Losing at Love (3 page)

Indy nodded back in the opposite direction. “And I’ll go that way.”

With a wink, he was gone, around the corner and out of sight, so she turned and adjusted her bag over her shoulder, heading out from between the buildings and toward the library. She’d have about half the time to get her Calc done than she originally planned. Fingertips pressing against that spot on her neck lightly recalling the feel of his mouth and the way her entire body was lit on fire by his touch, it was totally worth it.

“Are you sure that is a good idea?” a voice rang out from just a few steps behind her, the French accent giving its owner away, if the superiority and condescension weren’t enough of a clue. Indy spun around and came face to face with her agent, tall, blonde, perfectly put together in a silk blouse and linen skirt, somehow looking completely cool and calm despite the blaze of the sun. She was in town before they all left for England, mostly to go over her plans for Indy’s future off the court.

A denial formed on Indy’s tongue, but she knew it was useless. Caroline had seen them and it probably just confirmed what she’d suspected for a while. Her agent was damn good at her job and it wasn’t like she and Jack had been super careful about keeping private moments behind closed doors. “Good idea or not, it’s none of your business.”

Raising her eyes to the sky and shaking her head, Caroline said, “You are my business, Indiana.”

“How many times do I have to say it? Don’t call me that, and my
tennis
is your business,” Indy corrected. “Keep your nose out of everything else.”

“It is not that simple,” Caroline insisted, her voice inching up in pitch.

“It really is.” She turned on her toe and walked away, wanting to look back, hoping that Caroline’s brow was furrowed and her hands were on her hips, lips pursed in aggravation. But looking back would ruin the moment because despite getting in the last word, Caroline now had the upper hand and it was only a matter of time before she used it to her advantage.

June 14th

The student lunch crowd had emptied out of Deuce, OBX’s restaurant, by the time Jasmine arrived, scanning the nearly empty tables for her parents, who’d asked her to join them for lunch. She’d been in such a hurry to get to training that morning she hadn’t thought much about it, but now that she was walking into the restaurant it struck her just how weird it was that they’d asked her to meet them at Deuce when she could have just as easily walked across the beach and had lunch at home. Instead, they wanted the white table clothes, the stunning ocean views and the wait staff — witnesses.

As she rounded the corner, it all became clear. The man from the party the day of the French Open final, who’d been talking about the dozens of universities that would love to have her lead their teams to the NCAA Championships, was seated at the table. She caught her own reflection in the glass, an OBX t-shirt and jean shorts; her long, dark hair, nearly black thanks to her shower, was pulled up at the top of her head in a messy bun. Not exactly dressed for a business meeting, but if they were going to spring it on her, that wasn’t her fault.

Her father and the man stood, politely waiting for her to sit down and join them. She did, plastering a smile across her face, the same smile she wore whenever she met any of her parents friends, the ones who expected her to be
something
. What that something was, she wasn’t ever sure, but they expected it. That’s what happens when you’re the only child of two tennis greats; people
expect
things.

“Jasmine, you remember Felix Wolner from Elite Recruiting?” her dad said, smiling that same bright smile that he’d worn as he held up all five of his grand slam trophies.

“Of course, Mr. Wolner. Sorry, I didn’t know you’d be joining us for lunch,” Jasmine said, quirking a saccharine smile at her mom.

“It’s Felix’s last day in town and he mentioned that he never got a chance to finish speaking with you at the party,” her mom said, with raised eyebrows and smiling that same sarcastic smile Jasmine still had plastered across her own face. She’d learned from the best.

She shrugged. “Well, it was a party to watch the final and since no one else was, I thought I’d catch the last bit of the match, just to keep up appearances.”

“It was amazing, wasn’t it?” Felix cut in. “Everyone had written Russell off as finished. Nice to see he had more tennis in him.”

“Not so amazing,” Jasmine said with a shrug. “He worked his ass off and he got results. It’s simple.”

“His physical gifts are tremendous though, you have to agree. Natural talent like that, plus hard work, that’s what makes a great pro.”

“Natural talent will only get you so far,” Jasmine retorted. The conversation had ceased to be about Alex Russell, almost from the moment they’d started. “And all the talent in the world is worthless if you don’t work at it.” She took a sip of her water, trying to hide her smirk. This was too easy.

