on herself? The

one whose game fell apart if she missed a shot or a call didn’t go her

way? That player had ceased to exist. In her place stood a woman

who finally looked ready to go all the way.

• 156 •

Lucky Loser

In a hole despite being in a groove on her first serve, Chandler

delivered a one hundred twenty-eight mile an hour ace down the

middle. “Yes!” she shouted as if she had just reached match point.

On the next point, Chandler hit her biggest serve of the day.

The speed gun flashed one hundred thirty-two. Sinjin’s return was

nearly as fast. Stepping into her forehand the way Andrew was

always begging her to, she won the point with one swing.

The shot also won her the set. She easily held serve in the next

game to stretch her lead to 2-0 and went on to claim the first set 6-4.

❖

The dominant serving evident in the first set continued to

manifest itself in the second, neither player able to earn more than

two points on the other’s serve in a game.

After Chandler held at love to go up five games to four, the

fourth time in as many games that the server had held without

sacrificing a point, Laure got a sinking feeling in the pit of her

stomach. Now was the time when Chandler normally made her

move. When she snatched victory away from someone who seemed

to be closing in on a win.

Sinjin hadn’t been broken in the match—hadn’t even faced

break point—but if she lost her serve in the next game, it could cost

her the match. Sinjin had fought so hard the whole tournament, her

play improving by leaps and bounds each day. She seemed to be

peaking at just the right time, but would it be enough?

“Well, well, well,” her mother said. “Look who’s here.”

“Who?”

Her mother pointed toward the north stands. “Third seat, fifth

row.”Laure counted seats until she located Viktoriya. Dressed in a

tight-fitting T-shirt that said, “It’s Good to be Queen,” she seemed to

be scouting her next opponent. Laure suspected she had something

else in mind.

Viktoriya was safely through to the finals while Chandler and

Sinjin struggled to decide who would join her. Chandler was too

• 157 •

yoLanda WaLLace

mentally tough to be shaken by Viktoriya’s presence—or her studied

calm. Was Sinjin?

❖

Chandler and Sinjin had reached the business end of the set,

the stretch of games that separated winners from losers. In order to

make the leap from competitor to champion, Sinjin would have to

find a way to quell the nerves that always seeped into her body when

a set reached its crucial stages.

Her twelfth ace helped quiet the voice in the back of her head.

The one that tried to convince her she couldn’t defeat Chandler two

times in a row. Her thirteenth ace shut the voice up for good.

She raced through her service game to pull even at five-all.

Chandler was just as precise on her own serve and quickly reclaimed

the lead at six-five.

During the changeover, Sinjin took a couple of sips of water

and quickly downed an energy bar. She wouldn’t feel the protein-

laden snack’s effects right away, but if the match went to a third set,

she would have the boost she needed. If she had anything to say

about it, though, the match would end well before the energy bar

kicked in.

She was out of her chair and on the service line before the chair

umpire called time. Anxious to cross the finish line, she cautioned

herself not to get there too fast. If she got too far ahead of herself,

she would be mourning a loss instead of celebrating a victory.

She fell behind love-thirty, but before the crowd could get too

anxious, served her way out of trouble and sealed the game with an

unreturnable serve.

“Six games-all,” the chair umpire said. “Tiebreak. Miss Freeman

to serve.”

The crowd yelled encouragement to both players. Most fans

shouted for Sinjin to win in straight sets. Others, wanting a repeat

of the thrilling first semifinal, begged for more tennis. Both players

were eager to give the crowd what they wanted. While Chandler

lived for the drama of a third set, Sinjin wanted to win the match as

• 158 •

Lucky Loser

clinically and dispassionately as possible. With Viktoriya waiting

to play the winner, there would be more than enough drama in the

final.

❖

Though she loved the view from the Royal Box, Laure hated

the close quarters—and the expectation that those seated there were

supposed to cheer equally for both players. She forced herself to

downplay her reactions to each point Sinjin won in the tiebreaker in

order to comply with the unwritten rule.

“If this is anything like the set, we could be here all day,” her

father said. “Back and forth until someone finally breaks.”

“That isn’t going to be the case today. Whoever gets to set point

first will take it. Either the match will be over in two sets or it’s

going to three.”

She hoped Sinjin would be the one who reached set point first.

If Chandler won the second set, she had the game and the mystique

to steamroll through the third.

When the players reached five points-all, the crowd’s cheers

grew in intensity. Everyone knew how important the next point

would be. The winner would hold either set point or match point.

Chandler stepped to the line and served a bomb down the

middle of the court. The ball looked as if it had landed just beyond

the service line, but the linesperson called the ball good. Set point,

Chandler. Half the crowd screamed in delight, the other half in

despair. Laure felt her palms begin to sweat.

Sinjin raised her hand in the air as if she were a student asking

to be called on by her teacher. “Challenge.”

The crowd, soaking up the drama, applauded the move.

“Miss Smythe is challenging the call on the center service

line,” the chair umpire said. “The ball was called good.”

The challenge system was instituted two years after several

egregious line calls cost Serena Williams her U.S. Open quarterfinal

against Jennifer Capriati. The system was a hit with the fans and

most of the players, who were allowed three incorrect challenges

• 159 •

yoLanda WaLLace

per set with an extra one thrown in during a tiebreaker. If a player

argued a call and was proven wrong, she lost one of her challenges.

If she was proven right, she kept her challenge and the point was

replayed.

Some traditionalists disliked the encroachment of electronic

line calling into the historic game, bemoaning the fact that the

removal of human error lessened the number of controversies that

brought much-needed attention to what had become, for some, a

niche sport. Where would tennis be, they wondered, if not for John

McEnroe’s infamous tirades over missed calls? The more emotional

players liked the fact that they could put a point behind them instead

of stewing over it until it cost them a match.

Whatever their stance on the challenge system, it hadn’t taken

players long to learn to use it to their advantage. Some players

disputed calls even when they thought the linespeople were correct.

In those cases, the challenges were not made to correct an error but

to disrupt an opponent’s rhythm, ruin her concentration, or give her

time to think.

Sinjin didn’t get to use the challenge system often—the

equipment was so expensive it was reserved for the show courts,

venues where her matches were rarely scheduled. If she won this

challenge, the ace would be ruled a fault and Chandler would be

forced to hit a second serve on a crucial point, not an easy feat even

for someone with her steely nerves.

The system operators played their part. When matches were

close, they waited an extra few seconds to cue up the replay in order

to add to the suspense.

Laure eyed the replay screen, willing the graphics to move.

Finally, the system went into action, an animated ball slowly

mirroring the flight of Chandler’s contested serve. The ball landed

less than an inch behind the service line. A roar went up when Out

flashed on the screen.

“Second serve,” the chair umpire said. “Miss Smythe has four

challenges remaining.”

At five-all in the tiebreak, the percentages dictated Chandler

had to take some pace off her second serve to insure she got it in the

• 160 •

Lucky Loser

box. She could be bold and go for a big second serve, but would she

take the risk when the stakes were so high?

Sinjin settled into her service stance. Laure hoped she wouldn’t

blow her opportunity.

Make this count.

Chandler threw in a kick serve to Sinjin’s forehand, her weaker

wing. The ball sat up, begging to be hit. Sinjin obliged by rifling a

wicked crosscourt return. Some fans whooped, thinking the point

was over. Chandler’s dazzling foot speed allowed her to get to the

ball with ease. Her two-handed backhand was hit with just as much

force as the shot that preceded it.

Laure looked on anxiously as Sinjin and Chandler played

the kind of extended backcourt rally normally reserved for clay

courts. The point reached ten strokes. Then fifteen. Then twenty.

The crowd gasped in awe as both women chased down shots that

looked like sure winners and returned them with interest. On the

thirtieth stroke, Sinjin hit a backhand so sharply angled Chandler

nearly had to climb into the stands to retrieve it. Chandler got the

ball back but barely.

Laure leaned forward. Sinjin finally had an opening. All she

had to do was slide the ball down the line and the point was hers.

❖

Sinjin thought Chandler, unwilling to concede the point, would

race to cover the ad court. Not wanting to get burned by Chandler’s

speed, she played it safe and hit the ball behind her.

Too winded to sprint to the ad court, Chandler stayed home. The

crowd groaned as Sinjin hit the ball right to her. Chandler cracked a

forehand that instantly put Sinjin on her heels. Sinjin scrambled for

the shot and threw up a defensive lob to give herself time to get back

into position. Chandler hit an overhead as hard as she could. Sinjin

chased the ball down and threw up another desperate lob.

Chandler had Sinjin on the ropes but couldn’t put her away.

Sinjin retrieved smash after smash as she fought to stay in the rally.

Chandler grew visibly frustrated at her inability to end the point.

• 161 •

yoLanda WaLLace

She finally eschewed power for finesse. Circling under the ball, she

angled an overhead deep in Sinjin’s forehand corner.

Chandler left her deuce court undefended. Spotting the opening,

this time Sinjin made sure she didn’t miss. The forehand was the

hardest she hit during the match, the courtside speed gun measuring

it at ninety-four miles per hour.

Match point.

Sinjin arched her back and roared at the sky. “Yeah!”

The crowd applauded lustily for several minutes, the respite

giving each player a chance to catch her breath.

❖

“Quiet, please,” the chair umpire said. “The players are ready.”

Laure waited for Sinjin to turn and look her way. They had

locked eyes as Sinjin celebrated reaching match point, but Sinjin

had quickly turned her attention to the next point.

“Good,” she said as Sinjin continued to maintain her focus.

“Don’t think. Just grab the ball and serve.”

The chair umpire repeated her appeal for quiet. The crowd

eventually complied.

Sinjin stepped up to the service line and began her routine. She

bounced the ball three times, caught it in her right hand, and tossed

it in the air.

