Love Match (2 page)

Maya never forgot where she was, of course. She wasn't
with friends. She was in a room full of reporters who liked to make stories out of nothing. She was careful to keep her comments focused on the game and praising her opponent. Maya even managed not to cringe visibly when Nicole King's name came up.

All in all, the press conference wasn't nearly as horrible as she'd been dreading. In fact, it was kind of fun. By the time the publicist wrapped things up, Maya was surprised to see that they'd run over by five minutes. And people still had questions for her.

Maya gave an apologetic smile, thanked the reporters, and threw them a wave as she was escorted to the exit at the back of the room. Before she even reached the door, she heard cameras clicking over Donata's entrance from the front. With all heads turned that way, Maya decided to hang back and watch a bit. It probably wasn't appropriate, but she didn't care. She wanted to hear what Donata had to say.

This time, no one waited to be called to order as the reporters started throwing out questions before Donata even sat in the chair that Maya had just vacated.

“Now, now,” she said. “There's enough of me to go around. One at a time, please.” Donata gave them a sly smile and called on the gruff-looking reporter in the front row who hadn't been interested in asking Maya any questions.

“Donata,” the reporter said, “your performance so far in this tournament has been your best since your win at the Australian Open over a year ago. Do you think today's victory will stop some of those articles about you being past your prime?”

The rudeness level of that question shocked Maya. It was
bad enough that people had been writing that about Donata before the match, but to actually call it out to her face was tactless. Maya wasn't the only one to notice as people shifted uncomfortably in their seats.

Donata's laugh broke the growing tension in the room. “Oh, Maxie! I think you're in a better position to answer that question. Will my performance today stop
you
from writing those articles?” Her infectious smile had everyone in the room laughing along with her, including the obnoxious reporter, Maxie.

“And before you all decide that my showing today was because I had a weak opponent, let me stop you right there.” Donata looked to the back of the room, flashing Maya a warm smile before turning her attention back to the press. “Maya Hart is one of the most intense players I've gone up against since I first set foot on a court. She has a slice serve that draws you out to the doubles lines like I have never seen before. When you start up those boring stories again about my potential ‘successor,' you be sure to include this girl's name on your lists.”

It was an incredible endorsement. Reporters had been writing those “boring stories” about “the next Donata Zajacova” for years, but this was the first time the world-famous pro had actually commented on any of it.

Maya wanted to run up to the front to thank Donata. She didn't care if it stopped the press conference. It was the single best thing anyone had ever said about her ever. Maya must have looked like she was about a half second from making that run up to the dais, because the publicist's assistant politely, yet
firmly, pulled her out of the room with an offer of something almost as exciting as Donata's endorsement.

Maya had to force herself to stop replaying the press conference over in her mind. She'd drive herself crazy second-guessing her answers and wondering what else Donata might be saying about her right at that moment. There was no point going over it all, since nothing could be done about it now. Instead, she focused on more important things, like calling her parents.

The publicity assistant had been kind enough to let Maya use the phone in his boss's office. Maya had wanted to stick around to talk to Donata after the press conference, but she was told that the tennis star had to rush to some one-on-one interviews. The trade-off was that Maya finally had the chance to call home.

Not having an international calling plan on her cell phone meant that Maya hadn't been able to speak with any friends or family since she arrived for the tournament. Toronto was about a thousand miles closer to Syracuse than she was when she was at school in Florida, but she couldn't afford to make a simple call home because of the invisible line separating the United States from Canada.

None of that mattered now that she had an actual phone tied to someone else's bill. She dialed the familiar number that she'd learned in kindergarten. It was one of the few numbers she had memorized without having to look it up on her phone.

“Maya!” her mom's voice yelled as soon as she picked up.

Maya looked down at the unfamiliar phone on the desk. “Mom? How did you know it was me?”

“How many other people would be calling from a Canadian area code?”

“Oh, yeah. Right.” Maya gave herself a mental slap in the head. “Guess what?”

“You and Donata Zajacova had the longest women's match in the history of the Ontario Open!”

Maya looked down at the phone again. Caller ID couldn't possibly have told her all that.

“I've been following the tournament online,” her mom explained. “You made the front page of the Sports News Channel website. Well, only Donata's mentioned on the front page, but you're in the article that follows after the jump.”

Maya hadn't even had a chance to see what people were writing about her. Like the surprise press conference, Maya hadn't actually thought anyone
would
be writing about her.

Maya's mom relayed the highlights of the articles she'd read so far. It was only basic information on the game, since the reporters and bloggers from the press conference hadn't started to post their stories yet. Even before Donata complimented Maya, people had already been touting her as “the Next Big Thing.”

After ten minutes of catching up, Maya heard her father's voice in the background trying to interrupt. Her mom reluctantly said her good-bye and handed over the phone.

“Hey there, Ace!”

“Dad!” Maya practically yelled into the phone. “You would have loved it. Donata Zajacova knows my name!”

“Of course she does,” he replied. “Pretty soon everyone will.”

Maya's dad was even prouder than her mom, if that was possible. She'd really won the prize when it came to supportive parents. Maya suspected that there weren't many others who would let their teenage daughter move to another state to pursue her dream and travel the globe with only minimal adult supervision.

“Tell me all about the tournament from the start,” her dad said. “You are calling on a tennis club phone, right?”

“Yes,” Maya said. “We've got hours.”

Maya would never let the call go that long. She already felt guilty for using the phone at all, but that couldn't compete with the excitement of sharing this moment with her parents. No other loss in her lifetime had felt like such a win.

As the conversation continued, Maya began to notice that her father's voice sounded strained. He did his best to cover it up, but Maya had heard it before. “Dad,” she said tentatively, “did you hurt your back again?”