“Precisely,” Felix said and Jasmine nearly choked on an ice cube.

“You agree?” she asked, setting her glass down and looking over at her parents. She hadn’t expected that. At all.

“I do. It’s usually a combination of talent and hard work that makes a great pro, that and timing,” he said, eyeing her father, who nodded. “Some players are ready as young at sixteen,” he gestured to her mother, “others, seventeen or eighteen, and then others, perhaps not until they’re twenty or so. Women tend to hit their physical peak a little earlier, but not all of them. More recently, with new training techniques, we’re finding twenty or twenty-one to be the optimal age for a professional tennis player, though really, it’s up to the individual.”

Damn it. She’d walked right into that one. “So what are you saying?” she asked, tired of beating around the bush.

“Your parents asked me to talk to you, Jasmine, because this is what I do. I look at all the young tennis talent the world has to offer and I assess their abilities, figure out where they belong in the scheme of things so they have the best career they can.”

“That’s Dom’s job,” she countered.

“Dom’s job is to
make
you into the best tennis player he can given your physical abilities. From what I can see from your recent play, in my professional opinion, he’s done that and schools like Stanford, Harvard, Duke, they’re all lining up to have you lead their teams for the next four years. And they’d like to give you a world-class education in return.”

“And that’s the best player I can be?” she threw up her hands and looked her dad in the eye. “That’s what you’re saying right? That right now the best player I can be is a college athlete? I disagree. I’ve been around tennis my entire life, Mr. Wolner. Indy and I just played against the best doubles team in the world, we forced them into a tiebreak and in a couple of weeks, I’m going to be playing at Wimbledon. Don’t you guys get it? This is happening now. College is great for some people, but that’s not what I want.”

“Jasmine, mija, we’re just trying to show you all the options,” her mom said, reaching across the table for her hand, but Jasmine yanked it away, standing up.

“And this isn’t an option for me and if you can’t understand that, maybe you should stay out of it.”

“Stay out of it?” her dad asked.

“Yes. I’m going to Wimbledon and it’s going to be amazing and if you can’t support that, if you can’t get behind it, then maybe you should just stay here.”

She didn’t stay to watch her parents’ reactions; she didn’t even know if she meant the words that spilled out, so she just kept walking.

She made it to the video analysis room almost an hour early, determined to put everything that just happened out of her head. The only way to prove her parents wrong was to win in London. Indy would be holed up in the library with her calculus books so she had plenty of time to kill. Dom would insist they go over the day’s training footage, but something about the way that the recruiter spoke about her recent performance was eating away at her. She’d played really well at the OBX Invitational up until the last set and at the French Open, she’d been at the top of her game during the doubles matches. The only thing that was left was how she’d done in the French Open Girls tournament; her first round match had gone fine, but that second round, that’s when things went to hell. She’d been knocked out by a fellow American a couple of years younger than her, someone she’d never even heard of before named Natalie Grogan. Grogan played an old school serve and volley game, similar to Jasmine’s own style of play and something you rarely saw anymore. She hadn’t been prepared for it. If they met up on the court again, she was sure she’d do just fine.

She was just about to pull up the footage when Indy came flying through the door. “Hey, you’re early.”

Indy ran her hand through her hair, her long blonde curls spilling over one shoulder. “Yeah, I - uh - couldn’t focus on math. It just doesn’t make any sense at all, so I figured I’d come down here, see if you were ready.”

Jasmine scoffed, unable to keep the grin off her face. “Please. You couldn’t focus on math or did something
else
distract you?”

Indy collapsed into the chair next to her, bumping her shoulder roughly. “Shut up.”

For a second, Jasmine considered telling Indy what happened at lunch, but her gut twisted at the idea. Indiana Gaffney’s physical talents were the kind guys like Felix Wolner drooled over, but from a distance. There was no way she would waste four years of her prime at college, not when she could match her serve up against the best players in the world and come out on top. Indy would be nice about it, but she wouldn’t understand, not really. So instead, Jasmine said, “You two have to stop being so obvious if you want to keep it secret. Not everyone who accidentally stumbles upon you two sucking each other’s faces off is going to keep quiet about it. I’m just saying.”

