The Aussies were huge tennis fans, so the tournament played on every available TV screen, much to Luke’s dismay. He just wanted to forget about this particular competition and look towards the next Grand Slam event, the French Open. He didn’t have much of a shot of winning it, but stranger things had happened.
Luke still had almost an hour to kill, so his gaze inevitably drifted to the closest screen. He felt a strange little jolt when he recognized the player in the far court. Jesse McAllister’s blond hair was practically glowing in the sun, sweat dripping down his brow. He’d made it to the third round but was now playing one of the top seeds. He was down two sets and a break. It wasn’t looking good. Once a player had lost a game he was serving, his serve was “broken.” Since a set must be won by two games, the other player gained the advantage.
Jesse managed to break back to even the set, and Luke found himself getting more and more involved in the match. Jesse played with a grace that many compared to Bjorn Borg, and what he lacked in power, he made up for with finesse. The kid was right—their games would mesh well.
As Jesse toweled off during a changeover, Luke’s boarding call crackled over the loudspeakers. Onscreen, Jesse pulled his shirt over his head, his lightly tanned chest glistening.
Twenty minutes later, Jesse lost the match in a third-set tiebreak, and Luke sprinted to make his flight.
Once the plane was in the air, Luke tried to relax. Thankfully, the seat next to his in first class was empty, so he didn’t need to make small talk. He watched a movie and picked at his dinner. Eventually he popped a couple of heavy-duty sleeping pills and didn’t wake up again until the California coast was in sight.
The traffic out of LAX was terrible, but that was nothing new. The driver looked in his rearview mirror often and tried to engage Luke in conversation. He was cute enough, and Luke thought briefly about telling him to pull over and join him in the backseat once they reached the quiet, hilly back roads near his house. As usual, the words just wouldn’t come. He needed a shower and a drink. Not necessarily in that order.
The house smelled stale, although the maid had clearly been by that morning to spruce things up. Cut flowers graced his kitchen table and the fridge contained all his favorite foods.
Luke opened a beer and walked out onto his deck. The sun had set, the quarter moon casting only a little light on the waves he could hear lapping at the beach in the distance. His pool and tennis court lay below, both immaculately kept.
He took a swig of beer and sighed. Tomorrow it would all start again, the inexorable push towards the next tournament. He’d practice and prepare and would probably lose early on, if his recent luck held. The thought flitted through his mind again—maybe it was time for a coach. He hadn’t had one for two years now.
At the thought, pain blossomed in his chest, regular as clockwork.
He slammed the rest of his beer back and headed upstairs. His bedroom was large, with French doors that opened onto a balcony that overlooked the sea. Luke shut the drapes and took another sleeping pill, hoping he wouldn’t dream.
He tossed and turned for hours, strange images flitting through his mind, keeping him on the edges of real rest.
In the morning, his trainer Aaron arrived on schedule at seven. Luke was jet-lagged and irritable; they hardly spoke as they jogged on the beach before starting drills. Drills were the same as ever: First his backhand, then his forehand, then his serve.
“I should work on my volleys,” Luke said as Aaron refilled the tennis ball machine.
“Your volleys? What for? You come into net about once a millennium these days.”
“Well, maybe I should change that.”
Aaron opened his arms wide, displaying the muscles he spent hours a day in the gym maintaining. “You’re the boss.” He grinned, the dimple in his cheek matching the twinkle in his eyes.
For the next few hours, Luke charged the net repeatedly. After what was probably his twentieth missed volley, he cursed Jesse McAllister for ever opening his big mouth.
Luke’s forehand sailed long and his racquet thudded to the ground. It had been a week and his net game was still pathetic. The rest of his shots weren’t too hot either, and frustration was setting in.
“Hey, don’t work yourself too hard,” Luke’s hitting partner, Mike Madison, said as he approached. “Look, I know you must be upset about the Aussie and about Alexandra, but give yourself a break, buddy.”
Luke took a gulp of water and nodded. Then his brow creased in confusion. “Wait, what about Alexandra? I haven’t talked to her in forever.”