Chandler looked uncertain. Should she defend her backhand or

her forehand? Sinjin’s kick serve to the ad court was her best serve,

but she had hit only a handful of them all day, preferring to pick on

Chandler’s forehand or crowd her body. At crunch time, would she

turn to her bread and butter or continue to mix it up?

Chandler guessed right but didn’t get her racquet on the ball.

Ace number seventeen took Sinjin to the Wimbledon final.

❖

Laure led the assault in the locker room as a group of players

showered Sinjin with champagne and beer. The foam-filled bath

• 162 •

Lucky Loser

usually occurred after a player won a title, not before. Sinjin didn’t

fight the break in tradition. Then again, she didn’t have a choice. She

was ambushed the instant she walked in the room.

“At least one of us made our date,” Laure said, giving her a

hug. Sinjin wiped champagne out of her eyes. “Someone had to

carry the flag for the Rainbow Brigade. Are you going to stick

around for the final or are you going to yell at the TV screen like my

grandparents?”

Laure gave Sinjin another hug. “I’ll be right here. There’s no

way I’d miss the biggest party this country has seen in years.”

“I hope I don’t ruin everyone’s good time.”

Sinjin felt Viktoriya before she heard her, her sixth sense

alerting her to the danger that lurked behind her.

“Is this a private party or can anyone join?”

The other players fell into an uneasy silence but formed a wall

behind Sinjin, offering her their unspoken support.

Viktoriya smirked. “Then I’ll be brief. It looks like I got what

I wanted.”

“Be careful what you wish for,” Sinjin said. “It could come

back to haunt you in the end.”

“I doubt that. I wish you the best of luck on Saturday. I’ll try

not to embarrass you too much.” Viktoriya turned and left the room.

The other players slowly drifted out, leaving Sinjin and Laure

alone.“Look at me.” Laure turned Sinjin to face her. “Tonight, you’re

going to enjoy this win. Tomorrow, you’re going to buckle down

and prepare for Saturday. Viktoriya isn’t the reason I lost today. I

am. Despite all the head games she played before the match, I still

had a chance to win. I simply didn’t make the shots when I needed

to. That’s my fault, not hers. Don’t make the same mistake I did.

Don’t underestimate your abilities and overestimate hers. I believe

in you. I know you can win on Saturday, but it won’t matter if you

don’t believe in yourself.”

• 163 •

• 164 •

Lucky Loser

the finaL

All set.” Kendall squeezed Sinjin’s left ankle as she pressed

the last piece of protective tape into place. The layers of

gauze and padding weren’t meant to protect an injury but prevent

one. Sinjin flexed her toes and took a couple of tentative steps to

make sure the bindings on her feet were tight enough to do their job

without restricting her circulation. Then she sat and pulled on her

socks.The past forty-eight hours had been a whirlwind. Filled with

interview requests, photo shoots, and other demands on Sinjin’s

time. The moment—the reason for all the hoopla—had finally

arrived. The Wimbledon final was just minutes away.

“What’s the plan?” Laure asked.

“I’m going to slice her to pieces. Backhand slice. Forehand

slice. She’s tall so I’m going to keep the ball low and make her bend

as much as possible. By the time the third set rolls around, she won’t

have any legs left.”

“Do you think it’s going to three sets?”

“Straight sets. Three sets. I don’t care if we play for one hour or

three as long as I’m the one holding the trophy when we’re done.”

Kendall, Stephanie, and Gabrielle wore hand-lettered T-shirts.

When they stood next to each other, the message on their shirts

read, “Go, Sinjin, Go!” Laure, in a lightweight Armani pantsuit, felt

overdressed.

• 165 •

yoLanda WaLLace

“Good luck.” Kendall extended her hand to Gabrielle, signaling

they should leave. The locker room was practically overflowing

with people. Kendall guessed—correctly—that Sinjin wanted time

alone before such a big match. She and Gabrielle left to take their

seats in the Friends Box.

“I have to go, too.” Laure gave Sinjin a hug. “Play for yourself

today, not anyone else.”

Sinjin grabbed her hand. “Stay a little longer?”

Laure checked her watch. Her parents were safeguarding her

place in the Royal Box. She needed to be in it before the Queen

arrived. In a virtual murderers’ row of dignitaries, she had been

assigned the seat to the immediate right of Queen Elizabeth and her

husband Prince Philip, who would occupy the place of honor in the

middle of the first row. To their left, the prime ministers of England

and Australia. Dozens of former champions were also in attendance.

Martina Navratilova, Billie Jean King, Chris Evert, Margaret Smith

Court, Steffi Graf, and Evonne Goolagong, to name a few.

Security was as tight as the players everyone was waiting to

see. Laure squeezed Sinjin’s hand and sat back down. “I can spare

a few more minutes.”

She hoped Sinjin’s nerves wouldn’t get the best of her. Her

hands were shaking so badly she could barely tie her shoes. She

abruptly sat up straight.

“What’s wrong?” Laure asked.

“I feel like I’m going to throw up.”

Laure relaxed her grip. “That means you’re ready. Before

the U.S. Open final, you were laughing and joking like it was just

another match. This isn’t just another match. Your legacy’s going

to be on the line. Play like it. This is your moment, not Viktoriya’s.

Don’t let her or anyone else take it from you.”

Sinjin nodded resolutely.

Stephanie sat on Sinjin’s other side. “I have something that

should make you feel better. Do you remember this?” She reached

into her purse and pulled out a keychain with a miniature replica of

the women’s singles trophy attached.

• 166 •

Lucky Loser

“Where did you find that? I thought I lost it years ago.”

“I nicked it from you while you were packing to leave for tennis

camp. I’ve been carrying it around ever since. It’s been my good

luck charm. Now it can be yours. Do you remember what Mum used

to say?”

“‘This might not be the actual Ladies’ Plate, but one day, you’ll

get to hold the real thing.’”

The hair on the back of Laure’s neck stood up as she felt another

presence enter the room.

“Today’s the day,” Stephanie said. “I love you, sis.”

“I love you, too.” Sinjin’s hands were steady as she slipped the

keychain into her pocket.

“I’ll see you out there.” Stephanie gave her a quick hug before

she left to join the crowd in the buzzing stadium.

Laure took Sinjin’s right hand in both of hers.

They were quiet for a long while, absorbing the enormity of the

moment. Win or lose, Sinjin’s place in history was secured. She had

backed up her appearance in the U.S. Open final by advancing to the

championship match at Wimbledon. She was a Wimbledon finalist.

No one would ever be able to take that away from her.

“A couple of days ago,” Sinjin said, “you told me you believed

in me. You said I needed to believe in myself. Thanks to you, I’ve

found that belief. But there’s something I believe in even more. Us.

No matter what happens out there today, I know you’ll be here for

me. I was an arse for not realizing it before now. I’m sorry if I—”

Laure placed her fingers over Sinjin’s lips. “Three years ago,

you asked me a question. Do you remember what it was?”

Sinjin screwed up her face in concentration as she searched

her memory banks. Her face lit up when she found what she was

looking for. “Forgive me yet?”

Laure kissed her. “Ask me after championship point.”

❖

After Laure left, Sinjin took a moment to compose herself.

Her adrenaline was pumping so hard she could barely breathe. She

• 167 •

yoLanda WaLLace

pulled the keychain out of her pocket and ran her fingers over the

intricate design. The raised inlay had worn down over the years, the

gold plating rubbed off in several spots. Despite the trinket’s battered

appearance, it held undeniable power. She could feel its energy

coursing through her as she held it. The real Ladies’ Plate bore the

engraved names of every women’s champion since 1884. In a matter

of hours, either she or Viktoriya would add her name to the list.

Laure had told her to play for herself. For once, Sinjin didn’t

take her advice. She squeezed the keychain and slipped it back into

her pocket. Then she closed her eyes and lifted her head toward the

ceiling. “This one’s for you, Mum.”

She grabbed her racquet bag, shook hands with her old friend

the locker room attendant, and followed an official to the holding

area. Viktoriya, fashionably late as always, arrived shortly after. Her

white tennis dress looked as crisp and cool as she did. Sponsors’

patches lined both sleeves of her warm-up jacket. Sinjin’s sleeves

were unadorned.

“The tournament referee will be with you in a moment,” the

official said. “He’ll be able to answer any last-minute questions you

may have. Good luck to both of you.”

“How did you sleep last night?” Viktoriya asked after the

official left. “Each time I play a Grand Slam final, I can’t sleep

the night before. I play these matches all the time, but it’s been a

while since you’ve made it to this stage. Three years is a long time

between finals. I can’t imagine the butterflies you must be feeling.”

“My butterflies and I are fine. Thanks for asking.”

Viktoriya’s confident smile faltered for a fraction of a second.

The moment was brief but long enough for Sinjin to register it.

“How’s Laure? If I’d known I was sending her into retirement,

I would have taken more time to enjoy the moment.”

Sinjin smiled to counteract the spike in her blood pressure. “I’ll

give her your regards. If you ask me nicely, I might even save a

place for you at our table at the Champions Ball.”

Viktoriya rocked back on her heels as if she had been dealt a

staggering blow, but she quickly regained her equilibrium. “Ah, Mr.

Bloom. It’s a pleasure to see you again.”

• 168 •

Lucky Loser

Tournament referee Alan Bloom returned Viktoriya’s

effusive greeting. “The pleasure, as always, is mine.” He turned

to Sinjin. “Miss Smythe, congratulations for making it this far.

You’ve managed to perform a feat no one has been able to pull

off in over thirty years: you’ve compelled Her Majesty to attend a

championship match.”

“Glad I could help.”

“Let’s give her a show to be proud of, shall we?”

Alan gave each player a bouquet. In the championship round,

the ball kids carried the competitors’ racquet bags onto the court.

The players didn’t schlep anything heavier than an armful of

flowers.