There was a pause. “It's nothing, Maya.”

Suddenly she hated being so far from home. She could imagine him laid out on the couch while her mom did everything around the house without any help. “How bad?” she asked.

“Not like last time,” he said. “I just sometimes forget I can't lift those bags of grass like I used to. So tell me, what's the prize for making it to the semifinal?”

Maya wasn't ready to change the subject, but she knew her father was done talking about it. “Enough money that I can actually pay you back for the tournament fees, plane ticket,
hotel room, and everything else I've put on the emergency credit card since I signed up for this thing. And maybe have enough left over to buy a meal on the plane home.”

“Oh,” he said. The word only had two letters in it, but it was filled with disappointment. Not in Maya, naturally, but … something. Maybe he hadn't changed the conversation. With his back hurting, he'd have to subcontract lawn-mowing jobs out to his friends and competitors. Money would be even tighter than usual. The little amount that Maya would clear after taxes for being in this tournament wasn't nearly enough to help out.

“Only the winner gets the big cash prize,” Maya said, answering the unspoken question.

“At least tell me you get an ugly trophy to go with the other horrible awards in your bedroom here,” her dad said. They had a running joke about the tacky trophies she'd collected throughout her junior career. “You really need to start decorating that dorm room of yours.”

“Sorry to disappoint you, but no.”

“Maybe we should ship some down to you,” he suggested. “I'm sure your friends would love to see the Syracuse Tennis Star trophy.”

“Don't you dare!” she shouted into the phone. It was the tackiest award ever created: a tennis ball with eyes and a mouth glued on it was mounted on a pair of copper legs with copper arms holding a tennis racket. It was supposed to look like a cute animated character, but the way the eyes were slightly skewed made it more demonic than adorable. For years, Maya and her dad had been trading it back and forth—hiding it in each
other's bedrooms, leaving a little nightmarish surprise for the other to find.

“No, no, no,” he said. “I know how much you must miss it. I'll be sure to ship it ground so it takes a while to get there.”

“Maybe they'll even lose it in transit,” Maya joked.

“We can hope.”

The two of them laughed some more before Maya finally said good-bye and hung up the phone. She tried not to worry too much about the money situation, since her scholarship covered school and incidentals, but it was hard not to be concerned standing there in the clothes her friend had bought for her. Like it or not, image was an important part of the sports world. And image didn't come cheap.

It killed Maya to be watching the match between Donata Zajacova and Nicole King. Sitting in the stands was for the spectators, not the players. She wanted to be on that court. If only she hadn't blown her chance the day before.

No matter how many people congratulated Maya on her stellar performance, it didn't change the facts. She hadn't advanced to the final. She was a spectator like everyone else.

But she and everyone else were getting one heck of a game.

Donata ran Nicole all over the court. Honestly, they were both all over the place, but Maya liked to think that Donata had the upper hand. It made for a better story if Maya managed to fight off the eventual winner of the tournament for almost four hours. And watching Nicole go down hard would make Maya's own loss sting a bit less.

Maya still wasn't sure what she'd done to get on Nicole's
bad side. Or if Nicole even had a good side. Sure, Maya had dinged Nicole's new car shortly after showing up at the top-level sports academy. But Nicole had just waved that off like it was nothing.

Did she feel threatened? Maya hadn't done anything that could possibly concern a player at Nicole's rank. Not back then, at least. Now Maya worried that her performance at the Open just put a bigger target on her back.

As much as Maya wanted to be in the final, that probably would have sent Nicole over the edge. Maya wouldn't have stood a chance against her yet. She needed more training. But they'd have their day in the future. Maya and most—but not all—of the press were already looking forward to it. News articles coming out of the tournament were already calling Maya “someone to watch,” using words like “impressive” and “powerful” and her personal favorite phrase, “future phenom.”

Donata was pretty phenomenal herself in the final, while Maya still ached from their game a day earlier. That was nothing new. Playing through pain was all part of the life. But playing with Donata's skill was something Maya only imagined before she got to the Academy. Now it was expected of her. At times it was exciting, but more often it was terrifying.

“Nicole's not looking that good, is she?” a male voice said behind Maya, pulling her from her thoughts. The owner of the voice was insane. Much as Maya hated to admit it, Nicole was playing a perfect game.

“No,” a woman's voice agreed. “This match should have been over by now. Nicole was much better in Prague.”

“That was a match,” the man agreed.

Maya knew the tournament they were talking about. She'd seen clips online. Nicole looked as good here as she did there. Better, even.

“And of course,” the man said, “Donata hasn't looked good since her win at the US Open in—when was that?”

“Two years—”

“Two years ago,” he agreed, completely ignoring the fact that Donata had won the Australian Open since then. “Frankly, if Nicole can't finish off someone whose career is on the decline, maybe she's not worth the press she's been getting.”

Maya wanted to turn around and give them an impromptu lesson about tennis. They didn't have a clue what they were saying. But she didn't want to draw any attention to herself, and she certainly didn't want to do it by defending Nicole King.

“Then again,” the woman said, “maybe Donata's making a comeback. That girl she played against yesterday did look pretty good. What was her name?”

Maya's ears perked up even more. They were talking about her. And it didn't sound negative.

“That Maya girl? Yeah. She could be one to watch.”

Now Maya really wanted to see who was talking about her, but she couldn't. It would be awkward and embarrassing. They'd see the huge smile spreading across her face and think she was a total egomaniac. She kept her eyes forward and focused on the court.

The game play was intense, right up to the final point that
came when Nicole smashed an overhead shot right down the baseline.