Luke’s cell phone rang, shaking him from his reverie. “Hello?”
“Luke. It’s Jesse.”
“Oh, hey.” Luke’s pulse increased and he rolled his eyes at himself. “What’s up?”
“I just wanted to catch you before your flight. We’re still on for Tuesday, right?”
“Yeah, sure. Unless something’s come up?”
“No, no. I just wanted to make sure. I have to take my sister out for her birthday, and I wanted to make sure Tuesday was still okay.”
“We can switch days, if you want.”
“No, Tuesday’s good.”
“Okay.”
“Okay.”
Silence stretched out between them until Luke cleared his throat, “So…was there something else on your mind?”
“Oh, no, sorry. Have a good flight! Have fun in Santiago. Hope you win.”
“I get the same amount of money either way.”
“Well, still. Hope you win.”
“Yeah, me too. Thanks. I’ll see you Tuesday.”
Luke snapped his phone shut. Why did it feel like he’d just made a date?
CHAPTER THREE
The restaurant served Chilean food, of course. Luke sat around a table with the organizers of the event and nodded and smiled at the appropriate moments. He’d played this part thousands of times before and knew exactly how to give people what they wanted.
The exhibition was a breeze, as his competitor was totally off his stride. Luke let him win a few games just to give the crowd a match that wasn’t a complete blowout. After the match, Luke smiled and waved and signed hundreds of autographs with a shiny black marker, his own face staring back at him from glossy pages.
“So, Luke. How long are you planning on playing before you retire?” The woman, Gabrielle, was one of the event marketers. She’d been inching her leg closer to his all throughout dinner.
“Well, I guess I’ll keep playing until my body says it doesn’t want to anymore.” The truth was his body told him that almost every morning, his muscles and joints stiff in a way they never were ten years ago.
“It’s four years since you won a Slam. Think you have it in you for another? You must want the U.S. Open pretty badly. You came so close that year.”
If she thought discussing his crushing past failures was the way to get him into bed, she was sorely mistaken. Not that she’d be getting him into bed anyway, for obvious reasons. “Yeah, I was pretty close.”
“Do you still think about it? That one shot that went out on match point? A few inches, and you could have won.”
Everyone at the table looked at him eagerly, as if they were hoping he was about to start crying. “Nah, I don’t think about the past very much.” Luke took another mouthful of the dish on his plate. Tasted like typical mashed potatoes to him.
They all nodded and looked slightly disappointed.
It was a lie, of course. Luke thought about that shot almost every day. He didn’t mean to, but the linesman’s voice echoed in his brain at the most inconvenient of times. He’d be at the grocery store, deciding on which high-fiber cereal sounded the least disgusting, when he’d hear the call.
A few inches, and he would have won. Would have been U.S. Open champion, would have won the three Grand Slams he had a real chance at. The French was probably never going to happen, and he could live with that. Sampras never won it, and he was an all-time great. However, not winning the U.S. was something that Luke struggled with.
Especially after coming so very, very close.
After Luke’s missed match point, his serve had been soft and his opponent had won the advantage. The point after that, the game. Then they were into a tiebreaker. Luke lost, 7-9. He accepted the runner-up trophy and his check for hundreds of thousands of dollars, thanked the crowd and his opponent, and vowed to be back the next year.
It was two months later to the day that vows didn’t matter anymore.
Luke hadn’t really ever been back since. In body, maybe, but not in mind and spirit, not in the form that would allow him to get close to winning again. He wasn’t sure he’d ever get it back.
After dinner, Gabrielle somehow ended up with him in the hotel elevator. Luke smiled politely. “Which floor?” His finger hovered over the elevator panel.
She looked at him coyly from under her thick eyelashes and tossed her glossy brown hair over her shoulder. “You tell me,” she purred.
He smiled tightly. “I have an early flight in the morning. So, which floor is it?”
“Now, now, Luke, don’t be such a spoilsport.” She sidled closer and ran her hand up his chest, her long red nails tapping the buttons of his shirt. “Sleep is so overrated.”
He punched the button for his floor and removed her hand. “Not for a professional athlete. Sorry. Maybe next time.” His smile was cold, and she took a step back. At his floor, he exited with a polite good night and she didn’t argue. He heard her huff as the doors slid shut.