“At the insistence of His Royal Highness the Duke of Kent,

the Club abandoned the tradition of bowing to the Royal Box many

years ago unless the Prince of Wales or Her Majesty the Queen is

in attendance. With that said, I hope you’ve been practicing your

curtsies. When we reach the baseline, we will turn and face the

Royal Box. The ladies will curtsy, the gentlemen will bow. After

that, it will be business as usual. Any questions?”

“Just one,” Viktoriya said. “What time should I arrive tomorrow?”

A few hours before the men contested their final on the last day

of the tournament, the women’s champion traditionally held a photo

op for the press. Viktoriya’s question let everyone know she fully

intended to be the one posing with the trophy in the heart of London.

Alan coughed into his fist. “The, um, time and location for

that event have not been determined as of yet. My office has your

contact numbers, Miss Vasilyeva, as well as yours, Miss Smythe.

We will inform all necessary parties when the information becomes

available. If you’ll follow me, please.”

He led the players down the stairs. Before walking through the

door that led to Centre Court, Sinjin looked up at the plaque affixed

to the top of the doorway. The plaque contained a quote from the

famous Rudyard Kipling poem “If,” the work that urged the reader

to meet with triumph and disaster and treat both impostors the same.

Sinjin reached up and touched the plaque as so many others had

before her.

• 169 •

yoLanda WaLLace

“Wait here a moment,” Alan said. He consulted his watch,

waiting until precisely two p.m. to send the players on their journey.

“Please proceed.”

Viktoriya took the lead. Sinjin followed her into the bright

sunshine. A roar went up as soon as the crowd got a glimpse of the

players. Viktoriya waved her flowers over her head like an Olympian

on the medals stand. Sinjin, fighting to keep her emotions under

wraps, acknowledged the cheers with a similar but more subtle

gesture. Then she shot a glance at the Friends Box. Viktoriya’s

friends and family occupied the second row. Gabrielle, Kendall,

Nicolas, and Stephanie sat in the first. Sinjin had provided tickets

for Andrew and her grandparents, too, even though she knew all

of them would be too anxious to use them. Her grandparents were

home waiting for her call. Andrew was probably pruning his roses

or pacing in front of his TV.

At the baseline, the players, ball girls, tournament referee, and

chair umpire turned and paid their respects to the Royal Box.

❖

Laure, seated between her mother and the Queen, joined the

rest of the fans as they gave Sinjin and Viktoriya a standing ovation.

“We might be in trouble,” her mother whispered as the players

shed their warm-up jackets. “I don’t think favoritism is allowed in

the Royal Box.”

“Then it’s a good thing we’re not royalty.” Laure watched

Sinjin, Viktoriya, and the chair umpire pose with the little girl who

had been selected to conduct the pre-match coin toss. Viktoriya won

the toss and elected to serve. “How does she look?” Laure asked

as Sinjin jogged to the baseline to begin the ten-minute warm-up.

“Does she look nervous to you?”

“No,” her mother said, “she looks like she belongs here. You

and I are the ones who could do with a change of venue.”

Laure looked around the Royal Box. She tried to count the sea

of famous faces but gave up after the number reached fifty. Agents

from MI-5, ready to repel any potential attackers, occupied the aisle

• 170 •

Lucky Loser

seats. To her right sat Billie Jean King and Martina Navratilova, the

two women who shared the record for most Wimbledon titles with

twenty. To her left, Australian Prime Minister Samantha Ogilvie

and British Prime Minister Julian Firth discussed fox hunting with

Prince Philip. Queen Elizabeth and Laure’s father, meanwhile, were

conducting a spirited comparison of the Kentucky Derby and the

Royal Ascot Derby at Epsom Downs. Laure had no idea her father

was a horse racing fan.

The Fortescue charm strikes again.

❖

Before the first ball was struck, all things were possible. The

match that followed could be a blowout, a classic, or just another

routine contest.

Sitting in her chair waiting for time to be called, Sinjin tried to

focus on the present instead of the past. Don’t think about history

until you’ve made it. Until then, this is just another match. And the

woman who looks like the Queen, she’s just someone’s grandmother.

She looked around the stadium. British, Russian, and even

a few Nigerian flags flew everywhere. Hundreds of fans held up

homemade signs and posters rooting on their favorite players. In

the stands below the Friends Box, a group of shirtless male fans had

the letters of Viktoriya’s name painted on their chests. Sinjin felt

like she had fallen asleep and woken up in the middle of a World

Cup match. She hadn’t seen such an enthusiastic Wimbledon crowd

since Goran Ivanisevic and Patrick Rafter contested an epic rain-

delayed men’s final in 2001. Playing on a Monday afternoon in front

of a crowd composed of more Generation X-ers than club members,

Ivanisevic had triumphed 9-7 in the fifth set to claim his last career

title and his first Grand Slam.

Sinjin didn’t know if her match with Viktoriya would stand up

to the Ivanisevic-Rafter match in terms of drama and excitement.

Relatively few matches could. When her match was over, she hoped

that she would walk away with her first Wimbledon title.

“Time,” the chair umpire said.

• 171 •

yoLanda WaLLace

Veteran official Helen Rhys had been granted the honor of

umpiring the women’s final. Sinjin was pleased with the selection.

Helen was one of the good ones. She supported her linespeople on

close calls but wasn’t afraid to correct a clear error. Firm but fair,

she never tried to interject her personality into a match the way

some umpires did. With her, there would be no controversial calls or

ill timed overrules. She ran a tough ship, which encouraged players

and linespeople alike to be on their best behavior.

After completing their last-minute rituals, Sinjin and Viktoriya

took the court to another round of deafening applause. Analysts were

torn on the importance of the first set. Some said winning the first

set was crucial to Sinjin’s prospects; some felt Viktoriya needed to

claim it in order to keep the crowd at bay. Some said Sinjin needed

to keep her nose in front to have any chance at all, while others said

Viktoriya could easily come from behind.

Viktoriya looked across the net, trying to stare Sinjin down.

Sinjin returned her glare. Viktoriya’s plan to rattle her had failed.

Unlike most of their matches, this one would be decided on the

court, not in the locker room.

Viktoriya prepared to serve. Because of her height, she could

lean into the delivery the way few other female players could. The

shot routinely reached speeds unprecedented in the women’s game.

In addition to serve speed, she possessed machinelike consistency.

She had been nearly flawless in the semifinals, missing just four first

serves in the second and third sets combined.

Though she had watched only one of Viktoriya’s matches

during the tournament, Sinjin knew from past experience Viktoriya

was going to be hard to break. She didn’t expect to get very many

opportunities. When they came, she would have to make the most

of them—something she had not been able to do in their previous

match-ups.

“Miss Vasilyeva to serve,” Helen said. “Play.”

Sinjin stood a foot behind the baseline, giving herself room

to cut off the angle and time to make the return. As she always did

before a big match, she tried to send a message from the very first

point. If she won the opening salvo, she told herself, she would

• 172 •

Lucky Loser

win the match. She won the first point with a textbook backhand

volley, but Viktoriya rallied to win the game. Viktoriya extended

her winning streak to six consecutive points by taking the first two

points on Sinjin’s serve before Sinjin steadied herself to pull even

at one-all.

After shaking off their early jitters, they both settled down and

put their game plans into effect. Sinjin sliced her ground strokes

so finely they barely cleared the net. Viktoriya, meanwhile, used

topspin to keep the ball deep as she tried to pin Sinjin to the baseline.

Viktoriya reached break point in the sixth game, but Sinjin

fought it off with a good serve and an even better volley. Sinjin

earned a break point of her own in the next game, but Viktoriya

prevented her from taking the lead by threading the needle on a

backhand passing shot that found the millimeter of space between

Sinjin’s outstretched racquet and the sideline.

“Sí,” Viktoriya shouted when her shot landed in the corner.

As the set got tougher, Viktoriya’s exhortations grew louder.

Sinjin, continuing to play well within herself, stayed mum. Tired of

the mind games and backbiting, she wanted to settle her differences

with Viktoriya once and for all. And she wanted to do it where it

counted—between the lines. To do so, she needed to keep her head

clear of the interference that crept into her brain whenever Viktoriya

crossed her path.

At five-all, Viktoriya missed an easy forehand, her bread and

butter shot. She yelled at herself in Russian, giving voice to the

growing frustration she must have felt at not being able to put some

distance between them. Excluding the match against Laure, she had

trounced all her opponents in the tournament, losing an average of

three games a match. But this wasn’t just another match. This was

the final.

After another error, the crowd prepared itself for one of

Viktoriya’s infamous tantrums—colorful tirades that had become

YouTube staples—but she steadied herself and closed out the game

to pull ahead six-five.

Channeling Arthur Ashe, Sinjin closed her eyes during the

changeover. She tried to picture herself winning the next game and

• 173 •

yoLanda WaLLace

the tiebreaker. As Laure loved to say, if she could dream it, she could

achieve it.

She took the first step by winning the twelfth game at love.

“Tiebreak,” Helen Rhys announced. “Miss Vasilyeva to serve.

Both players have four challenges remaining.”

The first twelve games had been an extended warm-up. Now it

was time for the real match to begin.

❖

Laure didn’t subscribe to the theory that said the first set didn’t

matter. The set was already an hour old and had yet to be decided.

After fighting so hard for so long, whoever lost the set would

undoubtedly have an emotional letdown in the second set, meaning

whoever won the first set would most likely win the match.

At nine points-all, the players changed ends for the third time.

“Careful. I need that hand to sketch with.” Laure pried her

mother’s fingers apart, breaking the death grip she had applied to

her forearm.

“Sorry.”

Laure wasn’t immune to the tension. She felt like a violin string

that had reached its breaking point. In a few more bow strokes, she

might snap in two.

Both players had reached and lost multiple set points. No, that

was unfair. In the superbly played tiebreaker, points were won, not

lost. Unforced errors were a rarity, winners plentiful. The crowd

leaped to its feet after nearly every point as the players carved out

impossible angles, hit offensive shots from defensive positions, and

turned the set into an instant classic.