There were a lot of people who would love to have that kind of information on Indy, mostly the catty girls she’d put to shame the day she stepped on the OBX courts. Jasmine had been one of those girls and there was a time when stumbling upon Jack Harrison and Indiana Gaffney wrapped up in each other’s arms, mouths fused together, would have had her making some phone calls to any media outlet that would listen. Now though, things were very different.

“I know,” Indy said, trailing off. She opened her mouth to say something else, but then shook her head. “Let’s just get this done, okay? If we can get it out of the way early, I can still get that stupid Calc done before my session with Dom.”

“Right, that’s what you want to get done,” Jasmine said, tongue between her teeth.

“What do you want to get done?” Dom’s voice carried from the back of the room.

“Nothing,” they said together, glancing at each other before dissolving into giggles.

Dom strode in, shaking his head. “And to think, just a few weeks ago, you two nearly beat the living shit out of each other on the practice court. The good old days. Can you get yourselves under control long enough to analyze this footage or should I book another session tonight?”

Jasmine pressed her lips together and nodded. “Let’s do this.”

“Absolutely,” Indy agreed, but as soon as Dom’s back was to them to turn on the monitor, she dug her elbow into Jasmine’s side, who promptly elbowed her back but then pulled paper and pens out of her bag so they could take notes.

“Okay ladies, let’s take a look,” their coach said, settling in beside them and starting the video. Their practice session today was relatively normal, facing two talented junior boys who could serve the ball hard and cover a lot of ground, but they hadn’t proved too much of a challenge. Dom sped through most of the video, making small corrections on their decision-making: try a forehand rather than a slice backhand, don’t hesitate on an overhead volley, mix in a few slice serves out and away. Plus a few physical mistakes, like Indy’s tendency to overplay a volley at the net with too much wrist action or Jasmine getting too much out on her front foot on her backhand and her shoulder flying out before the ball had fully made contact with the racket, a problem she’d been working on for years, but had never quite figured out. She doodled BACKHANDS in big bold letters across her paper, coloring each letter in as Dom explained an issue with Indy’s footwork at the net.

“All in all, not bad,” Dom said, as the screen went black, “but it’s not nearly enough intensity. Tomorrow, we’ll start with Canadian doubles. You two against three of the guys. We’ll start off with that as a challenge, but if it’s still too easy, you’ll be limited to the singles court. If you want to make it through qualifying at Wimbledon together and then fight through the main doubles draw, you’re going to need it.”

“Qualifying?” Jasmine’s stomach sank.

Dom nodded. “Sorry ladies. Wildcards were announced about an hour ago. Looks like you’re going to have to do it the old fashioned way and earn a spot. Indy, I’ll see you later for your singles session, regular time. Jasmine, you want to start yours a bit early? This is Penny’s usual training slot and 3,000 miles is a long way to fly for a practice session, especially in a walking boot.”

Indy left them, grumbling about Calculus under her breath and they followed close behind.

~

"So I guess my parents told you about the meeting today," Jasmine said, as they matched strides toward her practice court.

"They mentioned they were bringing in a guy from a recruiting service. It's a decent option, Jas."

"It's not what I want. You told me a while back that not everyone can be a great player, not everyone was meant to be in the top ten, win grand slams. Do you still believe that's me?"

Dom stopped walking, considering the idea. "You tell anyone I said this, I'll deny it to my grave." She nodded. "I think that it doesn't matter what I think. Do your physical skills match up against the best in the world? No. They don't. You know that, Jasmine, but physical skills aren't always what wins matches. You've got to decide if you're willing to go through that, go into matches knowing that your opponents are better than you, knowing that if they play their best or even not quite their best, they'll still beat you. You've got to decide if you love it enough to play even though you're probably going to lose. Some players can handle that. Some can't. You have to be mentally stronger than nearly everyone else. You think Penny could handle that? Or Indy? Or Alex? Or your father? They couldn't, so you just have to be stronger than them. If you think you can handle that, if you think you can go out there and just play for the love of it, then tell the NCAA guy to take a fucking hike.”