“Three guesses as to which match is going to be shown during

next year’s rain delays,” Laure’s mother said after Sinjin chased

down a lob, overran it, and, out of desperation, hit a between-the-legs

winner past the startled Viktoriya. “And the first two don’t count.”

“Neither will this set if Sinjin doesn’t win the match.”

❖

• 174 •

Lucky Loser

Sinjin tried to slow her racing heartbeat. The closer she came

to winning the set, the farther away the finish line seemed to be. She

tried to remain positive, but each set point that slipped through her

fingers dented her confidence a little more. The pep talks she gave

herself no longer had the desired effect.

You can do this.

She struggled to convince herself the words were true. Though

she had never beaten Viktoriya, their matches had always been

competitive. The razor-thin difference between them was Viktoriya’s

unshakable belief in herself. Her belief that no matter how many

spectacular winners Sinjin hit, she would hit one more. The belief

was innate, not manufactured. It had made her a champion—and

prevented Sinjin from becoming one.

Belief, paired with three cold-blooded winners, helped

Viktoriya secure the first set.

“Vamos,” she shouted, directing her celebration toward the

group of men who had her name painted on their chests.

“Uno más,” they shouted back. One more. One more set and

the title was hers.

Sinjin shook her head disconsolately as she sank into her chair.

Her first lost set of the tournament was a heartbreaker. She wouldn’t

have minded so much if she hadn’t come so close to winning it. In

her head, she replayed the points that had cost her the set. If given

a second chance, she didn’t think she would have played them any

differently.

She was just too good. But you can be better.

❖

In the Royal Box, Billie Jean King and Martina Navratilova

dissected the first set.

“Sinjin played some beautiful serve and volley tennis in that

set,” Billie Jean said. “No one plays like that anymore. It’s a shame

her effort couldn’t have been rewarded. She did everything right.”

“Except win the last point,” Martina replied. “But Viktoriya

looks like she’s slowing down a bit, doesn’t she? She was starting

• 175 •

yoLanda WaLLace

to labor toward the end of the breaker. All the emotional energy

she expends even after routine points is bound to catch up with her

eventually.”

Billie Jean nodded. “It could bite her in the butt in the third. If

there is a third.”

“Sinjin’s serving first in the second set. If she can hold her

serve and sneak out an early break, she’s right back in this. If it goes

to three, I like her chances.”

Laure, who had been eavesdropping on the conversation, broke

into a grin. Sinjin’s plan was working. If she stuck to it, she could

still pull off a miracle.

❖

A lull settled over the court in the early stages of the second set.

It was to be expected. Players and fans alike needed time to recover

after the excitement of the opening stanza.

Sinjin easily won the first game of the set. When she changed

ends, she sought out her friends and family for the first time since

the match began. Gabrielle, Kendall, and Nicolas, who knew from

experience the jumble of emotions swirling through Sinjin’s body,

immediately stood to offer her their encouragement. Stephanie

followed suit. “You’ve got the heart of a lion,” she said, pointing

toward the sky. “Show it.”

Sinjin turned to Laure. She had avoided looking into the Royal

Box, afraid of being intimidated by the slew of dignitaries she would

see staring back at her. At the moment, there was only one face she

wanted to see. Only one face that mattered. Laure’s.

“Right now,” Laure said, her face a study in determination.

“Make your move right now.”

Sinjin stepped up to the baseline and prepared to receive serve.

If she didn’t break in the next game, it wouldn’t be the end of the

world. She would be fine as long as she kept her nose out front. Then

the pressure would fall on Viktoriya’s shoulders instead of hers. The

pressure to keep up. To come from behind.

• 176 •

Lucky Loser

Some players fared better when they were ahead. Others were

able to go for their shots only when they were climbing the mountain

instead of standing on top of it. Sinjin liked operating with a lead.

Viktoriya preferred to fight her way back from the brink.

In order to claim her fifth Grand Slam title, Viktoriya would

have to do something even more difficult than coming from behind.

She would have to come from ahead.

After winning the first set in a tiebreaker, she quickly fell

behind 5-0 in the second. She held serve to avoid being bageled but

Sinjin served out the set in the next game.

Gabrielle, Kendall, Nicolas, and Stephanie exchanged high

fives in the Friends Box. Compelled by her surroundings into being

more muted, Laure settled for a discreet fist pump.

“One more set like that and we can all go home happy.” After

watching Viktoriya smash her racquet on the ground, she quickly

amended her statement. “Well, maybe not all of us.”

❖

“Code violation. Racquet abuse. Warning, Miss Vasilyeva,”

Helen Rhys said.

Viktoriya shot daggers at the chair umpire with her eyes but held

her tongue. If she received another code violation, she would lose a

point. A third would cost her the match. Sinjin didn’t think Helen had

the guts to disqualify Viktoriya in the finals of Wimbledon, but after

watching Serena Williams get tossed from the U.S. Open semifinals

for her profane tirade, Viktoriya would be foolish to take the risk.

“Bathroom break,” Viktoriya said through clenched teeth. Then

she quickly left the court. A tournament official accompanied her to

make sure she didn’t receive any input from her coaches along the

way.The break wasn’t against the rules, but Sinjin doubted its

legitimacy. She recognized the ploy for what it was: Viktoriya’s

attempt to stall her momentum. She knew she had to be ready for

anything. Viktoriya would pull out every trick in the book if she

thought it could help her win. Then again, she already had.

• 177 •

yoLanda WaLLace

Sinjin used the respite to banter with her supporters.

“I hope everything comes out okay.”

“I’m so glad to see you’re not too sophisticated for bathroom

humor,” Laure said.

“That was awful.”

“Was it any worse than any of yours?”

“You’ve got a point.”

As the break stretched on, the fans began to get restless.

Anxious to see more tennis, they broke into rhythmic applause.

Sinjin obliged them. She armed one of the ball girls with a racquet

and, to the delight of the crowd, they played a few points. Sinjin

won the first one when the ball girl dumped a forehand into the

middle of the net.

“Choke up a little,” she advised the blushing youngster. The

ball girl followed the suggestion and, to the delight of the crowd,

“won” the next two points. When Viktoriya finally returned to the

court, Sinjin jogged to the net and shook the ball girl’s hand. “Nice

job.”Provided with a memory she would never forget, the grinning

ball girl resumed her position on the side of the court.

Viktoriya’s eyebrows knitted in rage. After her piss-poor

showing in the second set, she was obviously in no mood for what

she used to refer to as one of Sinjin’s kind-hearted displays. Sinjin

already had the crowd on her side. Now she had them wrapped

around her finger, too. Playing patty-cake tennis with the ball girl

had been an impulsive act on Sinjin’s part, but Viktoriya glared at

her as if it had been premeditated. As if Sinjin had done it to show

her up. To embarrass her.

Sinjin could feel the fury rolling off Viktoriya in waves as

anger helped her refill her rapidly diminishing energy reserves.

Sinjin knew she would continue to add fuel to the fire. In Viktoriya’s

eyes, she had committed a cardinal sin: she had dared to have fun

at Viktoriya’s expense. Viktoriya wasn’t about to let her get away

with it.

As the third set commenced, the second set began to seem like

an anomaly. Viktoriya cut down on the unforced errors that had

• 178 •

Lucky Loser

plagued her in the second set, her level of play returning to the high

level she had established in the first set. Sinjin’s level had never

dipped. In fact, it seemed to increase exponentially in each set. The

longer the match went, the better she seemed to play.

Viktoriya hit the wall in the eighth game. She looked fine

during the points. Between them, she looked half-dead. One minute

she was limping noticeably as if her legs were cramping. The next

minute she was chasing after balls like a gazelle.

Sinjin struggled to maintain her focus. Across the net, Viktoriya

was doubled over as if she couldn’t catch her breath. Don’t fall for

it, Sinjin cautioned herself. She’s just trying to play with your head

again. But in the back of her mind, she wondered if Viktoriya’s distress

was real. Seeing her in as much pain as she appeared to be in was

difficult to watch—and even harder to play against.

Up 0-30 on Viktoriya’s serve, Sinjin lifted her foot off the gas

when she should have pressed it to the floor. Viktoriya won four

straight points to pull out the game, then called for the trainer.

Down 5-4 in the third set, Sinjin would have to sit and wait.

And think.

The trainer, after taking several minutes to arrive on court,

began her two-minute medical evaluation. At the end of that time

period, she could ask for a five-minute medical timeout or defer

treatment until the next changeover.

Asked to indicate her area of discomfort, Viktoriya pointed to

the back of her right leg.

From Sinjin’s point of view, Viktoriya’s timing couldn’t be

worse. Or more intentional. Viktoriya’s leg had seemed to be an

issue since the fourth game of the set. Why hadn’t she called for the

trainer then? Because she wasn’t a game away from the match then.

Because at 2-all or 3-2, a service break was something Sinjin would

be able to recover from. At 5-4, a break meant the match.

As the trainer worked on Viktoriya’s balky hamstring, Sinjin

tried to keep her muscles warm and her mind free. Thoughts of losing

were not allowed to enter her head. She visualized her next service

game, scripting it like a football coach planning the first quarter of

• 179 •

yoLanda WaLLace

a game. When she got to the line, she didn’t want to have to think

about where to direct each serve. She wanted to be on autopilot.

The physiotherapist wrapped a bandage around Viktoriya’s leg

and secured it with trainer’s tape. Viktoriya tested her leg and the

tape job. After performing a few knee lifts, she pronounced herself

fit to play.

Raucous applause greeted their return to the court. Fans

shouted encouragement to Viktoriya and Sinjin in equal measures,

Viktoriya’s apparent injury garnering her a few sympathy votes.

On the first point, Sinjin served out wide to Viktoriya’s forehand

to test her leg. Viktoriya passed the test with flying colors, rifling a

winner down the line.

“Sí.” Viktoriya clenched her fists and stared across the net to

assess Sinjin’s reaction to her shot.

Undaunted, Sinjin continued to follow her script. She directed

the next serve to Viktoriya’s forehand as well. Set up for a kick serve

to her backhand, Viktoriya watched Sinjin’s twenty-ninth ace fly by.

The shot tied Sinjin’s personal best for the most aces she had ever

hit in a match.

The crowd erupted, but Sinjin didn’t react. There was still work

to be done.

Viktoriya’s passing shots began to find their mark. Another

huge forehand brought her to 15-30. A bruising backhand to 15-40.

With Queen Elizabeth watching over her shoulder, Queen Viktoriya

had double match point.

In the Friends Box, Gabrielle, Kendall, Nicolas, and Stephanie

held hands, forming a united front. In the Royal Box, Laure and her

parents did the same.

“It can’t end like this,” Sinjin said under her breath. “Not like

this and not to her. You’ve been waiting for this moment your entire

life. Don’t let it pass you by.”

She served another ace to save one match point. Then she

waited for the applause to die down.

She knew she was taking part in a classic match, one that would

be talked about for years to come no matter who won, but unless she

pulled out the victory, she would never be able to bring herself to

• 180 •

Lucky Loser

watch it. She didn’t know which was worse, losing the match or

losing to Viktoriya. Again. Neither scenario held great appeal.

She hit a booming serve and waited for a short ball so she could

work her way into the net. Viktoriya’s deep ground strokes kept her

tethered to the baseline. Finally, fifteen strokes into the rally, one

of Viktoriya’s backhands landed close to the service line. Sinjin

sliced a backhand and followed it to the net. The shot stayed low

but landed short, giving Viktoriya a good look at the passing shot.

Sinjin’s heart sank as Viktoriya drew back and loaded up her

two-handed backhand. By protecting the sideline, she had left a

sizable hole on the other side of the court. If Viktoriya’s crosscourt

backhand landed in, the match was over.

“Out!” the linesperson called.

Viktoriya raised her hands to her head in disbelief. “How did

you see it?” she asked the chair umpire.

“It was on the far side of the court. I can’t overrule my linesman.

Would you like to challenge the call?”

Down to two challenges, Viktoriya couldn’t afford to waste

one on a point she might not win. But if she gambled and won, the

trophy was hers. She waved her racquet dismissively. “Challenge.”

“Miss Vasilyeva is challenging the call on the left sideline,”

Helen Rhys said. “The ball was called out.”

Sinjin toweled off while she waited for the replay to appear on

the screen. She thought the ball had landed just out, but she didn’t

know if she were seeing the ball with her heart or her head. She

turned to Laure, who had a better view than she did. “In or out?”

Laure held up her thumb and index finger a half inch apart.

“Just wide.”

The replay confirmed her call.

“You promised me a bottle of champagne if I won,” Sinjin said.

“I think I’m going to need a whole bloody case.”

“That can be arranged.”

Sinjin fanned her shirt to show the relieved crowd her heart

was beating out of her chest. The gesture drew a laugh, but Viktoriya

obviously didn’t see the humor in it. She was the best closer in

women’s tennis—and she had just blown two match points.

• 181 •

yoLanda WaLLace

❖

Sinjin outplayed Viktoriya from the net and the baseline to

pull even at five-all. A huge grin on her face, she soaked up the

atmosphere as the crowd roared its approval.

Laure and her mother exchanged sighs of relief.

“You’re right,” Laure said. “She does look like she belongs

here. She used to say she was going to play until she was thirty

and then call it a day, but I don’t know. Look at her. She’s like a

kid out there. She may keep going forever. Everyone dreams about

going out on top. Pete Sampras won the U.S. Open when he was

thirty-one and never played again aside from exhibitions. It would

be incredible if Sinjin could do something similar—if her last match

were her best match—but I don’t know if she’d be able to walk

away that easily. I know I wouldn’t.”

“I don’t think I can endure matches like this for another five

years,” the Queen said.

Laure laughed. “You and me both.”

❖

The most dangerous opponent was a wounded opponent. Sinjin

had Viktoriya on the ropes but couldn’t finish her off. In an epic

game reminiscent of the twenty-minute, thirty-two point, thirteen-

deuce affair Steffi Graf and Arantxa Sanchez-Vicario played in the

penultimate game of the 1995 final, Viktoriya and Sinjin traded

body blows for nearly half an hour. The game lasted longer than the

entire second set.

On the forty-third point, Sinjin earned her seventh break point.

If she won it, she could serve for the match.

Viktoriya rubbed her right hand. According to the speed gun,

none of her last five serves had topped one hundred miles an hour.

She had been serving so long her fingers were undoubtedly starting

to cramp. Her arm muscles had to be screaming from overuse.

As the match neared the three-hour mark, Sinjin sensed

something she had never seen in Viktoriya: vulnerability. Viktoriya’s

• 182 •

Lucky Loser

fans sensed it, too. They chanted her name, their voices accompanied

by the sound of rhythmic applause. Then Sinjin’s fans got in on

the act. If the retractable roof had been closed, the din would have

blown it off.

“Quiet, please,” Helen Rhys said. Her request only made the

crowd get louder.

Each time Viktoriya stepped up to the line, she had to back off

because the fans wouldn’t stop cheering. She turned her back to the

court and wiped her face with her wristband. Just before Viktoriya

turned away, Sinjin could have sworn she saw tears glistening on

her cheeks.

“Quiet, please,” Helen Rhys repeated. “The players are ready.

Quiet, please.”

The crowd reluctantly complied with her request. It amazed

Sinjin how Centre Court could sound as loud as a football stadium

one minute and as silent as a library the next. The onlookers were

transfixed. Some clutched each other as if they were in need of

comfort or solace or both. Some had their fingers crossed. Some had

their hands clasped as if in prayer. All were ready to erupt.

When they trained together as teenagers, Sinjin and Viktoriya

had often discussed strategy. Forgetting that Viktoriya could one

day use the information against her, Sinjin had once confided to

Viktoriya that, if given a choice, she would rather hit a backhand than

a forehand. Her backhand was a formidable weapon. Moreover, it

was reliable. Her forehand was sporadically brilliant but inconsistent

at best. When she was nervous, she decelerated through the shot

instead of hitting out like she was supposed to.

Sinjin knew where the ball was going even before Viktoriya

began her service motion. Her forehand. No doubt about it. Even

though she expected the shot, she still had to pull it off. She tried to

swallow and she felt like she had a golf ball in her throat.

These are the moments that define a career. If you want your

career to be complete, you’ve got to seize this moment, not run from

it. Don’t wait for Viktoriya to miss. Take it to her.

Her body and mind focused on what she needed to do, she stood

with her heels on the baseline and settled into her return stance.

• 183 •

yoLanda WaLLace

Viktoriya frequently pronounced herself one of the smartest

match players on tour. Sinjin was the most skilled. Everyone

knew Sinjin was a brilliant strategist, but her immense talent was

often her downfall. When given a choice between a routine shot

and a spectacular one, she went for the flashier shot every time. In

practice, she could hit every shot in the book. Could she do it when

the pressure was on?

Viktoriya’s serve didn’t have much on it, but it was struck with

tremendous spin. Sinjin resisted the urge to take a big cut at the ball.

To try to end the point with one swing. Exercising restraint, she

blocked the return back to get the ball in play.

As they settled into an exchange of ground strokes, Viktoriya

directed all of hers to Sinjin’s forehand, trying to draw an error. The

shot not only held up but began to pay dividends.

Ten shots into the rally, Sinjin’s slice forehand landed just

inside the baseline and barely bounced. Too leg weary to bend her

knees to get down to the ball, Viktoriya bent from the waist and took

one hand off her racquet to extend her reach. Grunting with effort,

she barely dug the ball off the turf.

Sinjin moved forward to hit a forehand volley, the weakest shot

in her repertoire.

Punch it. Don’t swing.

Her technique perfect, she volleyed the ball into the open court.

“Game, Miss Smythe,” Helen Rhys said. “Miss Smythe leads

six games to five.”

Sinjin was one game away from ending the drought.

Happily breaking the unwritten rule prohibiting cheering in

the Royal Box, Laure and her parents joined the rest of the delirious

Centre Court fans as they clapped, stomped, and chanted their way

through the changeover. Even the Queen tapped a sensibly shoed foot.

While an exhausted Viktoriya sank into her chair as if she

couldn’t wait to get off her feet, Sinjin stood by hers as if she couldn’t

wait to get back on court. She drank greedily from a bottle of

Gatorade as she tried to prevent the onset of the cramps that were

threatening to form in her left thigh. Though she was sufficiently

hydrated, nervous tension had her muscles in knots.

• 184 •

Lucky Loser

Her gaze lingered on the faces of her extended family. Gabrielle.

Kendall. Nicolas. Stephanie. Laure. Even Henri and Mathilde. She

wanted them to feel what she was feeling. The excitement. The

anticipation. The pride. The love. Then she realized they already did.

The emotions she had kept in check throughout the match

threatened to spill over.

“Time,” Helen Rhys said, her unruffled voice adding an air of

much-needed calm to the bedlam that was Centre Court.

When they returned to the court, all the cameras in the

photographers’ box swung in Sinjin’s direction, their telephoto

lenses poised to capture each moment of her march into history.

Sinjin and Viktoriya both realized how important it was to win

the first point. If Sinjin won it, she could relax and roll through the

rest of the game. If Viktoriya claimed it, perhaps she could plant a

seed of doubt in Sinjin’s mind and finally get her to crack.

Viktoriya got her wish. She won the first point with a topspin

lob so perfect Sinjin didn’t even try to run it down.

“Vamos.” Viktoriya cast a long look across the net as she tried

to judge how much her shot had dented Sinjin’s psyche.

Undeterred, Sinjin played serve and volley on the next point

and dared Viktoriya to pass her. The serve drew Viktoriya out wide.

Her only hope was a backhand down the line. She had a small

opening, but Sinjin quickly closed the gap and hit a backhand volley

into the open court.

Fifteen-all.

A service winner brought Sinjin to 30-15, her thirty-first ace to

double match point.

Viktoriya challenged the call on the serve, even though her

body language seemed to say she knew the ball was good. Like her

well-timed bathroom break, the challenge was her attempt to upset

Sinjin’s rhythm. To give her time to tighten up. To make her realize

what she was within a hair’s breadth of accomplishing.

Sinjin didn’t bother to watch the replay. Toweling off at the

back of the court, she waited for the crowd’s reaction to tell her if

the ball was in or out. She didn’t have to wait long. The roar that

went up made her eardrums vibrate.

• 185 •

yoLanda WaLLace

“Forty-fifteen,” Helen Rhys announced. “Miss Vasilyeva has

no challenges remaining.”

Her hands shaking as if she had imbibed too much caffeine,

Sinjin took three balls from the ball boy, returned one, and examined

the other two. New balls would not be put into play for a few more

games. The old ones had taken quite a beating, especially in the

previous game. New balls flew through the air faster, which helped

the serve but hindered ground strokes.

Sinjin accepted the tradeoff. New balls might have helped her

pad her ace count, but as excited as she was, one of her forehands

might have ended up scattering the luminaries in the Royal Box.

Her excitement turned to trepidation after Viktoriya drew to

within a point, thanks to her third double fault.

As Sinjin began to wobble, Viktoriya made an aggressive

return on the next point. The serve was Sinjin’s biggest of the match,

topping out at one hundred thirty-three miles per hour, but Viktoriya

treated it with disdain. Aiming for the sideline, she laced a forehand

that traveled through the air so fast it seemed to improve on the speed

of the serve that preceded it. The ball looked good when it left her

racquet, but Viktoriya’s stricken expression revealed she had slightly

missed her mark. Leaning in the opposite direction of the flight of

the ball, she tried to use body English to steer it back into the court.

The ball landed perilously close to the line. The linesperson

hesitated then extended his left arm. “Out!”

The crowd exploded in jubilation then began to murmur in

confusion as neither player approached the net.

Out of challenges, Viktoriya couldn’t formally protest the call,

but that didn’t stop her from complaining vociferously to the chair

umpire.

“You’ve got to overrule that call. The ball was on the line and

you know it. It landed right in front of you.”

Not having overruled a call all day, Helen Rhys was

understandably hesitant to reverse the trend at match point. “The

linesperson had a better view than I did. In this instance, I have to

stick with his call.” She reached for the microphone to announce the

final score, but Sinjin held up her hand.

• 186 •

Lucky Loser

“I want to challenge the call.”

Both Helen and Viktoriya did a double take. The fans closest to

the court gasped in shock.

“You didn’t have a play on the ball,” Helen explained. “You do

realize that if you challenge the call and it’s reversed, you will lose

the point.”

Sinjin nodded. “I can’t live the rest of my life wondering if I

won this match on a bad call. I have to know for sure.”

“Miss Smythe is challenging the call on the right sideline,”

Helen announced, her tremulous voice betraying her surprise. “The

ball was called out.”

The crowd applauded Sinjin’s display of good sportsmanship.

When was the last time a player challenged a call that had gone

in her favor? Never. Though it wasn’t against the rules, it put an

unusual spin on the outcome. In a perverse twist of fate, if Sinjin

lost the challenge, she’d win the match. If she won the challenge,

she would have to serve at least two more points.

A sense of peace settled over her when the replay revealed

Viktoriya’s shot was good. Win or lose, you did the right thing.

Viktoriya gave her a look of grudging respect, but Sinjin didn’t

expect Viktoriya to be nearly as magnanimous when play resumed.

She knew Viktoriya would do everything she could to make her pay

for gifting her with a second chance.

Viktoriya pawed at the grass like a bull preparing to charge.

They had played each other so often that no matter how much Sinjin

tried to disguise her intentions, Viktoriya was usually able to predict

what she was going to do. Usually. The thirty-one aces hinted she

no longer knew Sinjin as well as she once did. But she still knew

her well enough.

Sinjin got her first serve in, absorbed the power of Viktoriya’s

ground strokes, and worked her way into the net. Viktoriya hit a

good passing shot. A great one, in fact. She hit the ball right in the

sweet spot and her aim was true. When the ball left her racquet,

she was certain she had won the point. Her fists were clenched in

celebration and she seemed ready to let loose another “Vamos.”

But Sinjin guessed right.

• 187 •

yoLanda WaLLace

Moving like Boris Becker in his knee-scraping prime, Sinjin

dove to her left, cut off the ball, and, her body parallel to the ground,

directed a forehand volley into the open court. She leaped to her feet

and scrambled to the center of the court to prepare for the next shot,

but Viktoriya remained rooted at the baseline. Her mouth agape, she

stared at Sinjin as if she couldn’t believe what she had just seen.

Sinjin had hit more spectacular shots, but never at a more

important time. She noticed Viktoriya’s entourage, who had

obnoxiously cheered her errors all day, suddenly didn’t have anything

to say. Her supporters, meanwhile, leaped to their feet again, doing

all they could to help her cross the finish line. They had come so far

together. Now they were—for the third time—only one point away.

Gabrielle, Kendall, Nicolas, and Stephanie linked arms like the

bench players on a college basketball team rooting on the starters

during the final seconds of a tournament game. Laure and her parents

gripped the railing in front of them, holding themselves back while

preparing to lift themselves up.

Sinjin chose to go with her new favorite serve—the one to the

body. Viktoriya, guessing wrong again, had set up for the kick serve

to her backhand. Trying to get the ball in play, she ducked and hit an

awkward squash shot.

Sinjin could see the ball spinning crazily through the air. She

couldn’t afford to let it bounce or it might go anywhere. Moving

smoothly toward the net, she drew her racquet back and prepared to

hit one of the riskiest shots in tennis—the swing volley. If her timing

was off even the slightest bit, she would slam the ball into the net or

club it a mile long.

She could hear Andrew’s voice in her head reminding her of

the proper technique.

“Pretend you’re hitting a topspin forehand. Point to the ball

with your off hand. Keep your wrist firm. Don’t take too big a swing.

This is tennis, not baseball. But when you hit the shot, make sure you

hit the crap out of the ball.”

She followed his instructions to the letter. The ball landed just

inside the baseline. Viktoriya ran after it, but the ball bounced a

second time before she had made it more than a few feet.

• 188 •

Lucky Loser

Sinjin fell spread-eagle on the ground as Helen Rhys called the

final score. “Game, set, match, Miss Smythe. Miss Smythe wins two

sets to one, six-seven, six-one, seven-five.”

The sound washed over Sinjin like a wave. The sound of fifteen

thousand voices celebrating the end of thirty-plus years of futility.

The sound of her mother’s voice whispering, “Well done.”

Taking Viktoriya’s feelings into account, she quickly picked

herself up and jogged to the net for the post-match handshake.

“Congratulations,” Viktoriya said, almost sounding as if she

meant it.

“Thanks. You were a worthy adversary.”

Sinjin pulled off her bandanna and tossed it into the stands. As

three women fought for the souvenir, she shook hands with Helen

Rhys and raised her hands over her head to acknowledge the long-

suffering fans whose patience had finally been rewarded.

When the grounds crew began to roll protective carpet over

the grass in order to prepare the court for the trophy presentation,

Sinjin bolted across the court and climbed into the stands. Australian

Pat Cash began the tradition in 1987 when he finally met the high

expectations that had been heaped upon him by his tennis-mad

nation. After defeating favored Ivan Lendl in the final, he climbed

into the Friends Box to share the moment with his family. Men’s and

women’s champions had been repeating the feat ever since.

Sinjin was flying so high she almost didn’t need the stairs.

She exchanged high fives with dozens of spectators as she waded

through the delirious crowd and climbed into the Friends Box. She

greeted Stephanie first, giving her a bear hug. “We did it.”

“I put the ball in your hand,” Stephanie said, “but you made the

shots.” She reached for her cell phone. “I’ve got to call Gram and tell

her to turn on the telly. Her granddaughter just won Wimbledon.”

As Stephanie placed an ecstatic call to Brighton, Sinjin turned

to the rest of the troupe. “You guys were the best cheerleaders I’ve

ever had,” she said, pulling them into a group hug.

She looked longingly at the Royal Box. Decorum said she

wasn’t supposed to invade it as she had the Friends Box, but she

wasn’t feeling especially decorous.

• 189 •

yoLanda WaLLace

Laure will probably kill me for what I’m about to do, but at

least I’ll die happy.

After testing the roof of NBC’s broadcast booth to make sure

it would hold her weight, she walked across it and climbed into the

Royal Box. When Martina Navratilova and Billie Jean King shook her

hand, she felt as if she were being welcomed into an exclusive club.

Then she spotted Virginia Wade.

“Thank you for making me something other than the answer

to a trivia question,” Virginia said. Though she had carved out an

accomplished career on the court before going on to distinguish

herself in the broadcast booth, to casual fans, she was simply the

last British woman to win Wimbledon. Now Sinjin was the latest.

“I’m glad I could help.”

She shook hands with Henri Fortescue and kissed Mathilde

Fortescue on both cheeks. Then she turned to Laure.

❖

Laure’s heart pounded when Sinjin’s eyes met hers. “You did

it.” “We did it.”

Laure laughed out loud when Sinjin picked her up and lifted

her high in the air. It was the U.S. Open women’s doubles final all

over again.

“Kiss her! Kiss her!” the crowd chanted.

Laure glanced at the power players surrounding them. Her

parents were watching. So was the Queen of England, for God’s

sake. “What am I supposed to do?”

Sinjin grinned. “I think you’d better do what they say. Unless

you want a mutiny on your hands.”

Laure bent and pressed her lips to Sinjin’s.

Sinjin slowly lowered Laure to the ground. Her hands resting

on Laure’s sides, she allowed the kiss to continue.

Laure’s hand snaked into Sinjin’s hair, holding her in place.

“By the way,” she said when they came up for air, “the answer is

yes. I forgive you.”

• 190 •

Lucky Loser

She stood on her tiptoes and claimed her prize, one she valued

even more than the trophy Sinjin was about to receive.

❖

Sinjin eventually moved on to accept well wishes from Prince

Philip, Prime Minister Firth, and Prime Minister Ogilvie. She

couldn’t remember the last time she had shaken so many hands and

received so many pats on the back. If she weren’t careful, she could

quickly become addicted to winning Grand Slams. When she turned

to head back the way she had come, Queen Elizabeth cleared her

throat. “Let’s take the stairs, shall we?”

“By all means.” Sinjin offered her arm.

Like her children, the Queen possessed a wry sense of humor

not often on display. “Tell me,” she said, taking Sinjin’s proffered

arm, “do you intend to kiss me, too?”

“Only if you ask me to, Ma’am.”

They descended the stairs and parted ways just inside the

entrance to Centre Court. Sinjin hurried to the sidelines to wait to be

formally introduced as the Wimbledon champion.

The Queen made her entrance a few moments later, accom-

panied by the Duke of Kent. After they assumed their positions next

to the table laden with the trophies, the public address announcer

began to introduce the principals. Polite applause greeted tourn-

ament referee Alan Bloom, who was recognized first. He bowed to

both royals, made small talk for a few moments, and briskly moved

to the end of the receiving line. He was followed by chair umpire

Helen Rhys.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the PA announcer said, “please

welcome this year’s runner-up, Miss Viktoriya Vasilyeva.”

Viktoriya, her face puffy from unshed tears, walked on court

to wild applause. She acknowledged the cheers with a slight wave,

then displayed uncharacteristic humility as she accepted her runner-

up trophy.

“From one queen to another, sincere congratulations on a most

excellent effort. Shall we see you here again next year?”

• 191 •

yoLanda WaLLace

“I certainly hope so, Ma’am,” Viktoriya replied, her voice

trembling with emotion. She held up her trophy but was unable to

produce her usual megawatt smile.

Trying to pick up Viktoriya’s spirits, the crowd gave her another

rousing ovation. The moments after a championship final were

incredibly difficult on the runners-up. Compelled to remain courtside

when they wanted to retreat to the safety of the locker room, they

were forced to deal with their roiling emotions in public. To relive the

match. To replay critical points. To second-guess themselves with a

crowd of thousands and an audience of millions watching them do it.

Viktoriya mouthed her thanks then stepped aside, ceding the

spotlight she craved.

“Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome your ladies’ champion,

Miss Sinjin Smythe.”

“We meet again,” the Queen said, reaching for the trophy. “It

is my distinct honor and pleasure to present you with this symbol of

your achievement.”

Sinjin burst into tears when she finally grasped the trophy she

had waited twenty-five years to hold. She stepped forward to pose

for the assembled photographers. As she held the Ladies’ Plate

over her head, she could hear her mother’s voice whispering to

her through the mists of time. “One day, you’ll get to hold the real

thing.” The day had come. She tried to think of something to say

during the on-court interview, but her mind was blank. Thankfully,

Viktoriya would have to go first.

After the Queen left the court, former British player Sue Barker

and her camera crew moved into position. Alan Bloom gently

steered Viktoriya in her direction.

“Viktoriya,” Sue began, “congratulations on an incredible

match. Tough luck toward the end there. If not for a few points, you

might be the one holding the Ladies’ Plate right now. What was the

difference?”

Viktoriya sighed deeply. Then she shot a quick glance at Sinjin,

who was waiting to take her turn at the mike. “I threw everything

at her but the kitchen sink today. She was just a better person than

I was.”

• 192 •

Lucky Loser

“I think you mean better player.”

“No, I had it right the first time.” Viktoriya turned to look Sinjin

in the eye. “She’s something special. I’m sorry I didn’t realize that

before now.” She turned back to Sue. “She just won nearly a million

pounds. Maybe next time we go out to dinner she can pick up the

tab,” she said, drawing a laugh from the crowd.

The public apology caught Sinjin by surprise. So did Viktoriya’s

playful wink. Had she finally won Viktoriya’s respect? Perhaps

today was the day they finally put the past behind them. Time would

tell. After thanking her agent, her fans, her coaches, and her parents

for supporting her, Viktoriya waved to the crowd and, deciding the

interview was over, returned to her chair.

“Viktoriya Vasilyeva, everyone,” Sue said, covering for the

abrupt end to the question-and-answer session. “Now let’s hear

from our champion, Sinjin Smythe.”

Clutching the Ladies’ Plate in her arms, Sinjin stepped forward.

“This has been a long time coming for you and the nation,” Sue

said. “How does it feel?”

“Even better than I expected. I’ve heard words like magical,

miraculous, and dream-like bandied about for the past two weeks.

All those seem highly appropriate.”

“How did you do it?”

“I had a wonderful team behind me who believed I could do

it even when I wasn’t so sure. My coach Andrew Grey; my friends

Kendall Worthington, Gabrielle Meunier, and Nicolas Almaric; my

sister Stephanie Smythe; and, most of all, Laure Fortescue. Laure,

you lifted me from the depths and helped me reach the pinnacle. I

couldn’t have done this without you. Thank you for being part of my

life. Thank you for allowing me to be part of yours.”

• 193 •

• 194 •

Lucky Loser

champions BaLL

Laure watched Sinjin pose for photographs with men’s

champion Rafael Nadal, who had put his own knee

problems behind him to claim his third title. Sinjin’s cream-colored

suit perfectly complemented her caramel skin. She looked good

enough to eat. The kisses they had shared earlier that day had been

mere appetizers. Laure couldn’t wait to get her first real taste.

Though Sinjin was obligated to attend the Champions Ball,

Laure knew she would have preferred rounding up the troops for

one last meal at the small restaurant she had frequented nearly every

night during the tournament. The swanky black-tie affair at the All

England Club would have to do.

The round table they had been assigned was filled with family

and friends. Okay, family.

Nicolas, Stephanie, Kendall, Henri, Mathilde, and Gabrielle

and her date each raised a glass to toast Sinjin’s victory.

Applause greeted her return to the table.

“I’ve been smiling so much my face hurts.”

Laure massaged Sinjin’s sore cheeks. “Do your lips still work?”

Sinjin grinned. “Give me a couple of hours and I’ll show you.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever slept with a Wimbledon champion

before.”

Sinjin draped her arm across the back of Laure’s chair. “Then

get ready because I’m going to take you on the ride of your life.”

• 195 •

yoLanda WaLLace

Laure reflected on the roller coaster ride they had taken the past

few weeks. “You already did.”

“Ready for one more?”

Laure had her answer ready even before Sinjin finished asking

the question. “When do we leave?”

❖

Laure looked so good in her ocean blue vintage Chanel dress

and jaunty Hermès scarf, Sinjin almost didn’t want to take them

off. Almost. She lightly traced a finger over Laure’s collarbone,

smiling at the involuntary shiver she caused. She reached around

and unzipped the dress. As her tongue explored Laure’s mouth, she

pushed the spaghetti straps off Laure’s shoulders and let the dress

fall to the floor. Then she took a step back. Laure stood before her

clad in a lacy navy blue bra, matching high-cut panties, and the

printed silk scarf.

“You’re so beautiful you take my breath away.”

“You’ve seen me wearing less than this in the locker room.”

“But I wasn’t getting ready to do what I’m about to do to you.”

Laure’s lips curled into a smile. “What are you going to do to

me?”Sinjin shrugged off her jacket and tossed it in a nearby chair.

“Everything.” She picked Laure up and carried her to the bed. While

everyone else continued to celebrate, they had returned to Laure’s

rented house, where they were blissfully, utterly alone.

Sinjin unclasped Laure’s bra and tossed it aside.

Laure lifted her hips as Sinjin peeled off her underwear. “I’m

going to come before you even touch me,” she said, her breath

quickening.

“Don’t you dare.”

Sinjin untied the scarf. Laure hissed when Sinjin slowly trailed

the cool silk across her skin. Her hips rose off the bed. “As I was

saying.” A note of caution crept into her voice.

Heeding the warning, Sinjin quickly undressed and covered

Laure’s body with hers.

• 196 •

Lucky Loser

Laure ran her hands down Sinjin’s back and over her ass. She

squeezed Sinjin’s hips and lifted her own, pressing their centers

together. “God, you feel good.”

“I’m glad you think so.” Sinjin returned the pressure—and the

compliment. “So do you.”

She licked the hollow of Laure’s throat, eliciting a soft moan.

Wanting—needing to hear the sound again, she moved lower. Her

lips skimmed across Laure’s chest, sliding softly and wetly across

the smooth skin until her mouth closed around one of Laure’s pert

breasts.

Laure’s nails raked across Sinjin’s back. Sinjin cried out at the

unexpected but pleasant sensation. Keeping her eyes on Laure’s,

she moved to the other breast. As she tongued an erect nipple, she

watched Laure’s dark brown eyes turn almost black, her tanned face

flush. Seeing Laure so free, so uninhibited made her want her even

more.She slipped her hand between their gyrating hips. Laure gasped

when Sinjin’s fingers massaged her swollen clit.

“God.” Laure buried her face in the side of Sinjin’s neck and

nipped at the skin.

Sinjin threw her head back, enjoying the pleasure that bordered

on pain. Then she kissed Laure’s tumescent lips and slipped her

tongue past them into her mouth. She groaned when Laure’s tongue

met hers, moving in concert with her fingers. She pulled away.

“Be with me.”

Laure reached for Sinjin’s hips and pulled her closer. “I am.

I’m right—” Her eyes slid shut as she moved closer to the precipice.

She opened them again after she gained some semblance of control.

“I’m right here.”

Sinjin shook her head. “Be with me.”

She looked into Laure’s eyes and waited until they were

connected. She waited until Laure stiffened, shuddered, and relaxed.

She waited until her own finely tuned body short-circuited and

rebooted. She waited until the gathering storm had unleashed its

fury. Then she said the words she had never uttered to anyone else.

Anyone except Laure. “I love you. Let’s make a life together.”

• 197 •

yoLanda WaLLace

“How?” Laure glanced at the replica of the Ladies’ Plate resting

on the nightstand. “What about your career? Today could be the

beginning of incredible things for you.”

“It is.” Sinjin lay on her back and pulled Laure on top of her.

She brushed a lock of Laure’s sweat-dampened hair off her forehead.

“It’s the beginning of the first day of my life with you. So what do

you say? Could a thriving young vintner use an assistant?”

Laure’s smile was as bright as the sun. She eyed Sinjin’s body.

“I’ll have to see your qualifications.”

Sinjin gasped as Laure’s hands skittered across her skin. Desire

burst into flame, warming her inside and out. She reached for her.

“You’re the boss.”

• 198 •

Lucky Loser

cooL doWn

Saint Tropez

Several Years Later

Laure walked past a glass display case filled with trophies.

Along with assorted other gold and silver cups and vases, three

trophies from the U.S. Open, two from Wimbledon, and one each

from the Australian Open and the French Open lay inside.

Clutching a bottle of wine in one hand and two glasses in the

other, Laure padded barefoot to the backyard. Sinjin sat in a high-

backed chair, her long legs stretched in front of her. In the distance,

Nicolas and Stephanie held hands as they walked through the rows

of grape-laden vines. Her parents walked alongside them. Her father,

carrying Nicolas and Stephanie’s two-year-old on his shoulders, led

the way.

Laure placed the bottle and glasses on a small metal table and

sat in a chair identical to the one occupied by Sinjin. She cut the seal

on the bottle, inserted a corkscrew, and deftly popped the cork.

Sinjin held the cork under her nose and inhaled deeply. Under

Laure’s tutelage, she had quickly learned the ins and outs and subtle

nuances of winemaking. Everything from the selection of grapes

to the advantages of manual harvesting over mechanical. She

couldn’t yet identity a vintage simply by taste the way Laure could,

but she loved practicing. Their business had taken off during their

time together, both the vineyard and its production tripling in size.

• 199 •

yoLanda WaLLace

Though business was booming, family life had never been more

settled. Neither would have it any other way.

“Nice bouquet.”

“Isn’t it?” Laure poured the wine and handed a glass to Sinjin.

Sinjin swirled the rich, fragrant liquid and took a sip. “Mmm.

Which one’s this?”

Laure spun the bottle so Sinjin could see the vintage printed

underneath the crossed racquets on the label.

“Excellent year.”

“I thought so, too.”

The label was stamped with the year Sinjin had won

Wimbledon. The year she and Laure had become a couple. The year

their disparate lives had become one.

Sinjin looked out at the horizon. The sky over their hundreds

of acres of jointly owned property had taken on the hue of a brightly

colored Impressionist painting. She held out her hand. “Another

terrible sunset.”

“I know,” Laure said with a grin. She laced their fingers

together, the gold wedding band on the ring finger of her left hand

glowing in the light of the setting sun. “Maybe tomorrow will be

better.”

Sinjin held up her glass. “I’ll drink to that.”

• 200 •

About the Author

Yolanda Wallace is not a professional writer, but she plays one in

her spare time. She has written two previous novels, In Medias

Res and Rum Spring. Her short stories have appeared in multiple

anthologies including UniformSex, Body Check, Bedroom Eyes,

Best Lesbian Love Stories: New York City, and Best Lesbian Love

Stories: Summer Flings. She and her partner of ten years live in

beautiful coastal Georgia. They are parents to four children of the

four-legged variety—a six-year-old boxer and three cats ranging in

age from seven to ten. Yolanda can be reached at yolandawrites@

gmail.com.

Books Available From Bold Strokes Books

Sheltering Dunes by Radclyffe. The seventh in the award winning

Provincetown Tales. The pasts, presents, and futures of three women

collide in a single moment that will alter all their lives forever. (978-

1-60282-573-4)

Better Off Red: Vampire Sorority Sisters Book 1 by Rebekah

Weatherspoon. Every sorority has its secrets…and college freshman

Ginger Carmichael soon discovers that her pledge is more than a

bond of sisterhood, it’s a lifelong pact to serve six bloodthirsty

demons with a lot more than nutritional needs. (978-1-60282-574-1)

Lucky Loser by Yolanda Wallace. Top tennis pros Sinjin Smythe

and Laure Fortescue reach Wimbledon desperate to claim tennis’s

crown jewel, but will their feelings for each other get in the way?

(978-1-60282-575-8)

History’s Passion: Stories of Sex Before Stonewall edited by

Richard Labonté. Four acclaimed erotic authors re-imagine the

past…welcome to the hidden queer history of men loving men not

so very long—and centuries—ago. (978-1-60282-576-5)

Detours by Jeffrey Ricker. Joel Patterson is heading to Maine for

his mother’s funeral, and his high school friend Lincoln has invited

himself along on the ride—and into Joel’s bed—but when the ghost

of Joel’s mother joins the trip, the route is likely to be anything but

straight. (978-1-60282-577-2)

Holy Rollers by Rob Byrnes. Partners in life and crime, Grant

Lambert and Chase LaMarca assemble a team of gay and lesbian

criminals to steal millions from a rightwing mega-church, but the

gang’s plans are complicated by an “ex-gay” conference, the FBI,

and a corrupt reverend with his own plans for the cash. (978-1-

60282-578-9)

Mystery of the Tempest: A Fisher Key Adventure by Sam

Cameron. Twin brothers Denny and Steven Anderson love helping

people and fighting crime alongside their sheriff dad on sun-

drenched Fisher Key, Florida, but Denny doesn’t dare tell anyone

he’s gay, and Steven has secrets of his own to keep. (978-1-60282-

579-6)

Three Days by L.T. Marie. In a town like Vegas where anything can

happen, Shawn and Dakota find that the stakes are love at all costs,

and it’s a gamble neither can afford to lose. (978-1-60282-569-7)

Swimming to Chicago by David-Matthew Barnes. As the lives of

the adults around them unravel, high school students Alex and Robby

form an unbreakable bond, vowing to do anything to stay together—

even if it means leaving everything behind. (978-1-60282-572-7)

Hostage Moon by AJ Quinn. Hunter Roswell thought she had left

her past behind, until a serial killer begins stalking her. Can FBI

profiler Sara Wilder help her find her connection to the killer before

he strikes on blood moon? (978-1-60282-568-0)

Erotica Exotica: Tales of Magic, Sex, and the Supernatural,

edited by Richard Labonté. Today’s top gay erotica authors offer

sexual thrills and perverse arousal, spooky chills, and magical

orgasms in these stories exploring arcane mystery, supernatural

seduction, and sex that haunts in a manner both weird and wondrous.

(978-1-60282-570-3)

Blue by Russ Gregory. Matt and Thatcher find themselves in the

crosshairs of a psychotic killer stalking gay men in the streets of

Austin, and only a 103-year-old nursing home resident holds the key

to solving the murders—but can she give up her secrets in time to

save them? (978-1-60282-571-0)

Balance of Forces: Toujours Ici by Ali Vali. Immortal Kendal

Richoux’s life began during the reign of Egypt’s only female pharaoh,

and history has taught her the dangers of getting too close to anyone

who hasn’t harnessed the power of time, but as she prepares for the

most important battle of her long life, can she resist her attraction to

Piper Marmande? (978-1-60282-567-3)

Contemporary Gay Romances by Felice Picano. This collection

of short fiction from legendary novelist and memoirist Felice Picano

are as different from any standard “romances” as you can get, but

they will linger in the mind and memory. (978-1-60282-639-7)

Nightrise by Nell Stark and Trinity Tam. In the third book in the

everafter series, when Valentine Darrow loses her soul, Alexa must

cross continents to find a way to save her. (978-1-60282-238-2)

Men of the Mean Streets, edited by Greg Herren and J.M. Redmann.

Dark tales of amorality and criminality by some of the top authors of

gay mysteries. (978-1-60282-240-5)

Women of the Mean Streets, edited by J.M. Redmann and Greg

Herren. Murder, mayhem, sex, and danger—these are the stories

of the women who dare to tackle the mean streets. (978-1-60282-

241-2)

Firestorm by Radclyffe. Firefighter paramedic Mallory “Ice” James

isn’t happy when the undisciplined Jac Russo joins her command,

but lust isn’t something either can control—and they soon discover

ice burns as fiercely as flame. (978-1-60282-232-0)

The Best Defense by Carsen Taite. When socialite Aimee Howard

hires former homicide detective Skye Keaton to find her missing

niece, she vows not to mix business with pleasure, but she soon

finds Skye hard to resist. (978-1-60282-233-7)

After the Fall by Robin Summers. When the plague destroys most

of humanity, Taylor Stone thinks there’s nothing left to live for, until

she meets Kate, a woman who makes her realize love is still alive

and makes her dream of a future she thought was no longer possible.

(978-1-60282-234-4)

Accidents Never Happen by David-Matthew Barnes. From the

moment Albert and Joey meet by chance beneath a train track on

a street in Chicago, a domino effect is triggered, setting off a chain

reaction of murder and tragedy. (978-1-60282-235-1)

In Plain View, edited by Shane Allison. Best-selling gay erotica

authors create the stories of sex and desire modern readers crave.

(978-1-60282-236-8)